In the first part, The Beginning of the Battle, I explained the impetus for reducing salt in my diet as well as losing some pounds.

It was not something I wanted to do. Of course, I wanted the results, but I didn't want the path. It meant hunger. It meant simply discontinuing some of my favorite foods, at least on any regular basis. It meant many of the foods I'd continue to eat wouldn't taste as good -- salt does not only add its own nuance, but enhances other flavors by stimulating the sense of taste. And it would be a long haul, with any sense of victory tempered by the fact that what had been lost could quickly be regained.

Even the exercise I'd enjoyed doing would have to be changed. Jogging was enjoyable, but not vigorous enough -- mostly aerobic, but time consuming -- good for legs, but bad for the knees and neglectful of the rest of body.

It occurred to me that  precisely what was required was middle path of renunciation, an exploration of the power of sensual contact, the discipline to walk away from desire in a Buddhist in practice and in an environment that did not isolate me from temptation -- a practice that absolutely required moderation rather than abstinence. Doing anything for a short fixed time isn't nearly as daunting as taking on a permanent change in lifestyle. The specter of never, ever again getting that particular thing you want that can seem overwhelming, and can crush things even before they get started. And it was going to be  work. It is incredibly easy to eat badly in America, and it takes considerably more effort and sometimes money to eat in a manner that is wholesome. And it meant relinquishing some of the personal interactions, like common enjoyment of food, that were woven into  social fabric.

Why would a Buddhist care what happened to his health or body? There's actually a number of Buddhist scriptures that denigrate the body as a worthless decaying hunk of various forms of yuck. I can't find my answer in any Buddhist canon, but it came to me as respect for my own physical body in the same sense that I attempt to cultivate respect for all life, all beings. Whatever else this body does, it houses my current effort for finding Truth. Though not ideal, it was given to me as a gift, an opportunity. Gratitude and respect for that gift and opportunity seems so much appropriate than contempt. Suicide is the logical ultimate contempt for the body -- particularly a reasonably healthy one; I have no basis for concluding that Buddhism would ever condone that, though it is the logical conclusion of a position of contempt. In fact, the effort I planned to undertake was the middle path, the best I could determine -- respect for it -- doing what needed to be done for its health, -- forgoing pleasure because it was beneficial to do so, rather than indulging the senses and hastening its decay and demise.

So, I started the effort, slowly and methodically. Here's basically how it went.

Giving up most salt was hard, particularly since the medication I was using warned against using salt substitutes as an alternative. Things tasted flat. Frozen vegetables replaced canned ones. Cheese was mostly gone. Some canned things had to be rinsed. Salty snacks, which my spouse likes, had be ignored while present. The first few months were difficult. I was probably too rigorous, but that's probably what has to be done at the beginning. I found food to have different flavors without salt; some almost tasted like new foods. What I have discovered over time, though, was that in many cases, my strongly preferred tastes were simply strongly ingrained habits. In particular, I've found many foods to be quite acceptable and flavorful without sodium chloride, or just a bare trace of it.

Many enjoyable tastes and the craving associated with them are acquired habits rather than inherent desires. The craving part is more complex than taste. It includes the remembered associations, the ingrained memories that are melded with the taste and surroundings to create an experience that is substantially more than the food being eaten. The craving includes a craving for comfort, for satiation, and in some instances the temporary opiate of drowsiness.It is the craving that is the long term obstacle, not the hunger. Many, many times, I've found myself in an eating predicament, not because of hunger, but because of other feelings, other relationships, and other wants. That has been the hard part -- suddenly discovering oneself deeply immersed in habitual patterns of behavior -- and then backing away to another behavior which, though known to be wholesome, seems at that point to be particularly distasteful and unpalatable.

And occasionally one does digress from the effort, a few times intentionally, but mostly by awakening to find oneself immersed  in old habits with a knowledge that this particular battle has been lost. One wants to declare the day lost, with the illusion that tomorrow will make all things better and easier. To recognize the feelings of defeat for feelings rather than fact, to understand the rationalization that discounts continuation in folly, particularly when it is pleasurable, to acknowledge that the indulgence did not bring the intensity of fulfillment it promised -- those are the insights gained that transcend the mere battle of the bulge.

To me incorporating the effort in a Buddhist practice has been key. There is nothing more elemental than eating, and its connection to the senses is extremely strong and ingrained. To be able to see what part of that process is physical, which part is mental, which part is habitual, and even occasionally conceptual has been to see in this light the workings of my own mind toward its own ends with a logic-defying wish that its efforts will not have the consequences they've always had.

The third part of this essay has to do with the end game -- persevering -- even for a lifetime. That's another mountain. I'm in the foothills now.

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