How Much Coffee is Too Much?

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"How much coffee is too much?"

I tried to answer this question from last post's comments in another comment, but ran out of room. It's just as well--more people will see it this way.

In typical Ayurvedic fashion, the response is "for whom?" To which I must add, "what kind of coffee?" and "under what circumstances?" There's actually a lot to be said about coffee.

Americans certainly have a love/hate relationship with the stuff. I think the American coffee obsession has two main causes: first and more obviously, coffee stimulates us to gogogogogo. I think of coffee as being like hitting the turbo switch in a race car video game: you go faster, but you burn more fuel. I don't just mean food--coffee actually tends to suppress the appetite--but rather energy reserves. I'm an occasional coffee drinker, and I acutely feel the entire energy curve of coffee: a sharply peaking high, then a slow descent that can turn into a crash. For those with strong reserves of energy, this stimulation (the afterburner effect) can be sustainable for relatively long periods. But coffee is depleting to the system, and even those robust folks who can drink pots of it without getting the jitters would be well advised to take a break from it occasionally. (Green tea is a less harsh, more balanced alternative.)

Trouble arises when people use coffee to go into energy debt, tapping into their back-up reserves (their savings account, if you will). Being a rather sensitive individual, my system doesn't tolerate this kind of use at all. I can only enjoy coffee when I've gotten plenty of sleep and my stress level is low--and even then, a little goes a long way. Otherwise, I find that coffee doesn't actually give me an energy boost but rather scatters my energy. Coffee is light, heady, energy-dispersive, whereas tea can help consolidate one's energy with its astringency.

The second reason I think coffee is such a staple in the American diet is that we tend not to get enough bitter. Most cultures eat more greens, use more bitter spices and herbs, or drink herbal bitters regularly. We drink coffee. The problem is, coffee is not like other bitters. As just discussed, it can be fraying to the nerves. It's also rough on the liver, unlike most bitters that are liver-friendly. Still, coffee does provide some of the lightening benefits of the bitter taste in general, helping to counter the typical richness and sweetness of our diets.

So it depends very much on the individual. Everyone's answer will be different, but some patterns can be described: dry, skinny, overworked, stressed people (Vata-dominant types) should ideally avoid coffee (and tea) altogether. Failing that, they should avoid it in the morning, until after they've eaten and digested a meal. And they should have it with milk, which will help buffer the effects.
Hot-headed, driven, ambitious folks (Pitta-dominant people) should be careful, too. Coffee will tend to aggravate their already fiery characteristics. But this is the typical type-A profile, and these are the folks who just love coffee. Again, if they're not too stressed, well-rested, etc., they can usually tolerate it OK. For these people it should be sweetened with something wholesome, milk added, and preferably iced. Individual response is idiosyncratic, but in general a two cup daily limit should be observed.
Stockier people who tend to be sluggish in the morning (Kapha-dominant) tend to be least sensitive to coffee, and can actually benefit from its heating stimulation as well its bitterness. Coffee isn't necessarily the healthiest bitter even for them (these folks need plenty of greens and spices in their diets no matter what), but it is often well-tolerated by them for long periods of time. They can often drink it without negative effects as long as stress is low. However, these are the people who are apt to become most intensely dependent upon coffee.

The coffee trade is a problematic one, both in terms of the environment and economic/social justice. Buy shade-grown, fair-trade, organic coffee and support the health of the farmers and the planet--and yourself. Chemical residues in non-organic coffee are particularly nasty endocrine-disruptors and carcinogenic to boot. This is especially important advice for women, who are particularly vulnerable to xenoestrogens.

[Finally, Sam, I'd be happy to do a consultation but am not all that gung ho about Skyping Nepal. How does this sound--let's start with an email exchange--send me an introduction with concerns/questions and a brief health history--and we can schedule a phone date from there.]

Next Steps

Above: Sections of my fast-growing home pharmacy

Hindsight is a useful, if frustrating perspective: even as one appreciates its clarity, one also wishes that clarity hadn't been so elusive at the time! Six months after Nepal, the personal meanings of my time there come into clearer focus.
Alright, full disclosure: the following is mostly lifted from a Chinese medicine grad school application essay I've been writing. And I promise: no more anti-globalization rants for a while.

While in Nepal on a Fulbright fellowship from September 2008 to July 2009, I had a chance to immerse myself in the world of the ancient Southasian medicine known as Ayurveda. Once the initial giddiness of exploring hole-in-the-wall herb shops along Kathmandu’s ancient, winding cobblestone streets and meeting Ayurvedic doctors, shamans, and yogis started to wear off, I grew aware of a gaping and contentious divide in the Ayurvedic world. One on side were the traditional vaidyas, doctors trained in the the oral tradition from one generation to the next. They had no formal degrees, just the accrued experience of their fathers and grandfathers before them and books of Sanskrit verse containing a wealth of information on medical theory and herbal formulations. On the other were the institutionally-trained Bachelor of Ayurvedic Medical Science doctors. Though their curriculum included the Charaka Samhita and other ancient texts of Ayurveda, their clinical practice was heavily influenced by Western medicine. I saw Ayurvedic students learning to use stethoscopes and prescribe antibiotics, and when they took a patient’s pulse it was simply to count bpm, rather than assess the traditional qualities of the pulse.
While this hybrid practice may be an exciting step towards integrative medicine, I could never shake the feeling that Ayurveda was selling its soul for more social prestige and a higher profile. As a result, I ended up spending as much time as I could with the dying breed of traditional vaidya, hearing their stories and absorbing what wisdom I could. Towards the end of my stay in Nepal I met Keshab Kavi Baidya, a generational practitioner of Rasa Shastra, Ayurvedic alchemy. Here, finally, was an embodiment of the living tradition who actually wanted to pass along his art. With none of his children interested in carrying on his lineage, I realized that he looked to me as his heir-apprentice. When I visited him he would quiz me on the uses of different herbs, and I once heard him telling another old man in Newari “this is an American student, he knows everything about herbs.” I was flattered and humbled beyond belief. On my last visit to Keshab-ji before leaving Nepal, the normally youthful-seeming man looked his seventy-plus years of age. His eyes betrayed a weary acceptance of the fact that his lineage would die with him. I was almost overcome by the sadness of the situation. Keshab-ji had put together a kit of medicines at my request: purified Shilajit mineral pitch, incinerated black mica, oyster shell ash--some of the fruits of decades of his labor. He parted with them knowing at least that I would make some use of them. I learned a few months later that Keshab-ji died shortly after I left Nepal.

This experience left me with the sense that it is for me to carry a part of this and other endangered medical traditions’ fire to a world in need of the light and warmth. In the words of the I Ching, I am to “nourish with ancient wisdom” through “subtle penetration,” as water slowly permeates rock and nourishes the roots of the tree of life. To that end, I am now applying to classical Chinese medicine programs, as that seems to me the best fit for me in the US context. I hope to start school again in Fall '10 or '11. You can be certain of hearing plenty more about Chinese medicine, including what the difference between "traditional" and "classical" chinese medicine is, as Illwind and I continue to evolve.

In the meantime, I want to offer what knowledge and experience I have gained in the way of healing and self-knowledge to anyone out there who feels inspired to connect. I am offering free wellness consultations, via phone and email, from an Ayurvedic and more broadly herbal perspective. My toolkit includes nutritional advice and cooking skills, Eastern and Western herbal formulas, and general lifestyle management gleaned mainly from Ayurveda. A consultation includes an assessment of your constitution and any areas of imbalance (excess or deficiency of elemental energies, Ayurveda's three doshas) as well as a treatment strategy based primarily on diet and herbs. I am also open to answering any questions readers may have about health, herbs, or Ayurveda either in private via email or, by your consent and my interest, using this blog as a forum. In our absurdly speedy world, I'm at your service almost instantaneous: jedwardian@gmail.com

I should add here the disclaimer that I do not claim medical expertise and my services are not intended as a substitute for medical care. I do not claim to diagnose or treat any medical condition. Services offered here are rather offered as a complement to competent medical care and as means towards greater self-knowledge and connection with the natural world.

Coming Soon: Delights of Devon Avenue

At right: new digs: shores of Lake Michigan

Welcome to 2010! This is it, definitely: the future.

The new year has brought a rather abrupt change for your faithful blogger: I moved to Chicago exactly a week ago. It’s incredible how quickly it’s come to feel like home. Not that I love this city, though it does have character. But there is a sense of rightness, of inevitability, to this latest coordinate shift. I’m not quite sure what it is I’m to do here, but I’m here to do it.
I suspect, as confirmed by a recent session with the I Ching, that this time is about building inner resources, of biding my time and working behind the scenes. Of laying foundations. Of being inconspicuous, flexible, and patient. Not exactly a recipe for excitement, I admit. But thus spake the oracle, the venerable Book of Changes: “Hide your light. Voluntarily do what is beneath you.”
And so yesterday I found myself--Swarthmore alumnus, Fulbright scholar, blah blah blah--at Kennedy-King Community College, registering for a class. It just happens to be within 2.5 miles of my new address and has the advantage over the other nearby places of being 1/10th the price. I may not learn a great deal of organic chemistry, but as the only white face on campus, I may learn a lot else. My first lesson came early on, during registration, and put crudely runs something like this: black folks don’t expect good service. Registration was set up in such a way that hundreds of new students had to wait while one at a time squeezed through an advising bottleneck. The striking thing was not so much the inefficiency of the system as that no one seemed the least bit surprised or annoyed. A second lesson was harder to digest, and it had to do with my own discomfort in the situation. After 10 months in Nepal I’m not unused to being the only white person in a room, so it wasn’t that. It’s that I’ve been socially conditioned with some success to see black skin and baggy pants and think ‘alert, alert.’ After a few minutes I mastered myself and was able to recognize that this was a potentially valuable cross-cultural experience. More on that as the semester unfolds, if my under-enrolled chemistry course isn’t cancelled.

Living on the edge of the University of Chicago neighborhood of Hyde Park, I find myself on a very different sort of campus frequently, and the differences couldn’t be more striking. ‘No Hats or Headgear of Any Kind’ signs to discourage gang behavior at Kennedy-King; Hogwarts-style banquet halls with stained glass windows at U of C. (Oh, life of contradictions.) It was in this gothic study hall that I sat myself down this morning with a stack of periodicals in order to gauge which might welcome writing submissions from the likes of me. Instead, I quickly got caught up in an incisive essay by Curtis White in the midwest journal Tin House called “A Good Without Light.” (The piece is available in its entirety http://www.tinhouse.com/mag/issue41/current_nonfiction_white.htm) It was one of those moments where I went “I could have/should have written that!” The last time I had such a feeling was when I read Michael Pollen’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma. But this time as that one, the writer goes farther and deeper than I’d have been able to in pursuing his devastating and essential thesis.

White starts by calling our attention to the fact that the term ‘sustainability’ has been adopted by the corporate world, and he for one is not fooled. Much as we might like to believe in the possibility of happily “greening” the status quo, the radical change that is in fact necessary is also incompatible with the workings of our culture and economic system. The new marketers of sustainability (who are, lest we forget, last decade’s marketers of the Hummer) and the vast forces that stand behind them are fundamentally unwilling and unable to challenge the most basic assumption of all: that what it means to be “free” and “prosperous” and “developed” is to consume, consume, consume.
The corporate movement for sustainability will never be geared towards creating a society that is sustainable in the true sense of being able to replicate itself indefinitely without, say, exhausting any of the resources it depends on. Rather, this is one more chance to sell us something: to sell us the preposterous assurance that not only can our way of life continue, but that is must, and that it will save the world in doing so.
White delves into the roots of our collective psychology, and comes up with a nasty little pearl of insight.
He identifies the “Barbarian Heart” of our culture. The barbaric in us assumes implicitly that might makes right. Ours is cult of violence; specifically, of “artful violence.” Thence comes our continuing worship of athletes, marines, the president himself: all are victors over some field of competition, warrior figures in some sense. “For the barbarian, so long as someone suggests to him that he can continue to be violent and willful but mitigate the self-destructive consequences if he’s shrewd about it, well, he’s more than willing to listen and believe. And that is what the logic of sustainability does” (Tin House No. 41, 81).
So much for our moral context, which White reduces to “violence masquerading as virtue.” What about our great hope, that technical expertise--science, engineering, enlightened economic or public policy--will save us? But science is incapable of delivering us a shiny technological answer to global warming, just as modern medicine can’t find a magic-bullet cure for the cancer that is one of the quintessential (by)products of modernity. White again: “What I want to suggest, not to put too fine a point on it, is that the act of trusting these experts--whether economists or scientists--to provide us with a sustainable future of ever-growing capitalist enterprise is not to place faith in the subtle capacities of the engineer but to indulge in the primitive longing of the barbarian in his moment of despair” (80-1). And finally, and most devastatingly:

“We are a culture dominated by a rationality that is the equivalent of thoughtlessness. We are dominated by a form of logical intelligibility (science) that insists that what is not intelligible to it is not intelligible at all. Strangely, what is most dramatically unintelligible to science is itself. Especially hidden to it is the degree to which its own habit of logical orderliness prepares the way for the progress of the Barbaric, just as Rome’s system of roads proved a great convenience not only to its own legions but to the barbaric armies that for once didn’t need to “swarm” but could proceed in an orderly and direct fashion to their bloody destination: the final sacking of Rome” (83).

I could go on. White, for his part, ends his piece with a reminder of what lies at the other end of our gallon of gas or sirloin steak: hand-grenades into an Iraqi home; underpaid workers standing in a pool of blood. The fact is, it’s easy and sometimes even fun to critique modern corporate culture. But what’s at stake here is nothing less than our way of life. Mine and yours and Curtis White’s. Whether it is beloved to us or not, it’s all that most of us know. Despite my sojourns abroad and interest in alternative lifestyles, I am an American. I drive a car and use lots of energy. It’s lifestyles like mine that have to change, but we seem powerless to effect this change on an individual level as much as on a political one. Of course, sustainability as a concept is much more profound than the current marketing buzz-word realizes: sustainability means that which can’t continue indefinitely will die eventually. The question is, can we bring it to a timely and transformative end, or must we watch in horror as our culture only grows fatter and fatter, finally expiring of a massive heart attack only after it’s eaten up all the food, breathed up all the good air and destroyed the last patch of habitable ground.

To sum up: out there in the world at large, things are Not Good. Whether by the standards of justice or of life expectancy, things may never have been good--that’s the good news, I guess. But now our Not Goodness is multiplying exponentially in scale. There are a lot more of us Not Being Good. Or--and this is what’s so frustrating about being a relatively conscientious and informed participant in the modern affluent world--even if we try to be good, we know that it doesn’t much matter. We can assuage our bruised consciences by buying recycled paper towels, growing our own potatoes, turning off the water while we soap up in the shower, giving some money to charities that buy goats for struggling subsistence farmers in Africa; we can do what we believe to be the good work all day long, and not only does it not matter on global warming’s all-consuming scale (or that of genocide, war, etc. etc.), but, despite our best reasonable efforts, the chances are we’re each doing just as much to promote 450 ppm of atmospheric carbon and oil-driven blood frenzy as to forestall it. In this sense, in order to be ethical citizens of the modern world, we would have to drop out of society. I’ve flirted with this idea, but even the commune-esque off-grid sites I’ve lived on don’t go nearly far enough to set a sustainable standard. Not to mention that dropping out remains a prerogative of the privileged classes. (And let it be said: in a meaningful sense, privilege is the perspective of this blog: culture, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, class, education--short of being a Rockefeller, I’m about as privileged as they come.)

It’s amazing, every three or four months I go through a re-awakening to the story I’ve just been relating. It’s partially that it’s too heavy to keep in the forefront of one’s mind all the time: we are talking about the essential fucked-upedness of our time and place in history, after all (or, if you prefer, of the entire history of the world). Gradually the outrage, anger, confusion, despair fade in the face of mundane concerns and the necessity of not being a huge downer all the time. But remembering, re-realizing the facts of the world we live in, serves as a jolt out of the featherbed of complacency and helps reset my orientation in the world. May this vitriolic rant do the same for you.

Happy new year.