The title phrase fairly well describes my experience of studying Chinese medicine at NCNM these days. I'm by turns pummeled, exhilarated, soaked, and gorged on the high-velocity stream. And when I pause for air, it's a little dismaying to see gallons of precious fluid spilling out into the street every second. At least I can't complain of being dehydrated.
The preliminaries of the first year are out of the way and we're getting into the meat now: herbs, acu-moxa points, pathology, case studies, and clinical observation, in addition to such juicy morsels as immunology and clinical physical diagnosis. Presenting this smorgasbord of material is a particularly brilliant array of faculty, each with a wildly individual style: Paul Kalnins' free-wheeling integration of biomedicine with the Chinese framework and Anthroposophical medicine; Brandt Stickley's penetrating psychological approach; David Berkshire's practical mix of TCM and Worsley Five Element, just to name a few. It's enough to make me--usually ever thirsty for more--want to slow down, to take a breather to process and assimilate the wealth of information. But every new day brings a different class with a different instructor and different set of expectations. By the time a week goes by and the next session of any one class comes around again, there's been so much presented in the meantime that I'm twenty or thirty pages ahead in my all-in-one little spiral notebook. By year's end I envision a stack of such raggedy things lining my bookshelves, which are already sagging from the weight of acupuncture and herbal tomes, a Chinese dictionary or two, ancient classics like the Nei Jing, three versions of the I Ching, and western herbals from Matthew Wood and Michael Moore...
Signs of my single-minded caduceal pursuit have in fact taken over my room completely: my big poster-sized Chinese organ clock is installed on the wall above the computer I'm typing on; next to the overstuffed bookshelf are arrayed three separate bookcases of tinctures and bulk herbs. There's a small area reserved for sleeping, I'll admit, and a picture of some loved ones, two photo montages from my Southasian travels, and two hanging houseplants (whose medicinal properties I have not explored--yet). There's a small dresser, and a mirror, and other such mundanery. But the overall impression is overwhelmingly of an herbalist's inner sanctum. Things are going to get worse before they get better--and "better" only means the medicinary will outgrow my little room altogether and initiate a hostile takeover of the apartment at large.
Yes, I've finally done it: immersed myself completely and quite irrevocably in a world of my own obsessions. (Passions, to put it in more appropriately positive light.) It's not such a strange thing to do, really; in this place, at this time, it feels almost normal. This ain't Kansas anymore. Nor Manhattan. No, this is the beginning of the future, and the future is the beginning of the end. But let's not talk about that. For the time being, I'm just thankful to be here in Portland, in 2011. I mean, it may be the egocentrism of youth, but this place and time feels like what I imagine Greenwich Village felt like in the early sixties. I refer not so much to Portland's bohemian side, though that is substantial, but to the bubble and ferment of creative energy that's evident all over the city. The sense of being a bubble on the vanguard wave--part of an as yet undefined movement. From my own vantage point amidst the rollicking motion, it's hard to see what the movement shares, besides ideals of simpler, more natural living, real food, self-expression, low-impact modes of transportation. Maybe I need to watch Portlandia and get in better touch with the stereotype. I think there's a deeper valuing of tradition--or a valuing of deeper traditions--than the hippie generation tended to exhibit. This must have something to do with the sense of imminent planetary peril (a sense that, I admit, is nothing new), not to say doom, that's in the air.
Every time may very well be a pivotal one, but this really feels like the neck of the hourglass. I'm not much interested in theories of 2012, but the mathematician in me senses the inflection point on the societal curve--that almost imperceptible moment when acceleration starts to slow down, when convex becomes concave. Interesting times!
The preliminaries of the first year are out of the way and we're getting into the meat now: herbs, acu-moxa points, pathology, case studies, and clinical observation, in addition to such juicy morsels as immunology and clinical physical diagnosis. Presenting this smorgasbord of material is a particularly brilliant array of faculty, each with a wildly individual style: Paul Kalnins' free-wheeling integration of biomedicine with the Chinese framework and Anthroposophical medicine; Brandt Stickley's penetrating psychological approach; David Berkshire's practical mix of TCM and Worsley Five Element, just to name a few. It's enough to make me--usually ever thirsty for more--want to slow down, to take a breather to process and assimilate the wealth of information. But every new day brings a different class with a different instructor and different set of expectations. By the time a week goes by and the next session of any one class comes around again, there's been so much presented in the meantime that I'm twenty or thirty pages ahead in my all-in-one little spiral notebook. By year's end I envision a stack of such raggedy things lining my bookshelves, which are already sagging from the weight of acupuncture and herbal tomes, a Chinese dictionary or two, ancient classics like the Nei Jing, three versions of the I Ching, and western herbals from Matthew Wood and Michael Moore...
Signs of my single-minded caduceal pursuit have in fact taken over my room completely: my big poster-sized Chinese organ clock is installed on the wall above the computer I'm typing on; next to the overstuffed bookshelf are arrayed three separate bookcases of tinctures and bulk herbs. There's a small area reserved for sleeping, I'll admit, and a picture of some loved ones, two photo montages from my Southasian travels, and two hanging houseplants (whose medicinal properties I have not explored--yet). There's a small dresser, and a mirror, and other such mundanery. But the overall impression is overwhelmingly of an herbalist's inner sanctum. Things are going to get worse before they get better--and "better" only means the medicinary will outgrow my little room altogether and initiate a hostile takeover of the apartment at large.
Yes, I've finally done it: immersed myself completely and quite irrevocably in a world of my own obsessions. (Passions, to put it in more appropriately positive light.) It's not such a strange thing to do, really; in this place, at this time, it feels almost normal. This ain't Kansas anymore. Nor Manhattan. No, this is the beginning of the future, and the future is the beginning of the end. But let's not talk about that. For the time being, I'm just thankful to be here in Portland, in 2011. I mean, it may be the egocentrism of youth, but this place and time feels like what I imagine Greenwich Village felt like in the early sixties. I refer not so much to Portland's bohemian side, though that is substantial, but to the bubble and ferment of creative energy that's evident all over the city. The sense of being a bubble on the vanguard wave--part of an as yet undefined movement. From my own vantage point amidst the rollicking motion, it's hard to see what the movement shares, besides ideals of simpler, more natural living, real food, self-expression, low-impact modes of transportation. Maybe I need to watch Portlandia and get in better touch with the stereotype. I think there's a deeper valuing of tradition--or a valuing of deeper traditions--than the hippie generation tended to exhibit. This must have something to do with the sense of imminent planetary peril (a sense that, I admit, is nothing new), not to say doom, that's in the air.
Every time may very well be a pivotal one, but this really feels like the neck of the hourglass. I'm not much interested in theories of 2012, but the mathematician in me senses the inflection point on the societal curve--that almost imperceptible moment when acceleration starts to slow down, when convex becomes concave. Interesting times!
Interesting times, indeed, and ones in which I am glad to be working with people in their living, dying, birthing, aging, coming of age-ing, mourning, moving out, moving up, moving on. Of course there are also things like singing together and praying and breaking bread. Grin. It's great to be exactly where we both need to be.
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