Photo credit: “Oracle Shell,” © 2004 by Kowloonese (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Kowloonese), under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/
[See Note 1]

Though the theory and principles that guide modern practice were written down about 2,000 years ago, some claim that acupuncture is even older. In terms of Chinese medical history, “2000 years ago” refers to the years between 200 BCE and 200 CE, give or take. But for our purposes, we may say that Year Zero marks the boundary between the practice of shamanism and the systematic practice of acupuncture.

That 2,000-year mark is solid—sinologists and Chinese medicine scholars agree. What it marks is the systematization of acupuncture and herbal therapy. This means that natural science was applied in order to formulate a rational understanding of health, disease and treatment.

Pre-Year Zero, the Chinese thought malevolent spirits caused disease. So, they would do things like chant and burn incense to scare the evil spirits away—maybe not unlike a few acupuncturists today. But let’s call those folks, romantic outliers.

Year Zero, the Chinese discovered that the environment—both external and internal—caused disease. The external environment refers to the six climactic factors: wind, cold, damp, heat, dryness, and “summer heat” (or, really hot heat). The internal environment refers to our emotions, and the food and drink we take in. Then there are “miscellaneous” causes of disease, like trauma and toxins.

Acupuncture strengthens the body and restores normal function so that we are less susceptible–or are able to counter–the causes of disease. This basic treatment principle is based on a system that was established no more than 2,000 years ago (+/- 200).

However, some say that acupuncture is 4,000—even 5,000!—years old. One source of this misconception is the title of the 2,000-year-old medical text that is the framework for acupuncture practice, the Huang Di Nei Jing (Yellow Emperor’s Internal Classic).

The Yellow Emperor is a legendary figure. Though he is considered the progenitor of Chinese civilization, reigning from 2696 to 2598 BCE, his historical existence is questioned by scholars. That his name graces the Chinese medical canon is not a reason to date the text at 4,700 years old. Lo, in her introduction to Lu and Needham (2002), states that attributing works to cultural icons added authority to the writing of that time. Veith (2002) suggests that such name-dropping can signify reverence for a text.

Another route to misinformation is a failure to check sources, or to mash them up. For example, do a Google search on “acupuncture tortoise shell inscription.” It will return a number of sites that say something about the first written record of acupuncture being in the form of hieroglyphs on Shang dynasty (1500-1000 BCE) bones and tortoise shells.

I eventually found a site that actually referenced a source for the 3,000 year-old tortoise shells. This is what the actual source said:

“The earliest record of gynecological medical writings date from the Shang dynasty (1500-1000 BC); bones and tortoise shells have been found with inscriptions dealing with childbirth problems.” (Maciocia, 1998)

No hieroglyphs of a guy with acupuncture needles. Today, we do treat obstetrical and gynecological conditions using acupuncture. But just because pre-historic tortoise shells mention obstetrics, that doesn’t mean they’re inferring acupuncture. That’s a mashup. Or, as Yoda would say: “Old turtle shells, acupuncture is not.”

Lu and Needham (2002) mention that the Shan Hai Jing (Classic of the Mountains and Rivers)—which predates the Huang Di Nei Jing by a few hundred years, and may compile work that goes back to the 11^th c. BCE—suggests the use of bamboo slivers as medical tools. They also mention bone “needle” artifacts that have been found in tombs from both the Neolithic age (ca. 10,000-2,000 BCE) and the Warring States period (ca. 475-221 BCE). If the ancient Chinese were using these artifacts for healing, the nature of their use remains speculative. Whatever they were doing with them, they may have been doing it while chanting and burning incense. They weren’t doing it based on a systematic understanding of health and disease. Therefore, it wasn’t acupuncture. [See note 2]

The early tools of acupuncture were crude. They were pointy stones, or macabre-looking bronze surgical implements. There may have been less chanting 2000 years ago, but healers were still cutting or lancing rather than doing any procedure that resembles modern acupuncture. For during the early stage of acupuncture development, therapeutic piercing or pricking most likely resembled bloodletting (Yang & Wilms, 2010).

A firmer grasp of acupuncture history requires a distinction between the fundamentals of practice and the methods of needling. Though the bloodletting–as mentioned above–preceded the use of fine needles like the ones used today, it was still based on the same principles that guide modern acupuncture. It marks the early development of acupuncture, and there have been further milestones since then. I don’t mean to gloss over 2,000 years of rich medical history, but my point is that acupuncture is not 4,000-5,000 years old.

But it is technically 2,000 years old. So how old is old?

Notes:

(1)    According to the image source, this is a picture of a replica of an ancient Chinese tortoise shell with inscriptions. It may, or may not, say something about obstetrics. I simply used it here for thematic effect.

(2)    It is possible that pre-historic Chinese used crude needling practices (e.g. tattooing) to treat musculoskeletal pain. But it was a much less organized system of healing, and not unlike other pre-historic cultures. See http://aim.bmj.com/content/31/1/2.full, and http://www.iceman.it/en/node/262.

References:

Lo, V. (2005). Medieval Chinese medicine: the Dunhuang medical manuscripts. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Retrieved from http://www.amazon.com/Medieval-Chinese-Medicine-Manuscripts-ebook/dp/B000Q6GX9K/

Lu, G., & Needham, J. (2002). Celestial lancets: a history and rationale of acupuncture and moxa. London: Routledge. Retrieved from http://www.amazon.com/Celestial-Lancets-Rationale-Acupuncture-ebook/dp/B00AC36VYE/

Maciocia, G. (1998). History of gynecology in Chinese medicine.Obstetrics and gynecology in Chinese medicine (p. 3). New York: Churchill Livingstone.

Ming, Z. (2005). The medical classic of yellow emperor. Beijing: Foreign Language Press.

Unschuld, P. U. (2003). Huang Di nei jing su wen: nature, knowledge, imagery in an ancient Chinese medical text, with an appendix, the doctrine of the five periods and six qi in the Huang Di nei jing su wen. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Veith, I. (2002). Huang ti nei ching su wên = The Yellow Emperor’s classic of internal medicine. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Wu, J. (1993). Ling shu, or the spiritual pivot. Washington, D.C.: Taoist Center.

Yang, J., & Wilms, S. (2010). Yáng Jìzhōu’s the great compendium of acupuncture and moxibustion: Zhēn jiŭ dà chéng. Portland, Or.: Chinese Medicine Database.

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I like Bob Flaw’s interpretation of lao zhong yi, “old Chinese doctor,” in his blog post on the development of modern Chinese acupuncture. To paraphrase, the acquisition of this title is not dependent on age, but rather on the doctor’s practical skills and his insight on Chinese medicine. It is a level of maturity that requires considerable effort in discerning the clinically valid points within a plethora of conflicting information.

Lao zhong yi is a poignant concept, as acupuncture continues to develop. This is especially so in our Western culture of evidence-based medicine (EBM). Communist China already systematized the practice of acupuncture within its present healthcare system. Now, the process is moving forward globally from systematization to “scientification.”

Scientification calls for not only studies on effectiveness, but also a defining of the physiological mechanisms of acupuncture. In other words, the scientific and biomedical communities want to know how acupuncture works in terms of Western anatomy and physiology. This is not necessarily a wasteful endeavor. Basically, it’s an expression of never-ending curiosity, the pursuit of knowledge, and a desire for progress. (On the darker side, there is also prejudice, animosity and marketability-analysis.)

Curiosity, Knowledge and Progress are words that partly define my own character. That—in addition to my engineering experience—leads to my interest in mechanistic studies on acupuncture as well. However, I am keenly aware of a spectrum that ranges from completely intuitive to overly rational styles of practice.

Divisive opinions within this spectrum—as well as variations in clinical outcomes—shed light on a need to balance qualitative and quantitative methods of health care. Qualitative care heeds a patient’s unique experience of health, disease and life, in general. Quantitative care relies on technological data collection pertaining to the nuts, bolts and functioning of the human body.

On the qualitative side, the canons of Chinese medicine—the classical medical texts—do not clearly differentiate between connective tissue, nerves, blood vessels, and lymphatic vessels (the targets of modern evidence-based study). While the differentiation of those structures can add a layer of understanding, the core of Classical Chinese acupuncture relies more on a holistic perception that is gained by the practitioner’s own faculties—his senses, excluding taste, such as:

• Feeling (palpating) changes in the pulse characteristics of arterial blood flow; variations in surface temperatures on the body; variations in tissue pliability.

• Seeing variations in the shape of the tongue body, and the quality of its coating; discolorations on the skin surface; biomechanics and posture.

• Hearing not only the words of the patient, but also the context in which they are expressed; quality and strength of the voice; characteristics of vocal symptoms (e.g. coughing).

• Smelling body odors—not necessarily foul. This is the least employed sense (excluding taste) in modern practice, although it is often used in 5-Element styles of acupuncture.

• Intuition (sixth sense): Intuition is inherently difficult to articulate. However, it is related to what the Chinese call “Shen” (spirit). It is an assessment of a patient’s overall vitality that is based on insight, and is built on rapport.

With the above perceptions, the practitioner can realize the broad scope of a person’s ailment without resorting to any reductionist views of the human body.

On the quantitative side of practice, clinical decisions are based on lab reports and a mindset that is focused on discrete anatomical structures—nerves, blood vessels, lymphatic vessels, motor points, trigger points, muscles, ligaments, and tendons. Quantitative practice falls on the rational side of the spectrum mentioned above.

I do support a rational understanding of acupuncture, and the search for its well-defined mechanisms of action. But in addition—and in clinical practice—I rely on the freedom offered by the ambiguity of qualitative care. Looking beyond the mindset of distinct anatomical structures allows me to focus my attention on Qi.

Here we can define Qi as more than energy, as it is commonly translated. Partly, it is the coordination of nerve conduction, blood and lymphatic flow, and body movement. “To focus on Qi” means that the practitioner looks for signs that this coordination has been re-established, setting aside the distinctions between the anatomical elements just mentioned.

The re-establishment of coordination—thus, internal balance—can be signified by a fascial (connective tissue) release, palpable change in local temperature, complexion changes, and/or a change in radial pulse characteristics. However, these signs are not taken at face value. Rather, they are filtered through the practitioner’s experience and intuition, which brings us to the spirit side of Qi.

Defining Qi partly in Western terms makes the intuitive-rational spectrum more evident. This is the yin and yang of medical practice. And it brings me to my final point: quality healthcare relies not only on formal science, but also on natural science and medical humanity (see Medical Humanities).

References:

1. Andrews, Bridie J. “History of Pain: Acupuncture and the Reinvention of Chinese Medicine.” APS Bulletin 9.3 (1999): n. pag. Academia.edu. Web. 31 Mar. 2013.
2. Flaws, Bob. “The Development of Modern Chinese Acupuncture and Why It Matters to Us in the West.” Blue Poppy. N.p., 27 May 2011. Web. 31 Mar. 2013. <http://www.bluepoppy.com/blog/blogs/blog1.php/the-development-of-modern-chinese>.
3. Scheid, Volker. Chinese medicine in contemporary China: plurality and synthesis. 2002. Reprint. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. Print.

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Ephedra growing at Montezuma Well.

On a recent trip to Sedona, I saw ephedra viridis (aka Mormon tea) growing 25 miles south at the Montezuma Well—an area inhabited by the Sinagua people until about 1425 AD.

Ephedra is an herb that has been traditionally used by several cultures–including the Sinagua–to treat a variety of diseases. However, the use of ephedra in dietary supplements was banned by the FDA due to death reports from the herb’s misuse in weight-loss products.

While the FDA restricts ephedra, the Natural Resources Conservation Service (NRCS, under the auspices of the USDA) states that ephedra viridis “is still highly valued as a beverage today by many tribes and it is utilized as a tonic and blood purifier.”  [ref. monograph, http://plants.usda.gov/plantguide/pdf/cs_epvi.pdf]

Native American uses, from the NRCS ephedra viridis monograph:

• Gonorrhea (Shoshone tribe)
• Syphilis (Hopi tribe)
• Kidney and bladder disorders (Paiute and Shoshone tribes)
• Delayed or difficult menstruation (Washoe tribe)
• Backache (Kawaiisu of California tribe)

Two related ephedra species—e. equisetina and e. sinica (aka ma huang)—are used in Chinese medicine to treat cough, asthma and edema. Though ma huang is banned from use in dietary (herbal) supplements, the raw herb can still be prescribed by a licensed Chinese medicine practitioner. That is, if the practitioner can find it [hint: Sonoran Desert]. Actually, the plant monograph (referenced above) lists the natural growth distribution of ephedra viridis in the United States, encompassing the southwest region.

To be sure, ephedra viridis is not the exact species traditionally used in China. However, it would be interesting to compare.

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Pork is an animal protein. Therefore—in one sense—it can be considered a yang-natured food. However, compared to red meat, it has a yin-nourishing quality. So in the grand scheme of meats, it can be called yin. But when you marinate it in some wicked flavors, and then BBQ it… it becomes mostly yang.

I’m a big fan of bún, a Vietnamese rice vermicelli dish. The noodles aren’t exactly chilled, but they are still refreshing in a way. And it’s a nice complement to top it with a well-marinated meat. I prefer pork or chicken.

I ate such a dish this afternoon. The last time I ate it, I skipped all the accompaniments and stuck to just the pork and bún. This resulted in a postprandial belching up of something fierce–Stomach fire and rebellious qi–that lasted for several hours. This was due to heat from the spiced barbecued pork entering my stomach. While one could say that such a rumbling aftermath signified a satisfying and manly meal, it nonetheless was an indication of a Stomach system imbalance.

In contrast to my previous dining adventure, I cleaned my plate this afternoon. I ate it all, which means I consumed the mandolined fresh cucumbers that came along. The cucumber is essential, for it is a cool-natured food that offers adequate resistance to the onslaught of Stomach fire from a dish I love so much.

You could say that my digestion of today’s Vietnamese fix was smooth, because the dish was well-designed from a Chinese medicine perspective–a balance of water and fire. The pleasure of this dish prompted me to run menus through my head, trying to recollect other perfectly balanced meals I’ve consumed. And I think I’m on a Tai Chi food mission to find other well-designed dishes around town.

I wish I could tell you the name of the restaurant, but I honestly don’t know. It was Pho-something. They are all Pho-something. But this one was Pho-something in Point Loma, on Sports Arena Blvd (or Midway?).

Another good place to get well-designed Asian cuisine is Saffron (Thai food)—Su Mei is a genius.

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I like subtlety. Rather than preach or advise, I just like to talk and let ideas seep in—to let ideas filter through an individual’s personal experience. Then I think that the message sinks deeper, so that it can resurface again from within.

It’s like pushing a beach ball to the bottom of a pool. The deeper an idea sinks in, the greater its personal meaning as it is uplifted by the buoyancy of our spirit.

By listening to unambiguous advice, I think the message stays at the level of thinking. It lingers in the higher brain centers—which, in our scientific culture would seem like a good thing—but it often fails to continue its journey to our hearts.

I think there are too many self-proclaimed gurus in this world. You-ru, I-ru, we are all gurus.

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When we think of energy, we usually think of life, productivity and vitality. Rarely do we associate energy with death, unless we are talking about the lack thereof. But life and death are of equal value, yet opposite phases of an indefinite energetic cycle.

From the Big Bang to the expansion of the universe, from an exploding star to the birth of our solar system, and from the first life on this planet to the birth of man—all are cascading divisions of one source of energy. All matter in the universe is a condensation of the energy stored before the Big Bang. And every new life that comes into being is a division of that primordial energy.

This philosophy permeates Chinese medical thinking. In Chinese medicine, Source Qi 源氣 is the energy that sparks our individual lives and sustains every bodily activity. And every other type of energy in our body is either a division of—or influenced by—that source.

The laws of physics and thermodynamics agree as well, in that matter is energy and that neither can be created nor destroyed. They can only be divided or transformed. So life and death is really just a matter of human perspective. What we gain through life is personal experience; and what we lose through death are physical boundaries. But at any stage of life, the energy (source qi) is there. Only, after death, we can no longer call it our own.

Even during an individual’s life, energy continues to divide. Cellular division is the mechanism behind regeneration and physiological maintenance. Each cell that is created is programmed for eventual death in order to make room for yet newer cells. Being made of trillions of cells, we literally live and die each day.

We are called microcosms because our cellular structures are made of the same atoms that make planets and solar systems. And the same laws that apply to the universe, at large, apply to us. The qi that organizes planets in their solar systems is the same qi that maintains the structural integrity of our bodies. Just as planetary balance ensures heavenly orbits, so do our balanced bodies ensure harmony within an environment of non-stop cellular activity.

This, of course, describes a healthy human being. For one who is in balance—physically, mentally and emotionally—is said to be in good health. Being out of balance means that our qi is not harmoniously coordinating our bodies’ elements (blood, hormones, neurochemicals, connective tissues, nutrients, electrolytes, etc).

Natural disasters are environmental imbalances that have led to violent acts of nature, as Source Qi re-balances itself. We worry of climate change and its link to natural disasters because it threatens our species. Unfortunately—for our egos—the life span of the planet and the universe far exceeds that of man. The longevity of the planet is served by the creative-destructive force of Source Qi.

Source Qi—whether in the universe, or within an individual—does not have a conscience. It only has its Way, the Tao. And that is to be in harmony… to destroy only to create, and to fulfill the energetic cycle.

So if we choose to be out of balance by neglecting our bodies, Source Qi will follow the Way and accelerate the process of self-destruction. This is not to punish, but only to make way for something new—to create harmony.

Universal nature is not a matter of life and death, but of recycling. The only way to prolong our participation in this cycle is by harmonizing our lives and maintaining our vitality. This is the premise of Chinese medical thought: to be in harmony with the Tao by ensuring the smooth movement of qi, renewing it, and storing it at the proper times.

“The Tao gave birth to one. One gave birth to two. Two gave birth to three. Three gave birth to all things.

All things carry yin and embrace yang. By blending these two breaths, they achieve balance.

…Often gain is loss, and loss is gain.”

–Dao De Jing 道德經, Chapter 42.*

* Ref: Dalton, Jerry O. Tao Te Ching: A New Approach–Backwards Down the Path, (Avon Books, 1994), p. 88.

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“If everyone fought for their own convictions, there would be no war.” –Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

Yin and yang (peace and war) infinitely coexist. For without war, peace lacks meaning. However, ‘war’ does not have to mean military conflict. In its broadest sense, it is simply the opposite of peace.

Actually, we can replace the concept of ‘War and Peace’ with ‘The Sentiment of War and the Feeling of Peace.’ From this perspective, one can equate the sentiment of war with stress. And rather than being a destructive force in our lives, we should try to view stress as something creative.

James O’Dea can articulate the idea of creative stress much better, but basically it is the use of life’s stressors as a tool for positive change. It is a transformative power rather than a destructive one.

The usual effects of stress vary widely, and can include anything from simple misunderstandings, to disease, to atrocity. Regardless of its effect, in most cases there is an opportunity for something positive, and maybe even evolutionary.

In terms of health, because of their pure toxicity, some chemical stressors can be hard to justify as creative forces. Examples include tobacco and environmental pollution. However, in a cultural context where these stressors can be used as a measure of human behavior, there is room for debate over their value. But for the sake of this post, let’s stick to the role of stress in aging.

In particular, I’m referring to mental-emotional stress and its penchant for siphoning our vitality. There are hundreds of studies linking stress to disease and premature aging. Factors involved in the effects of stress on aging include: our inherent strength and endurance, and how we handle stress. The exact stressor is less of a factor.

To explain the role of creative stress in aging, for a moment let’s revisit the idea of war. Even on the topic of health, there is no shortage of wars. Prime examples are the War on Cancer, and the War on Drugs. These wars have been waged since President Nixon officially started them in 1971. That’s 40 years ago. How long will the new war last?

What is the new war?

Even without a presidential edict, there seems to be a war on aging. Look around and you’ll notice a new brand in town: ACME Anti-Aging. There is even a medical specialty with a certification from the American Board of Anti-Aging. And then there’s the American Academy of Anti-Aging Medicine, whose 2012 conference is being held–no surprise–in Sin City, Las Vegas.

The problem is that the concept of anti-aging is being sold to young people who are scared of getting old. And it has corrupted the marketplace with products and procedures designed to hide the reality of aging. Not only does it deny aging, but it also neglects the true factors that contribute to healthy aging: a wholesome diet, exercise, and rest. And anthropologically, in my opinion, the anti-aging movement is fostering a discrimination against seniors.

I’m still relatively young, but… what’s wrong with aging? And why should we be anti- it?

I guess ‘aging’ suggests a progression towards death. And not just physical death. It also implies the death of our sex appeal, our relationships, our jobs, and any other variable we use to define our youthful selves. Hence, the anti-aging movement which, in my opinion, is an extension of the Beauty-Industrial Complex (to rephrase Dwight D. Eisenhower) that capitalizes on the fear of getting old.

I get it. It’s scary getting old, especially when our self-worth is measured by the currency of youth. But let me share my (relatively youthful) views on aging:

Of course I believe in preventive medicine to ensure vitality as well as longevity. But I’m definitely not Anti-Aging. I am Pro-Graceful-Aging. Aging can not only be graceful, but it can also be a Second Ripening. For it is a period of blossoming wisdom.

The First Ripening is puberty. Puberty is characterized by physical changes. The second ripening (aging) is characterized by spiritual and philosophical changes wherein we add context to our multi-dimensional life experience.

Those life experiences will inevitably include challenges and setbacks. And this is where we return to the idea of creative stress. Those challenges and setbacks–the things that cause mental and emotional stress–can be opportunities for spiritual transformation and understanding.

With the exception of spontaneous enlightenment [good luck with that], spiritual transformation requires aging, most likely over a long period of time. So, aging is a process of discovery–one that I don’t want to skip.

Graceful aging will help us come to terms with death. For the philosophical outlook that comes from aging adds meaning to life. It offers beauty and the art of living to the aging eye. As our eyes cloud, our third eye gains clarity.

Graceful aging gives back to society–things like sage advice for those approaching the peak of their youth.

Finally, senior wisdom gives us saints like George Carlin, who–while not quite graceful–made us laugh and didn’t give a f**k about aging.

Creative stress is taking the inevitable stress of life, and using it as education. Stress is something to enrich our understanding of ourselves and our place in the world. Creative stress–in the aging process–becomes a production in which we unfold our souls as a work of art.

Do not confuse ACME Anti-Aging with preventive medicine. Anti-Aging’s emphasis is not on the prevention of disease, but rather on beauty–the superficial kind. Of course, we all have our personal tastes as to what constitutes beauty. But if you take mainstream media as an indicator, it seems our tastes are converging onto a narrow concept of beauty. For women, the stereotype is young and skinny. For men, ask a woman.

So, I am anti-Anti-Aging. And I call aging beautiful. What do you call it? Since my views come from a vantage point of relative youth, I’m particularly interested in hearing from those who are a little further along the process…

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Stress can debilitate us. No matter its form–mental, emotional or physical–it can cause inertia and hinder our ability to thrive. Inertia is a resistance to activity or acceleration, sluggishness at its finest. Adding to sluggishness, the blinding of our options due to stress leads to indecision and loss of bearing.

But we are resilient creatures. We have an enormous capacity to process information and events, no matter how abundant the information or stressful the event. Processing these things simply requires navigation.

Some of us are more aware of our innate resilience than others. For others, when faced with a challenge or extreme stress, they may need to hit a breaking point before their mind and body “find a way.” But in the end, there is always a way.

For those blessed with resilience-awareness, they may hit road blocks and need detours, but they never quite fully lose their way. They maintain a general sense of direction, always moving. This is tai chi–to always move: up, down, outside, inside.

Up becomes down, then down becomes up again. We move in circles, but we are always heading somewhere new. We begin with yin, move through yang. And when we meet yin again, we find that it has transformed. It maintains its original yin essence, yet it is something new–an enriched resource to fuel our next cycle of outward (yang) activity.

The secret to managing stress is to know when to act and when to rest (or just let things happen). But even in rest, there is activity. “To act” means that yang energy is moving outward, blatantly expressing itself. In rest, yang energy still moves. But it moves inward to transform (e.g. experiences), build and restore yin energy.

Vice versa, during activity there is still a state of rest–or yin within yang. For there is always potential energy (yin) waiting to transform into kinetic energy (yang). This is the meaning of the Tai Ji Tu: yin and yang exist simultaneously, within one another, depend on each other, change places, and always move.

If you are on the path of yin and yang–living the life of tai chi–you will never lose your way. Because you are going in circles.

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I finally found a use for LinkedIn: culling news headlines related to my industry and other core interests. Yesterday, I came across an interesting one.

The headline read, “This popular nut slashed breast cancer risk in mice by 50%.” That wasn’t even the interesting part, though I would like to see the data (50%?). What interested me was the antagonist of the article.

The article describes actions taken by the FDA in response to a food label on packages of walnuts, in addition to health claims posted on the food company’s website.

What did the food label say?

It touted the health benefits of omega-3 fatty acids.

Why was that applicable?

Because walnuts are a good source of alpha-linolenic acid, an essential omega-3.

So, this is where the fun starts. >>>

Common Sense vs. the FDA

Common Sense:

• Based on clinical studies, omega-3 fatty acids benefit health.
• Walnuts are a good source of omega-3.
• Walnuts are healthy.
• Eat walnuts.

FDA-Think:

• Walnuts are a natural, healthy product.
• Because we are “responsible for protecting the public health,” let us label walnuts as a drug, and regulate its distribution in order to prevent Nature from harming its citizens. For when Mother Nature doesn’t care for you, the FDA’s got your back.
• If you maintain your health with nutrition, it will adversely affect the billion-dollar pharmaceutical industry and the health of our economy.
• Besides, why eat nuts when you can eat beta-blockers, statins, nitroglycerin, calcium channel blockers, and angiotensin-converting-enzyme inhibitors? Which tastes better anyway? [We like the red ones.]

The Product of FDA Deliberations

The FDA gathered their thoughts and issued a warning letter to Diamond Food Inc, the evil distributor of walnuts. In summary, Diamond Food shall no longer educate the public on the health benefits of their nuts (see excerpt below, or the full letter here).

Reactionary, revolutionary, or simply a laughing matter?

My reaction upon reading the above article was vexation. It was maddening. For after all, what can we do? It’s the FDA. But then I was immediately reminded of the author of Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand–who had it right and was quite the visionary.

“Who is John Galt?” -Atlas Shrugged

We are John Galt. We are responsible for our own well-being. By exercising our freedom to choose our own healthy lifestyles, thereby upholding our vigor, we can build a heroic nation and accept the responsibility of caring for our dependents–the youth in need of mentors, the inheritors of what we leave behind, as well as the aging seniors who left us something to cherish.

What can we do about the FDA and its abuse of power? We can emasculate it through mockery. And have a whole lot of fun along the way.

From the FDA warning letter to Diamond Food Inc, dated 2/22/10:

“Based on claims made on your firm’s website [and product label], we have determined that your walnut products are promoted for conditions that cause them to be drugs because these products are intended for use in the prevention, mitigation, and treatment of disease.

…they may not be legally marketed with the above claims in the United States without an approved new drug application.”

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I’m definitely spiritual. But I’m not… obviously spiritual. In fact, my metaphysical core bakes deep beneath a yummy layer of dry humorous frosting, with a sprinkle of cynicism. And it is wrapped in mischief.

That being said, I’ve never had any interest in talismans. [Except for that year Conan the Destroyer was finally released on Betamax. Remember that green, glow-y, spiky thing? Talisman.]

I typically chalked talismans up to childish imagination, along with stuffed unicorns and ouija boards. However…

There are these coins. And they are from the Tang (618-907 CE) and Song (960-1279 CE) dynasties.

I purchased them, and now anxiously await a knock on the door from a Canadian postman. Yes, global commerce is a beautiful thing. I wonder if the postman will be wearing a mountie hat?

I originally bought the coins for their direct link to a time when great Chinese medicine physicians roamed mountain tops, and I presume, fished in clear streams. But then, I got this bug.

I was feverish. Just the thought of holding the old coins, made my heart beat faster. Not yet even grasping the historical currency, I wanted to go back further in time. I now wanted Han dynasty (206 BCE – 220 CE) coins, linked to the time when the Chinese medicine foundation was poured; when the classical medical texts were written: the Huang Di Nei Jing, the Nan Jing, the Shang Han Lun/Jing Gui Yao Lue, the Mai Jing.

Besides all that, the throwing of old Chinese coins is one of the traditional ways to draw sage advice from the I-Ching — another classical text and potential access point to Chinese medical thought.

[Incidentally, I may be getting my hands on some Han dynasty coins.]

Long Story Short

A picture of old Chinese coins triggered my historical fascination. After being pulled further in, it hit me. These coins, evidenced by my exhilaration and racing heart, are a source of inspiration for me and my work — because of their long, romantic journey through time and space (mountains, oceans and valleys), and their temporal connection to the birth and development of Chinese medicine.

And thus, a revelation: these old Chinese coins will be my talisman. Once I get them.

Run, Canadian postman. Run.

For — to clarify a non-woo woo definition — this is what a talisman means to me:

talisman [tal-is-muh'n] n.

1. a source of inspiration.
2. something to help us tap into our full potential.
3. an anchor to our life purpose.
4. in the case of my dynastic coins, an homage to my human ancestors who help clarify my healing path.

So, what are your thoughts on talismans? Am I just a kid at heart?

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