The long, cold, stormy months are yielding to warm moments of midday sun, even as frost glitters on the deck. Our bodies and the earth still have some winter work to complete before returning from the dark quiet depths of the yin time. As we glimpse the return of the light, we face one of the biggest surges of upper respiratory illness of the season—and an invitation to introspection and deep restfulness. The work of winter will clear the path for the spring “wood” element: the green sprouting, the sap running, the chickweed, plantain and miner’s lettuce spilling out of garden beds. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
In the Chinese medical system, winter is connected to water, cold and the kidneys. The kidneys, conceptualized differently than in Western medicine, guard the deepest stores of energy in the body—the “jing,” the essence we come in with at birth. They are the aquifers, the cool, moist, holy wells of yin that maintain the primordial substance of life. They are associated with our ancestors, fear and the color black. They nourish the roots of the fire of the heart.
Right now, the kidneys are still in the spotlight. My work tending a community medicine clinic reveals how connected we are through our winter experiences. Day after day, people report feeling cold and chills, body aches and pains, anxiety and fear, mental fog, inexplicable fatigue, the occasional rash. The winter challenges of fear, cold and damp are coming in strong.
The discomfort is an invitation to greet and resolve that which is out of alignment. Tending our wintery malaise is the work needed to bring forth balance and good health in spring. Fear can be an invitation to face emotions that need to be felt, resolve trauma, contemplate mortality and reset priorities before the flurry of spring activity. It can cause us to lay low, offering the nourishment of rest. Pain gives us clues about what needs to come into balance in ourselves and our environment. Suppressing pain or fever with a pill might give a necessary break, but is it answering the body’s wise call? What if, instead of masking pain, we discovered its cause?
“Bu tong ze tong, tong ze bu tong.” “Where there is no free flow, there is pain. Where there is free flow, there is no pain.” This Chinese medicine saying applies to our bodies and the earth. If we listen, we can learn whether our pain is due to stagnation, cold or damp, and we can give ourselves exactly what we need by moving qi, invigorating the blood or warming the organs. Fatigue can be caused by excess dampness, which requires draining and clearing, or a deficiency of energy and substance, which requires rest and nourishment. The response needed is very different in each case. Naps will not liberate stagnation and staying in motion will not top up depleted reserves. Chinese medicine is complex, yet simple. Treat cold by getting warm. Treat damp by draining. Treat stagnation by moving. It is physics. Once we understand our inner ecology, the response might take effort, but it makes sense.
Examples of pathological damp in the body are feeling overly full and heavy, puffiness, edema and swollen joints. We have to drag our limbs, our head is full of mud, our thoughts are dull and hard to grasp. Dampness is food sitting stagnant in our bellies because our digestive fire is soggy and squelched. Rashes emerge as wind and damp combine and get lodged in the skin. A swollen tongue with scalloped edges, and aches and pains in the joints, neck and head can all mean that dampness has lodged inside us. Take warm, moist foods like soup, with spices like cumin, cinnamon and mustard seed and avoid smoothies, ice cream and raw salads. A spoonful of black cumin seed oil daily can work wonders. Everyone’s need will be a little different, but if we tend to the dampness, our flow will be liberated for a natural surge in inspiration and activity when spring comes.
Cold is another winter element that causes body fluids and tissues to congeal and stagnate. Our neck and shoulders stiffen up, our tongues actually turn a bit blue and our pulse can deepen or slow. The kidneys detest being cold. When they are cold (or weak or dry), we might experience intense fear, a sensation of clenching deep within, a fight-or-flight grip for dear life, a dull ache in the lower back. The aquifers we depend on for essential nourishment are calling for support. Wild animals, after a near miss with a predator, will shudder and shake their bodies to discharge the trauma and terror. Shaking also works for humans to release the physical paralysis that can come with fear, as can other practices that promote circulation and breathing. Relaxing the physical grip creates the space to metabolize our deep feelings before we enter the dynamic social phase of spring. Drinking warm water in the mornings with a bit of lemon or tart cherry juice and a pinch of salt helps, too.
Practices for rebalancing cold and damp have roots in almost every region of the globe. Woolen gloves and sweaters, and warm, spicy dahls and chai can dispel the chill and sogginess. Breathing and bathing practices, alternate nostril breathing, dry-brushing and hot-cold plunges can reinvigorate the lymph and blood to dispel dampness. There are dozens of gentle medicinal herbs for warming organ systems and gently invigorating the circulation: cinnamon, ginger, angelica, rosemary, ceanothus and many more in the Chinese apothecary.
Possibly the most precious remedy in modern culture is rest. We can steal a quiet moment away, plan a retreat or indulge in a shameless nap. Yin tonic foods like congee, bone broth and black sesame seeds, and herbs like goji berries, Aralia californica and ashwagandha can replenish our energy. But don’t just do all of the above! It is important to listen to our bodies. The best test is whether something makes us feel better. A plunge into the chilly bay can invigorate damp stagnation or deplete a deficient person and catch them a cold.
This winter was all about water upon the land. In Chinese medicine, water is an essential nourisher and element of the kidneys. Too little and we get forest fires and drought, but too much and we have pathological water that can injure the body in the form of dampness or flooding. An element can be exactly what is needed, or a ravage and a pathology. Driving to Point Reyes Station from Forest Knolls during that epic two-week January storm was exhilarating, with lots of stops to stand near the raging Lagunitas Creek and feel the power of its flooded banks and murky rapids. The waters were cleansing: the creeks were scraped to their depths and all the old sediment was washed away. The water was also healing. When the spillways flooded over, we shared a collective exhale, the anxious friction of drought resolved. We also felt the destruction and grief that comes with a surge of elemental power: cars swept off the road, trees crushing houses, early elephant seal pups and salmon eggs washed away. Bridging the nourishment and heartbreak was awe in the raw transformative power of nature, awe in the paradox.
We can lean on our understanding of elemental dynamics to heal ourselves. Our bodies and spirits are of nature, moved and shaped by the same climate and weather principles as those of the land, sea and sky. We are dynamic and ever changing: a pulse is different from one moment to the next, a tongue looks different each day. What would it look like to hold our health imbalances like weather, rather than as pathologies? When the creek floods and the trees come down, we have our complex feelings and then set about removing rubble, repairing circuitry and draining floods. Our bodies’ symptoms are not inherently bad—they are essential messages, a love note from our inner ecology. What if we responded with tenderness, exploring our unpleasant physical and emotional experiences like tasting wine, paying attention to the changes with the knowledge that our symptoms contain a treasure map to our deepest self-care?