It is the time of year in Northern California when the weather changes and the damp chill comes in with the dark. It is the yin time, when everything goes down and in, a time for getting cozy, or maybe for ennui and longing—in Chinese medicine, the lungs and grief are associated with autumn. It is also the time when upper respiratory bugs come in and slow us down whether we like it or not.
Our bodies are remarkable self-healing ecosystems that, when nudged in the right direction, rush downhill like a river toward balance and healing. When our bodies are in pain or manifesting symptoms, we are receiving messages in code about what needs attention. We can listen, observe and respond intelligently. Chinese medicine invites us to not mute the symptoms, but pay loving attention to our body’s signs. It offers a unique framework to put the clues together. The resulting diagnoses are spoken in the language of nature: hot, cold, damp, dry, stagnant, empty, full and windy, to name a few.
There are many anatomical and philosophical models for understanding who we are. There is the mechanistic model of our body as a machine with parts that can break; the germ theory, in which we get sick because micro-baddies get in and attack; the “terrain” theory, where there are micro-critters in us all the time and when we are unhealthy or out of balance they take over and wreak havoc; and the newer idea of our body as biome. According to this theory, we are not individuals but rather inseparable from nature, comprised of zillions of microbiotas that colonize our skin and gut and without whom we could not sustain our spark of aliveness. We do not need to choose just one paradigm for life, as each model has its usefulness. I believe in “first do no harm,” and also “use what works.”
Chinese medical anatomy and pathology are based on thousands of years of understanding and interpreting nature. Here, the body is considered a self-regulating system, thriving in diverse harmony. When we consider our body as an ecosystem, we can tap into our innate understanding of the natural world. Spending time tending a garden or knowing a forest or a mountain not only gives us the good medicine of nature, but also helps us to know ourselves. Any seasoned gardener understands how plants give clues about something that might be missing in the soil, or the way one virulent weed can affect the balance of a garden, or how essential it is to respond to changes in season, climate and weather.
In Chinese medicine, our organs are connected to phases of nature: blood is like rivers or streams and the heart is like a radiant flame rooted in the fuel of the digestive middle, the Earth, which sinks its roots into the kidneys’ deep aquifers of clear, cool water that underpin life. The Indigenous Quechuan Peruvian anatomy of life is amazingly similar: Three elements of life centered around the seed (the middle burner, the Earth), with the flower (the heart fire) rising up and the watery underworld (the kidney) plunging down as roots. This concept of the body taps into innate truths.
So how do we use this understanding to take care of ourselves and each other? This year, the season seemed to change suddenly, with the damp and dark coming in faster and harder than usual—along with the accompanying upper respiratory illnesses and febrile malaise. One evening you noticed a scratchy ache in your throat and felt a little more tired than usual. The next day, your body was aching, especially your neck and shoulders. Your energy levels were low: walking up stairs or cooking a meal felt like a bit much. Your nose began to run with clear nasal discharge and those body aches expanded to include a full-blown headache. You had chills but also felt a bit hot, with a low fever. You were sick.
In Chinese medicine, this profile is considered an invasion of “wind,” “cold” and “damp” that affects the “wei qi,” the life-force that surrounds our skin and protects us. The dampness gets bogged down in the muscular layer of the body and makes things heavy and achy. (You’ll need to suspend Western anatomical understanding for a moment as we draw upon a completely different system of thinking.) The invasion of wind comes in rather suddenly from outside ourselves, and our body will mount a fever to respond. If the wind is “cold,” the fever will be low; we’ll feel achy, in our neck and head especially, our runny nose will be clear or white, and we’ll feel cold, and maybe have chills.
First we should do the things our grandmother or someone else in touch with folk wisdom probably tells us to do. We bundle up with warm clothes, covering especially the back of the neck and the lower back to dispel the cold and cover the “gates” where the cold and wind can enter. We drink lots of warm water with some good Celtic salt and lemon. “Warm” herbs like cayenne, ginger, cinnamon and catnip can be drunk as a hot tea to scatter the wind and open the orifices of the head. A fire cider made of apple cider vinegar, garlic, ginger and hot peppers is a great choice, as is an organic chicken soup with greens, carrots, celery and onions or garlic. Avoid orange juice, ginger ale and sprite; cold and sugary, they bog down the digestive fire and encourage more dampness. Getting our body into warm water or a sauna is incredible if you have access, allowing us to relax our muscles and sinews and invite warmth to penetrate. “Cupping” and acupuncture or acupressure can be supportive. We can sleep as much as our body desires and limit conversation that pulls our precious energy away from healing. Keep the spirit calm and happy. As the ancient texts say, “Tranquilizing the spirit nourishes the qi.” But don’t follow these instructions exactly—listen to your body and respond to what makes you feel better. Every ecosystem is unique.
This season invites us to understand how we can create a healthy internal garden to prevent getting sick or being taken down too hard when we do get sick. Preparing for seasonal changes by strengthening the immune system is an empowering way to connect to our inner ecology and deepen our relationship to the cycles of nature. And if a winter bug isn’t clearing up quickly, it could be an invitation to spend more time tending your corporeal garden, to consult with practitioners who can offer guidance, to roll up your sleeves and get to work divining the messages that your self-healing vessel is generously, if not always gently, sending your way.
Alison Wood is a practitioner of Chinese medicine, an herbalist and a licensed acupuncturist. She is the owner of Abalone Apothecary and Chinese Medicine Clinic in Point Reyes Station, and she lives in Forest Knolls with her fiancé and their blended family of three children and two cats.