Can Acupuncture Cure My Astrology?

If you would be so kind and allow me to indulge briefly in some astro-jargon:  A Mars return is an astrological event which apparently happens to each of us every two years.  When we are born, the position of Mars – and all the planets, for that matter – becomes part of who we are.  And since Mars' orbit lasts roughly two years, a phase of re-definition of the planet's meaning hits us on the same schedule.  We are most familiar with the sun's position in our charts, as in "What's your sign?", and a solar return is also known as a birthday.   Somewhat well-known in certain circles is the Saturn return.  This is recognized as a major event that takes place between the ages of 28 and 30 in which nearly all aspects of life may be turned upside down (read: relationship, health, and job turbulence).

According to the charts, I have a Mars return coming up very soon.  I did some research to find out more about what I can expect.  In laymen's terms:  A period of high physical energy, increased inclination for conflict and accidents, a greater probability of run-ins with authority figures, particularly men, and a deconstruction of perceived conventions which I will soon discover are defunct.  Having more energy is always appealing, but unfortunately the rest of the forecast doesn't really sound like an easy weekend.

On the other side of this equation is another energy system:  my twice-weekly appointment with my favorite local acupuncturist Diana Vuong, whom I have known for almost ten years.  Her knowledge of the meridians extends beyond the body; she can also relate discontents with your health to nature and the cosmos.  Not that she means to be a mystic, it is merely a result of her very thorough training in China.  For example, just as the year is divided into the zodiac in western astrology, traditional Chinese medicine divides the year by the organs:  Fall is lung season, Spring is kidney season, and so forth.  Babies born in the fall, for example, tend to be more susceptible to weakness of the lungs.  

Knowing this, would it be possible for Diana to diagnose that I'm experiencing a Mars return?  Would my pulse be different, my elements be too hot or dry, and my liver chi be stagnated?  Furthermore, would she be able to counteract Mars in my body with needles and herbs that strengthen, say, Venus and the Moon?  And by cooling my life energies, could she spare me from potential hardships which might teach me about the nature of Mars?

I am going to give it a try starting this week.  I will let you know if and how Diana's treatments abate the affects of the red planet's return.

Visit these links:

Excellent acupuncture in Downtown San Francisco: 

Diana Vuong, LAc  whitecloudacupuncture.com

Humanistic astrology in San Francisco:

Jessica Murray is a woman who possesses the wisdom of the ages.  And I know that she would have my hide for writing so simplistically about astrology.  What she teaches is infinitely more complex.  Highly recommended.  www.mothersky.com

Rolfing and Body Weight Part 2: The Vocabulary of Beauty

"You know something strange," the woman in my office started to tell me, "Ever since I started getting my Rolfing sessions, people keep asking me if I've lost weight.  But I haven't.  I keep getting comments like 'You look great!  Did you lose weight?'  What's going on?"

This happens, I've heard about it many times.  People who receive Rolfing do look better, and most of the time it has nothing to do with weight.  But our society lacks the proper, sophisticated vocabulary to talk about wellness and health.  Instead, we are bombarded by media that grunts in the primitive binary language of "fat" and "thin", and the only verbs are "lose" and "gain."  Thus, we observe the phenomenon that the word "thin" is equated with "beautiful."  It is no wonder, then, that words that relate to body weight are the only words most people have to talk about our appearance.  That said, it is true that some people who go through the Rolfing series not only feel longer and lighter, they also look longer and lighter.  For example, it certainly flatters the figure when the shoulders aren't hugging the ears anymore.

In any case, I'd like to introduce a few words to your vocabulary that refine the concept of looking good.  They are also words that we Rolfers use amongst each other to describe what we see.

"Embodied."  To be embodied is such an important part of holistic wellness that a good third of the Rolfing training is dedicated to this, called Embodiment.  It means "inhabiting the body", or, in daily speak, "being present."  We all know what someone is like when they are emotionally absent, but we Rolfers can also detect when someone is physically absent in their bodies, even in localized parts of their bodies.  A person who is not embodied can be described as stiff, out-of-touch, or awkward.  People who are embodied, on the other hand, are graceful, expressive, and possess something called body awareness.

"Oxygenated."  Also commonly known as "glowing."  We commonly witness oxygenation on a person's face, maybe after a yoga class or eating a bountiful green salad.  But true oxygenation is more than just rosy cheeks; it's an overall peachy, supple complexion (compared to the middle-aged smoker's pallid skin).  Individual body parts can also be inadvertently deprived of oxygen through muscle tension or bad posture so that they fail to glow.  I see this most often in lower legs and feet, or even in lumbar regions of the back, as well as, of course, the face.  During a Rolfing series, as the body's magnificent parts begin to co-operate, not only is there greater embodiment, but also a visible quality of glowing as the legs, back, and other hitherto neglected muscle groups are flooded with oxygen.  Often referred to as "looking younger."

"Innervation."  Innervation is the biological process of nerve growth and maintenance that leads to grace and mobility.  Imagine that you have one room in the house which you never use.  Eventually, dust accumulates, and over time you find that it's economical to turn off the electricity and heating in that room to save energy.  It turns out that your body thinks the same way about nerves and tissues:  Use it, or start shutting it down.  So when parts of your body are immobile, why continue supplying those muscles and tendons with expensive nerves?  I see this most often in people's feet, which have sometimes been so cooped up in shoes that they become stiff and paddle-like even in their leisure time.  The result: the person hobbles like a stick figure.  However, Rolfing not only restores long-lost movement, but also gives the entire body function.  Thus, once a person begins using the foot properly in walking, the entire body above it moves more gracefully. 

"Range of motion."  We usually only hear this in relation to shoulders, hips, and neck.  But is also applies to all the hundreds of joints in your body that add up to how you function and move.  Your diaphragm also has a range of motion, in all directions, and a decrease affects how much oxygen you breathe in.  There is also range of motion in the spine, which should undulate with every step.  When the many articulating surfaces of the spine become immobile, people start to lurch or hobble.  Rolfing releases this, so I often observe my clients becoming slinkier and more fluid.

Does graceful, slinky, supple, and fluid all sound good?  I agree, and I'm grateful that bringing these qualities into other people's lives is my job.

"Well, you certainly look embodied today!"

The Hospice Front: House of Morphine

"When do we reach land?"  The elderly gentleman in the armchair asked me.  He was wearing plaid flannel pyjamas and blue house slippers.  His metal walker was situated next to him.  We were in the dining room downstairs at Coming Home Hospice, a little yellow house located across the street from Most Holy Redeemer Church in San Francisco's Castro district.  I had just introduced myself to the patient.  He was new here, apparently suffering from dementia, and with his question I realized that he believed we were all passengers on a boat.

So I replied, "Saturday."

"Aren't we supposed to be off the coast of Mexico?"

"Yes.  We're going to dock in Los Angeles in two days."

The conversation continued, and I found myself surfing upon the story lines of his reality.  We were cruising along the Pacific Coast with two other (invisible) couples, and he was supposed to pick up a friend's boat in San Diego.

*

By definition, a hospice patient has six months or less to live.  This end-of-life diagnosis from a physician is required for admission to such a facility, which delivers 24-hour medical supervision and personal care that loved ones are unable to provide.  Some patients outlive this diagnosis and may reside at hospice for a year or more, but nevertheless the average hospice stay in our fair city is a mere eleven days.  Therefore, whenever I meet someone at Coming Home, I expect that our acquaintance will be brief.

Such conversations like the one with the cruise-ship passenger in the dining room are common.  In my short time at the hospice so far, I've had lengthy conversations with patients who believed that they were living in a 100-unit apartment building with noisy neighbors (quaint Coming Home has a mere fifteen beds), or who were permanently suspended in the 1940s, or who communicate with invisible people and animals in the room.  Some of the patients are young, and many are alert and clear-headed for a while, but for most of them, the combination of dementia, the exhaustion from their illness (mostly cancer), and the effects of medications slips them into their own private dimensions where a visitor can only join for the ride.  

In speaking with the dying, I wish I were as graceful as the hospice nurses and other employees at Coming Home.  But after talking with a handful of patients, they have taught me one thing very quickly:  Accept their reality.

To put it briefly, the last weeks and days of life are not the time to argue with someone.  Thus, if a patient thinks that the room is crawling with black-and-white puppies, then let it be.  If she believes that there is a Mexican fiesta making its way down the corridor, then she's right.  By the same token, if the patient believes that his or her end-stage cancer will be cured against all odds, and is looking forward to "moving back home and going back to work", then I play along.  I never ask them about their illness.  If they want to tell me why they're dying, they will.  And some even insist that they are healthy.  But there is no point in correcting their reality to fit mine.

We also have to assume that someone has already attempted to steer the patients' reality back to the middle lane.  The most obvious response of family and friends to so-called jibberish is "Honey, what are you talking about?  You're going crazy."  And indeed, some patients at Coming Home apologize to me for speaking nonsense or being a little nutty, or perhaps even rave about the "grooviest trip" they've ever been on, and still others have no short-term memory left so they meet me for the first time every week.  In any case, they can't help it.  So the best one can do is explore their worlds with them.

Then comes the day when the fantastical adventures vanish and the talking, clear or hazy, ceases.  I arrive at the hospice and check in with the nurse in the staff room to ask if any particular patient needs attention.  And often the answer is something like, "The patient in 206 is actively dying."  Active dying is the body's natural process of shutting down its systems in predictable stages: refusing food, rapid weight loss, cooling of extremities, periodic agitation, shortening of breaths.  No more talking, nor more eye contact, and ever dwindling consciousness.  Only labored breathing and foggy gazing into the distance.  And no turning back towards life.  So my duty is to sit with that patient in silence because often times he or she has no one else.  We all envision ourselves dying in the company of loved ones, but a hospice is where patients come when if don't have anyone.  Thus, I may be their company on that day.  I go to their room, pull up a chair, place my hand on their hand or arm, and wait.

When the last hours arrive, the nurses coming into the room subtly shift gears, and the morphine flows freely.  Many of the residents are cancer patients whose tumors have grown invasively large, pressing excrutiatingly on organs and nerves.  Pain management is the goal now, and more than ever, this is no time to argue; a dying patient in pain cannot be wrong.  And for non-cancer patients, the discomfort of fluids accumulating in the throat and lungs as organs shut down is likewise relieved by the magic liquid morphine.  The patients are monitered closely for groans, grimaces, and writhing, all non-verbal signs that another oral milliliter is necessary, administered by the nurses who are intimately acquainted with the stages of dying.

When was the most recent whimper?  Is she gripping her fists?  How long are the pauses between breaths?  The hospice staff is watching as they deftly flutter from room to room on their rounds, and sometimes the nurse will sit with the patient for an hour or so.  It is an incredible thing to watch.  As the patient's body knows exactly how nature has programmed it to die, the hospice workers help to bring them in gently for their final adventure.

Tango for Life: Treating Alzheimer's with the Ocho

The Ocho Step may save you.

Americans are slowly waking up to the daunting reality of Alzheimer's.  In the family of cognitive illnesses that strike the elderly, Alzheimer's is the mother of all dementiae.  At the moment, an estimated 5 million Americans live with it, compared to 1 million patients with HIV, and with the gradually escalating age of the Baby Boomers, this number is projected to hit 10 million by 2050.  It's an illness which devastates the patient and exhausts the caretakers for a time-span of anywhere from five to twenty years.  And there's no cure.

Thus, a few weeks ago, when I found myself in a conversation with an Alzheimer's researcher, I was excited.  Surely, she had to be in the know of the cutting-edge developments.  I therefore couldn't resist asking her, "So, what are the most promising avenues for treating Alzheimer's?"

I expected some variation on the usual list of jargon: crossword puzzles, musical instruments, foreign languages, and a sprinkle of ApoE4.  But her answer surprised me.

healthinformer.net

"Well," she started, sounding exasperated from a years of tedious research, "It's been pretty bleak, but what has shown the most promise until now is tango."

Really?  Tango?  She even proceeded to back up her answer scientifically.  "It's the combination of complex movement and mental stimulation" which appears to provide a veritable soup of nutrients that prevent brain cells from hardening into the infamous amyloid plaques that characterize Alzheimer's.

Furthermore, a dance is not just a dance.  In recent studies on mobility, memory, cognition, and depression, tango consistently equaled or significantly outperformed American Walz, Foxtrot, and even Tai Chi in reducing symptoms.  This would be because of the endless intricacies of tango which continuously challenge the brain at all levels.

Listen to this touching report on tango, including an interview with Dr Patricia McKinley, a professor for kinesiology at McGill University, on PRI's The World with Richard Reynolds.  It will make you want to get your dance shoes on and learn the Ocho, for your future.

To see local tango afficionados from twenty-something to seventy-something showing off their élan, I highly encourage you to stop by Adolfo Caszarry's Thursday night Milongas, held weekly at San Francisco's Verdi Club.  A free class for beginners takes place before the party begins.

www.tangozarry.com.