I lay in the comfort of the forest floor, absorbed in this dance of eternity and impermanence. On the slopes below, the monks were performing puja, invoking Buddha's blessings with chanting, blaring horns, and crashing cymbals. I thought of the past several weeks and the insights my teacher had shared with me.
In his early talks, Dr. Chophel had described how physicians of the past had intimate knowledge of the plant kingdom. Once, and even now in some places, doctors wandered through mountains and jungles gathering potent drugs.
Physicians of old were also botanists who knew the identification of numerous plants, their habitats, and details of their uses. Taking herb and mineral supplies back to their workshops and laboratories, they became chemists, extracting, purifying, and blending the medicinal substances into their final form. As alchemists, they researched and developed elixirs for extending life and enhancing consciousness, performing complex procedures with the metals, minerals, gems, and poisons collected during their travels. Many physicians have been priests, priestesses, shamans, and philosophers who understood the deepest workings of nature unseen by most, and who achieved spiritual realization as a result of their contemplations. Much of their healing work was linked to ceremony and worship.
From tropical rain forests, with their profusion of vegetation, to open prairies, from coastal mountains to deserts, on every continent and in every age, every culture throughout history has relied on the plant kingdom as its primary source of medicine. Physicians once got their clothes and hands covered with healthy dirt digging for roots. In Amchi-la's part of the world they walked through the dripping rhododendron forests of Annapurna, bags loaded with freshly harvested plants. Following the changing seasons, they wandered in the quiet valleys of Solokumbhu, searching for rare herbs with miraculous effects, and ordinary herbs with common and reliable results.
Through the ages, the vast woodlands of Tibet, the dense jungles of Burma and India, and the misty foothills of the Himalayas have been the outdoor classrooms for groups of students who followed their teachers on gathering expeditions. Their sojourns in the wilderness were filled with meditation, prayer, and hard work. Back home in pharmacies and laboratories, they tended slow-cooking fires, watching the transformation of crude drugs into purified forms. Their wisdom came from centuries of intimate contact with the environment and from extensive written and oral lineages.
According to Amchi-la, every physician should be well acquainted with the wilderness his drugs come from. "The strength and power of a medicine depends on where the plant grows," he said. "A species growing in one valley may have very different qualities from the same species in another valley or on a mountainside. This is because of differences in soils, other plants in the environment, and influences of the sun and moon. Those that are exposed to more direct sun have a greater degree of fire element, while those in shady moist areas have more water element."
The doctor then described how these elemental influences change the medicinal properties of the herbs: "In Tibetan medicine, it is said that all tastes originate from the five elements, each element contributing its own properties to that taste. Because of the different elemental combinations, plants acquire different tastes, which determine their functions. If the earth and water elements predominate, the taste is sweet. If fire and earth dominate, the taste is sour. If water and fire predominate, the taste is salty. If space and air predominate, the taste is bitter. If fire and air predominate, the taste is spicy. If earth and air predominate, the taste is astringent. The properties and uses of medicines in curing disease are dependent on the ingredient's individual taste, strength, and nature."
Amchi-la's teachings were derived from the Sankhya system of India. Sankhya, meaning “enumeration," is one of the philosophical foundations of Ayurvedic and Tibetan medicines; it is the study of the universe's proto-elements, the archetypal forces that form our world and direct its movements. This ancient contemplative science holds many keys to understanding life, which have awakened insight into Creation's processes within the minds of physicians, philosophers, and mystics for millennia. It is an art that requires no technology other than awareness and sensitivity, for the macrocosmic patterns underlying nature's activities are woven into the microcosm of one’s body and senses, waiting to be discovered.
"In the past, when a student went out with his teacher,” Dr. Chophel told me, "he would learn many things that helped him to identify the best possible medicines. All the different parts of the plants were known, and what conditions they were good for. Different parts of plants should be harvested at different times of year: the flowers and leaves in spring and summer, the roots and seeds in fall. Students would spend a lot of time with the plants and would learn from direct experience of tasting and harvesting which were the best to use. The greatest doctors were those who understood the ways of the wilderness and knew about the individual plants in their environment."
The ways of the physician-naturalist are receding into the past. More and more, the gathering of plants is done by local villagers, who sell their harvest in the markets and through brokers to herb companies, while doctors increasingly rely on manufactured products for their patients. Clinics such as Amchi-la's, where all the medicines are handmade by the doctor and staff, are decreasing in number; those where the medicines are made from ingredients collected by the doctor in the traditional ways are even more rare. This trend is leading to the loss of both valuable botanical species and priceless medical knowledge.
And what had been Dr. Chopel's experiences gathering herbs? I wondered. "We used to take horses into the forest and stay for several days. Before gathering the plants we would have a fire puja, to make offerings and chant prayers. As we gathered the plants we would clean them and pack them, then take them back to the monastery for drying and preparation. Local farmers would bring herbs and different crops to the monastery for our use. We also got many important herbs from traders, who brought them from India and China."
Gathering herbs and preparing them by hand was once the foundation of medical practice. It was a livelihood that involved physical exercise, prayer, and solitude in the beauty and grandeur of the wilderness; these were as healthy for the doctor's body and soul as the herbs were for the patient's. Doctors learned the curative effects of the plants by smelling their aromas and tasting their flavors as they harvested and prepared the ingredients for their formulas, benefiting from their healing powers in the process. These activities shaped the physician's worldview and guided him in his relationship with nature and society. By getting on his knees and grasping the stem of the plant he seeks on behalf of others, a physician realizes that it is the earth itself, and the body of a living being, which are selflessly given for the benefit of the patient. Reflecting on his humble role, the wise physician understands that there is frequently little he can do to remove the deeper levels of sickness from another person, but that within the medicinal constituents of the marvelous being he holds lies the essence of nature's vitality, giving itself to those in need. Without a doubt, plants are the expression of Creation's highest love.
Amchi-la's living memories opened my eyes to traditional herbalism and the ways of the old physicians as a spiritual livelihood based on profound knowledge of the earth's resources. I saw that supreme medicines are the consummation of nature's generosity, hard work, intelligence, and compassion. Those who prepare their own medications know that this undertaking is a noble art and science.
The afternoon sun sent dusty beams through the rhododendrons as I left my contemplations and turned my attention to the activity of the monks on the mountain slope below. Their puja was finished and they were packing away their long trumpets, cymbals, drums, and texts of liturgy. We climbed down to the road and waited in the evening shadows for a bus to take us home. The young monks laughed and yelled as we raced through the countryside, hanging out the windows to see if those of us on the roof would get brushed off by low branches or left behind as we sped around the hairpin turns over the gorge. It was dark when we arrived in Boudhanath, and the sky was heavy with clouds. As I stood on my balcony looking across the village, moist winds began to blow. Soon a warm rain was falling.
Excerpted from In Search of the Medicine Buddha, by David Crow, L.Ac.
