Monday 24 October 2011

Straight From the Tahre Pits

Weird Navy CH54 flew low up the beach this afternoon, exactly window-height, right past the house. Thing reminds me of some giant prehistoric crane fly. Maybe that's why they call it a Sky Crane.


(Photo courtesy of Wiki and the US government. It's an Army helo, but you can't have everything. Where would you put it?)

Thursday 20 October 2011

Hermitcraft: Busting Dysentery

Oxalis
While on ango last summer, I got a visit from the Dysentery Fairy. I still haven't determined precisely what sort it was; we have a lot of Giardia around here, but it would be a true hail-mary for that to get into a rain barrel. On the other hand, the symptoms were pretty giardesque, for a bacterial infection. I'm not even certain it came from the drinking water; hygiene is a constant battle in the outback, and you live surrounded by faeces and wild water.

Anyway, I suffered an anxious week or two, dodging into the dark forest at 0300 and fearing the thing would drive me off the mountain. In the end I kicked its butt, thanks to the support of friends and family and, I believe, this tea. So I'm passing it on.

It's truly terrifying to find yourself alone and sick; once it's happened (and this wasn't a first for me, by any means), you'll never trivialise someone else's misfortune again. In this case, I spent about a day fretting and trying to hide from it. Then I got mad. The fact is, I've got a lifetime of relevant experience. Hell, I wrote a freakin' book on wild herbs, for Christ sake! I decided if I was going to be forced off the mountain, I was really going to be forced. Surrender would only become an option if every last gun had been fired.

And I had several. To begin with, the Hundred Acre Wood, where I lived, was busting with herbs, and in their best season. And I had other possibles in my cache. So I got up and raked together a tea calculated to firm things up and rain displeasure on unwanted guests. I put myself on a regimen of 3 rice bowls of this per day, minimum; most days I had more. I drank down each bowl, then sucked, chewed, and spit out the leaves. (The tea itself was actually delicious, but the cud-chewing part was abominable.) And I got better. Very quickly, in fact.

Hemlock
Here's how I brewed it up:

Put a double measure of strong green tea leaves in the bottom of your rice bowl.

Add:

Oxalis and/or sheep sorrel
New Douglas fir tips (see note below)
Blackberry rhizome
Blackberry leaf

Chop all ingredients well; I used a pair of scissors.

Fill the bowl with boiling water, cover, and steep for fifteen minutes, minimum. Then drink and enjoy.

The tart components (oxalis and sorrel; lemon or cider vinegar if you've got it) provide acid, which gut-bugs hate, and coincidentally taste good, which gets you to drink more of it. Young Douglas fir needles taste pleasant too (though the old ones are disgusting), and are the most effective at halting diarrhœa. Other conifers are also good if you don't have it. I've used spruce and hemlock to good effect. Finally, I also just plain ate oxalis and Douglas fir, often, during these days.

Later, a friend and fellow hermit who came out to check on me said to add Prunella to my dose. Did it help? It didn't hurt. It's dreadful stuff, but the oxalis and Douglas fir got it past my tongue. Similarly, I held willow in reserve, should tougher measures be necessary. Willow bark is an excellent medicinal, the original source of aspirin, and highly acidic in its own right. It's also the most God-awful revolting bile on the planet, like chewing an aspirin tablet, so I didn't jump right into it. And fortunately, I never needed to, this time.

What's clear is that this concoction put an immediate end to pyrotechnic dumps and secured the all-important restful night. Of course, it wasn't the only measure I took; I also went in for draconian hygiene, fastidious handling of water, mindful hydration habits, and careful monitoring of the quality and quantity of everything that came back out of me. I also ordered up some dietary adjustments, chiefly, a well-curried bowl, boiled up with bullion (for the salt), and served with a sadistic squirt of sriracha. Intestinal microbes trend to fairly Caucasian tastes; I made sure things got nice and "ethnic" on Mr. Leave It To Beaver Fever.

Whatever the reason, and whatever it was, it eventually pulled up stakes and left. (You might say, it just didn't have the guts.) Whether I beat it, or it just wasn't that scary to begin with, I'll never know. But the tea worked. One day I had dramatic digestion, then I drank the tea and it went away. Then I stopped drinking it (thinking I was "cured") and it came right back. So I drank the tea again, and it went away again.

Therefore I offer the recipe here, in loving support for anyone who may fall into that place and need it. Brother, sister: drop this on your trouble. And smile while you sit.

For if you listen very closely, you can hear the little bastards scream.



(Adapted from 100 Days on the Mountaincopyright RK Henderson.)

Thursday 13 October 2011

My Hermit Hut

I've been feeling a bit nostalgic about the old meditation shed I had down at the beach, and it struck me that I've never actually posted on it, though others' huts have appeared here several times. (I did upload a named exterior shot ten years ago on Wordless Wednesday, but the others that have appeared from time to time were illustrating other topics, and so not identified.)

So in the interest of completism, here it is.

This tiny shack, the very picture of a true purist's definition of "hut", started life as my grandmother's potting shed. My grandfather carved it out of the bluff below their house, where I lived for ten years during the formative period of my Zen practice. When I arrived, the house and grounds were both in dire condition; eventually I hacked my way down to this cinderblock shanty, re-opening a steep, eroded goat trail through impenetrable brush. The door, which had been kicked in by a winter storm, and lay on floor inside; only the twisted wreckage of the lower hinge was still nominally attached.

In the intervening years blackberry and honeysuckle had invaded and filled the interior, along with bracken, lady fern, and infant trees, and the roof and wooden parts had rotted in places. Its concrete floor was completely saturated, covered with standing water and mud from infiltrated silt.

I really didn't need a place to sit, as the house – high on a bluff above the grey Pacific, with few neighbours – was already the best hermit hut in history. But rehabilitating one of my grandmother's work stations was an attractive premise, and the place would provide ground-level, fundamentally outdoor meditation, which I always prefer when available.

So I set-to, and after a lot of concentrated effort and scrounging of materials, ended up with this serviceable little squat. I even once sat an all-night sesshin there, hoping to glimpse the bear that left scat in front of it. (I didn't, but I did learn, not for the last time, that spring nights on the North Pacific are bitterly winter-cold.)

So here it is, my own hermit hut. Or to be perfectly accurate, my monastic playhouse. It might not have been strictly necessary, but I learned a lot of Zen there.