MedicineCrow Blog

We follow Dante through the village along rutted dirt roads, into a neighborhood on the outskirts of town where the homes have more land, more space, more greenery, less open sewage.

The doctor owns the side of a hill, which he is transforming into a gigantic sculpture. Walkways wind through courtyards, courtyards sit among small cottages, cottages are adorned with gardens, gardens are layered on terraces, terraces curve along the contours of the hill. In the center of this asymmetrical mandalic landscape rises a structure that looks like a hybrid between a tipi and a conch shell, part cone, part spiral. Partly adobe, partly glass, partly tree trunks, this is his home, his castle, his dream of a new life, adorned with a spectacular view of the ocean below.

Now I am driving with Eric and Don Perfecto Yagual along the coastal highway to the fishing village of Puerto Lopez. We are on the way to meet Dante, an Italian who speaks neither English nor Spanish, who seems to be the one who distilled the oil. I spoke with Michele, his assistant, when we called from James's house that afternoon in Guayaquil; he spoke enough English and I enough Spanish that we managed to make arrangements to visit.

I am on the beach at Mahabalipuram, under the night sky. A strong wind is blowing off the Bay of Bengal, carrying warm marine fragrances and spraying sand in the eyes of a small group seated around a fire. We are devotees of Ayurveda, gathered at a conference devoted to the ancient medical art and science. A few Western teachers have been invited to speak to the Indian students, eager to hear of the possibilities their own traditions may hold for them as a career, as a source of respect, as a way of serving, as a path to knowledge; a tiny minority of Western students, most of them now seated just out of reach of the flames, are here to learn from the Indian doctors who are sharing their methods and wisdom.

The Poetic Truth
of Our Biological Existence

Creativity is a fascinating process. At times I have found it to be like an ephemeral breeze, floating here and there without any apparent cause as I walk through the forest searching for its inspiration or sit in silent contemplation hoping it will alight nearby and bless me with an outpouring of thoughts, words and insights. Sometimes it is like moving between waking and dreaming, or descending into the embryonic cavernous space that births mythology, hoping to bring something back that doesn’t evaporate into forgetfulness in the light of day, or worse, reveal the triviality of my mind. Sometimes, it seems more like a river that moves with its own rhythm and direction, appearing and disappearing as it will through the course of days or seasons, sometimes with some rhyme or synchronistic reason but most often without.

David and Sara Crow
Explore the Islands

Last week we had the pleasure of visiting Deb Soule at her beautiful herb farm and apothecary, Avena Botanicals.  I had just finished teaching the Farm to Pharmacy week with William Siff at Goldthread Farm in Massachusetts and a weekend class in Portland, Maine, hosted by Gina Mastroluca. Gina had made arrangements in advance for us to make the trip north to visit Deb outside of Rockport.