A Good, Healthy Life

Jason Neff worked in advertising right after college.  He was good at it, but then he became ill. “I developed all these health problems, these idiopathic autoimmune diseases,” he said.  “What do you think was making you sick?”  I asked.  Straight-faced, he said, “Advertising.”

Jason had always studied martial arts-- a passion he’d discovered in high school--which led him to a type of Chinese meditation called, Qi Gong.  (pron. chee-gung)  “I tried it,” he said, “and all my symptoms disappeared.  I learned that our emotional and physical components are interconnected.  I had to quit advertising.”  Jason went back to school to study Chinese Medicine. 

“It was this fascinating confluence of science and art.  Since elementary school I’d devoured everything I could about Leonardo DaVinci-- he was my idol.  So, this was heaven.” After 5 years at the Pacific College of Oriental Medicine—the Harvard of such schools—he mentored with Nan Lu.  “It was amazing,” he said, “real Mr. Miagi stuff.  I learned the entire time.  It was incredible.”  After 4 years, Lu kicked him out.  “He said to me, ‘It’s time to go.’”

Jason hung out a shingle.  His business grew quickly.  “I love seeing how the interaction between lifestyle and emotion affect health.  In the West, people believe the brain is in charge of the body. The Eastern concept is that the spirit, soul or intuition—whatever you choose to call it—is in charge.  When your spirit is aligned with your body, you have fewer symptoms.”  Jason is confident, relaxed, open and kind with a good sense of humor.  He is completely non-judgmental and accepting of his clients and dispenses wisdom with surprising accuracy.  “I came to realize that illness isn’t bad. It’s the body expressing itself, trying to tell you something.  Instead of fighting the illness, Chinese Medicine works with the illness.  I see people transform.  I watch them learn to listen, to work with their body’s signs and their life blooms.  They feel better.  It’s wonderful.” 

I wanted to know everything he treated.  I rattled off a list to which he answered yes to all: allergies, migraines, PMS, sleep apnea, addictions (including smoking), stress management, weight loss, back pain, auto-immune diseases, depression, anxiety and lethargy.  I could go on.  “What about cancer?” I asked.  “Cancer is very complicated,” he said, “but, yes.  Mostly I work in tandem with the Western treatments.  The Chinese say, ‘There is no illness, only unmanifested spiritual purpose.’”  Woa, I thought.

“How do you explain what you do to the kids you treat?” Jason said, “Kids are great patients. They’re very accepting of The Force from Star Wars.  I just tell them that there’s a force that flows through us, and sometimes it gets stuck and I help unstuck it.  Acupuncture is about reconnecting us with nature. It works on strengthening what’s already there.  Adults are very disconnected from nature. Children are closer, that’s why they react positively quickly.”

I asked him to tell me what he’s looking for when he takes my pulse on both sides.  “Pulse is the Chinese version of an MRI.  The simplified answer is that there are 6 on each side of various depths-- 3 positions, 3 levels.  The meridians relate to different systems and how they function.  When you feel a pulse, you’re like a musician, listening to a note that might be out of tune.  Is it sharp or flat? Weak or strong?  There’s a skill to it.  A sensitivity develops.”  “And my tongue?” I asked.  “The tongue corroborates the pulse,” he said.  “And when we look in the eyes, we’re looking for shen.  Shen is spirit or consciousness—it’s your soul.  We’re looking for brightness.”

I asked, “Does the job ever get old?”  “Oh, no,” he said, “It’s amazing.  I love to see how the spirit tries to express itself when a sick person commits themselves to health.”  “And that sensitivity you’ve developed,” I said, “Does it ever overwhelm you?”

Jason said, “It did in the beginning, but then my mentor said to me, ‘Do you want to see disease and illness in everyone you pass on the street or do you want to see beauty and light?  That’s what you’re trying to grow.’  A gardener can see weeds and disease or shoots and blooms.  I look for the good in everyone—what’s blocking goodness.”

            I asked, “And what do you say to the folks who think it’s all a bunch of hooey?  That it’s all placebo effect?”  “Oh, I love those people,” he said, “I usually say, ‘If it works, what does it matter?’”  I paused and considered all that I’d learned and what it must be like to be Jason.  “So, you love your job and you’re always looking for the good in people and life?” I asked.  “Yes,” Jason said, smiling. “You must be a very happy person.”  “I am,” he said simply.  His smile remained.  His eyes were bright.

(Jason Neff is the owner and practitioner of Phoenix Acupuncture in South Orange.)

Dinner Party Panic

“You know what this needs?  Celery seed!!” my friend, Cynthia, said with epiphany-like panic.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wouldn’t know what celery seed was or tasted like if it bit me on the ankle.  But she was convinced, by golly.  Celery seed was our holy grail and we had none on hand for the meal we were preparing for our joint dinner party.   I hoped she would bounce back after the crushing blow to our hostess-hood.  I was fairly certain the meal survive without it.  Cynthia had her doubts.

Planning a dinner party with Cynthia had been an honest treat and at times hilarious.  She was shocked when I suggested we buy the meat, seafood, vegetables and other ingredients at one supermarket.  I suggested that our guests would be happy with cereal as long as there was enough white wine.  She smiled at me and I smiled back.  We both thought the other was joking. 

Secretly I coveted Cynthia’s relationship with food and cooking.  At the supermarket—I talked her down to two stops from four—she had a close and unique relationship with every ingredient we considered buying.  There was great debate over the cut of steak and much eye rolling over the corn.  I marveled at her suspicions.  Cooking seemed so complex and important to her, so personal.  It’s such a mystery to me.  My people are Nordic, so for me, cheese is the fourth element—fire, water, earth, air, havarti.  My mother’s meals tended towards the safe side of the pantheon of ‘50s staples, which is really saying something.  Every hors d’oeuvre she ever made began with a block of cream cheese.  Open faced sandwiches on pumpernickel I can handle, but the rest leaves me flummoxed.  I’m jealous of my friends who can whip up a meal in the same way I envy bi-linguists or innate musicians.  Food nourishes the soul.  We literally need it to survive.  No one would ever cling to my mediocre tap dancing on a deserted island.

Our dinner party was a success—celery seed notwithstanding.  During our post mortem, I asked Cynthia when her love affair with food took hold.  “My first solid as a baby was escargot,” she said.  “As a toddler, I couldn’t get enough of abalone.”  Where did you grow up?” I asked.  She said, “Atlanta.”  Of course, I thought.  America’s culinary hotbed.  “Our neighbors were Chinese and introduced me to dim-sum,” she continued, “My parents entertained-- at the age of six I could not get enough smoked oysters on Ritz crackers-- and they took me with them when they traveled.  One of my favorite food memories is of the Russian borscht I had at Boris’ Restaurant in the Yak & Yeti Hotel in Kathmandu when I was twelve.  It was like ambrosia to me.  I will never stop craving it.” 

Cynthia was able to parlay her childhood adoration for food into an adult profession when she became the tourism editor for AAA, rating hotels and restaurants in the Northeast.  I asked, “How did you take notes in restaurants if you didn’t want them to know what you were up to?”  “Sometimes I would pretend I was writing a letter and make all my notes on stationary.  Other times I would go directly out to the car and start writing.”  I asked, “And what is it like for you now that you no longer work in that industry?”  “I try not to be a pain in the neck at restaurants,” she said, “but I hold grudges.” 

“Does everyone have a food memory?” I asked.  I have a music memory and a dancing memory, even a fashion memory, but no lobe for food.  “Yes,” she said, “everyone except my in-laws.”  She continued, “I have a flavor memory, too.  I always know what’s missing.  I have a bank of flavors in my brain and I can pick them out.  Like an enormous store.  Everything is there in little boxes.”  I imagined Cynthia’s flavor memory like I would a scene in a Harry Potter movie—hundreds of wooden boxes as far as the eye can see, all with hand-written inked labels like in an apothecary shop.  My own flavor memory would fit in a shoebox filled with capers, Mallowmars and a jar of mayonnaise. 

I asked Cynthia if there was anything one shouldn’t put garlic on.  She answered immediately, “Dessert.”  I concurred.  She said, “Once I said to the waiter, ‘My tuile cookie is garlic-y.’  He went back to the kitchen, returned and said, ‘I’m sorry, M’am, you were right.  We stored them in the wrong bin.’”  I said, “What’s the most common cooking mistake people make that’s easily corrected?”  Right away Cynthia said, “Stop fiddling with your food in the pan.  Don’t touch it so much.  Leave it alone and let it brown.”  I said, “And if you could only take three seasonings with you to a deserted island?”  “Well,” she said, “I suppose I’ll be eating a lot of fish if I’m on an island.”  I hadn’t given that any thought whatsoever, but I supposed she had a point.  “Kaffir lime leaves, Beau Monde—it makes everything better—, and smoked paprika chipotle chili powder.”  “Are you kidding me?  I thought you would say salt, pepper and garlic.”  “Oh, sure, that, too,” she said.  I decided right then that I would get into her rescue boat if the ship were ever sinking.  Then I wondered, where’s Kaffir?

I said, “So, you must be one of those people who start thinking about lunch when you’re eating breakfast.”  “Oh, totally,” she said.  I confessed, “I think about dinner twenty minutes before dinner.”  Cynthia leaned in towards me.  Her passion was palpable.  “The thing is,” she said, “is to get your kids to like food, to pass on that joy and pleasure in eating food.  Let them see you loving it.” I nodded, fearing that I was too late with my son.  Maybe not.  I asked, “And when do you start thinking about dinner?” Cynthia’s eyes flashed.  “When I wake up.”