SENTIENT TIMES October/November 2002

Sacred Plants

By David Crow

I am floating, lost among the sky’s reflections somewhere on Lake Fewa, in the Himalayas. Machupuchare’s snow-draped peak is close, the fertility goddess watching over us, looking down as my tiny boat glides across the water. Waves of ferns fall from the mountainsides above, reaching the water’s edge to brush against my out-stretched hand. Dragonflies with fragile wings of painted velvet hang from heart-shaped creepers, and butterflies navigate invisible air currents.

Along the water, herbs are growing in abundance. Climbers and shrubs compete for space, weaving leaves of yellows and greens into layers of living colors, starburst flowers hiding in their shade. Dr. Tiwari would know them all, of course, having documented them here in the Gorkha district. I hear echoes of his voice as he happily recites their Latin, Nepali, and common names.

In the old cultures, plants were regarded as sacred beings from higher realms, gifts of the gods placed on earth, and embod-iments of divine attributes. The seers of Ayurveda taught the people to care for the botanical kingdom, by describing various species in religious and mythical language. They understood that when a society does not respect the consciousness of plants, it will awaken to discover they have vanished, taking their life-sustaining gifts with them.

The mythical qualities attributed to important herbs help convey their value to humanity. For example, one of the synonyms of myrobalan is “amrita,” which emphasizes how this fruit never causes any toxicity or harm to the body. It is also known as “patya,” meaning it is always beneficial to the body’s channels, and “rasayan,” because it acts as a rejuvenator. To a person whose illness has been removed by the myrobalan, this remarkable herb would seem like a drop of nectar from heaven.

I drift through the shadows of overhanging branches, listening to the trees. They whisper simple gratitude, speaking for all of us who have forgotten the importance of the soil, sun, water, and air. How precious and sacred are the plants of this world, and the elements that nurture them! No life will exist when they are destroyed. Will we listen, remember, and give thanks for their healing powers before they are gone, or will our fate be that of the forests and animals dying of thirst and disease around us? The stones speak silently, reminding us of how soft and fragile our bodies are. Even a butterfly blown by the wind understands this.

“There is an innate respect for all living beings in the Vedas,” Dr. Singh once said. “In the Hindu pantheon, so many plants are the incarnation of God Himself. Once you come to the point where you realize they are also living beings, that they have equal rights to be on this planet, I think that particular feeling will give you respect, and you will not harm them or take them for granted.

“The ancients have said Aham Brahmasmi, ‘I am the universe.’ That was not a delusion; they really experienced totality. Those seers understood that all of life has evolved originally from consciousness, and therefore everything has consciousness, and has been created for a purpose. If we are destroying something, it is because of our narrow-mindedness.”

Hindu religious texts contain numerous references regarding the importance of plants. In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna says, “I am present in the plants in the form of aswat. If you want to worship me, worship the aswat.” Aswat is the Ficus religiosa, the Bodhi tree under which Buddha reached nirvana. Many Hindus worship this tree, offer it water, and avoid cutting its wood. Within this religious sentiment is an important ecological reason to protect this species: it releases more oxygen than other trees.

Religious stories describing plants as divine encourage us to preserve precious natural resources, and help bring the sacred into our everyday lives. The earth-based spiritual wisdom found in Ayurveda and other traditional cultures opens our eyes to the sanctity of life; this is crucial not only for health and happiness, but for our survival. Believing that God dwells in trees is not an abstract philosophical concept, pagan superstition, or a quaint Hindu custom: as we destroy the plant kingdom, we decrease the oxygen of the atmosphere. Anyone with asthma or emphysema knows that oxygen is life, and without the presence of pneuma, spirit in the form of breath, the body will suffocate. Perhaps in the future the Ficus religiosa, Buddha’s tree of enlightenment, and all its relatives, will play a role in restoring the earth’s atmosphere. If that day comes, those suffering from respiratory illness will find healing and solace in fragrant groves filled with luxurious air.

“In the Terai region people marry plants together,” I hear Dr. Tiwari saying. “We hold a marriage ceremony for the Ficus religiosa and Ficus benghalensis, just like a marriage ceremony for people. When our children get married, we marry the plants on the same occasion. It is done at the crossroads, and is quite common. This is how we show affection to the plants. There is no scientific reason to do this, but these ceremonies remind us of the great importance of our natural resources.” In many places throughout the countryside of Nepal, these two varieties of trees have grown together in marriage for hundreds of years.

“We use many plants in our routine ceremonies,” the herbalist went on. “Some people make a ring with the grass Imperita serendrica and wear it when making offerings. The Brahmin community make a holy thread from Sacharum munja and wear it at the upanayam ceremony, when the Gayatri mantra is introduced to the child. We use sesame oil for altar lamps; it is the best among all vegetable oils, and said to originate from the sweat of Lord Vishnu. The wood of Butea monospermum is used for fire in ceremonies, because it is regarded as sacred to Agni, god of fire.

“Aromatic herbs are used in offerings, like Cedrus deodaria (Himalayan cedar bark), Nardostachys jatamansi (Indian spikenard), Valeriana wallichiana (valerian), and neem. We burn these plants and chant to purify or disinfect the atmosphere. We plant tulsi, holy basil, and go to it early in the morning and pray; it is antiviral and antibacterial, and keeps away mosquitoes. People worship the neem tree, and use it during epidemics of measles. They put neem leaves in the patient’s bed and use them to fumigate the room and to purify water for baths. In the past people were not familiar with terms like antibacterial and antiviral, but they knew this tree was effective in preventing infection and stopping the spread of disease. Even today neem is used for treating measles in many villages.

“These things show that at one time people knew the utility of different species. If you know plants are important, you won’t disturb them, and this will prevent their extinction or loss. In the past the use of plants in daily worship linked culture and religion together. Now people are abandoning these customs.”

“Why are they rejecting these things?” I wondered.

“Because they lack understanding of why they are necessary, and don’t know the scientific reasons,” my teacher replied. “We are also not communicating this knowledge to our coming generation.”

The earth remembers what we have forgotten. Before cars, before freeways, we walked, our feet touching the soil. We knew its fertility by seeing it giving birth to creatures and plants. Before we withdrew into insulated existences, we felt the ground awakening in the springtime sun and saw how it slept in the depth of winter. We knew the coming and going of the wondrous forms of life, the habits of the animals, the flowering and dying of the plants, the turning of the constellations in the night sky.

Soft breezes move along the shore, the breath of the Goddess playing on the vegetation like strings of a formless instrument, evoking murmurs of music in response to Her passing. How blissful to recline all day, listening to these gentle voices, untouched by the anxieties and discord elsewhere in the world. Eagles soar in choreographed perfection, effortlessly embracing the wind; white cranes leave effervescent trails through pastel skies.

All beings are born from, suckled, raised, and eventually reclaimed by the Universal Mother. As the moon, clouds, and rain, she nourishes the plants with her juices. In dark forests and silvery meadows, the queen of the night moves among the leaves, releasing infinite chemical transmutations as she excites the flavors and smells circulating in the veins of her vegetal subjects. The Mother blesses us with foods and medicines; her blood, breath, bones, and warmth are the true nourishment carried within the plants and animals who have sacrificed themselves for the continuation of our lives. All that we eat and drink are forms of her milk, the sweet Soma flowing from the breast of the earth.

Our bodies are sustained by the sun’s rays, rain, and nutrients from the soil. Yet, we cannot eat sunlight or soil directly. In order to survive, we depend on plants to photosynthesize, to bond the solar energy into the constituents of earth and water present in their green bodies. Could adoration of this divine process, upon which our lives rest, perhaps be the secret of Soma’s ancient alchemical cult?

As the wind dies down and the heat of the day recedes from the oncoming coolness of evening, the lake’s surface becomes a silky skin, moist with impres-sionistic reflections. The insects of the forest begin their chant. They unite in one voice, spinning wheels within wheels of hypnotic droning. Quietly at first, then louder, pulsing in rhythms of secret entomological meaning, the trees resonate with an otherworldly chorus of primitive sound.

The sun departs with regal farewells, painting another noble Himalayan sunset with lavender, orange, violet, and rose. High above, the clouds become weightless worlds of opalescent landscapes. Slowly, imper-ceptibly, the vision changes to shining bronze, dies down to flaming orange, then fades into the gray tones of approaching night. The peaks around Machupuchare recede in fading gray hues, disappearing into the approaching evening. The invisible veil between inner and outer, earth, sky and water, vanishes in the stillness. Unknow-ingly, I have drifted into samadhi, sus-pended in open expanses of evening light. I float silently through space, among clouds reflected deep in the lake.

All of Creation is breathing together in this moment. We are asleep to its movement, but our bodies remember. The breath flows in to give another moment of life, and then back to its source in a continual prayer, expressing the innermost thoughts of the heart. Echoes of voices are floating in the wind, spoken, chanted, and sung since beginningless time with the same air that now enters my chest. I remember Dr. Tiwari’s wisdom, and pray that others may also hear it:
“All life on earth is based on plants. Without them we cannot survive. Without plants, there will be no prana vayu, the ‘life-sustaining air.’”

Excerpted with permission from In Search of the Medicine Buddha.

David Crow is an acupuncturist, medical herbalist, health educator, and meditation teacher. His book In Search of the Medicine Buddha, is about his studies with Ayurvedic and Tibetan physicians and alchemists in the Himalayas. The founder of a network of community gardens dedicated to growing, protecting, and sharing medicinal herbs and wild foods, David is dedicated to promoting the holistic philosophies and earth-based wisdom of traditional healing arts as a path to ecological restoration and revival of spiritual cultures. He can be contacted at www.medicinecrow.com. David will be teaching “The Pharmacy of Flowers” in Ashland at the Oregon Herb Festival on Sun., Oct 20, 11:45am-12:45pm. For Festival info call (541) 482-3016 or (800) 252-0688.

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