This weight can also be felt as groundedness. Stillness becomes an invitation to visit the deeper recesses of the mind, spaces that often grow cluttered during more vibrant seasons. In Traditional East Asian Medicine, the mind is not isolated to the head, but is intimately connected to the Heart system and the shaoyin axis. Winter, with its inward pull, naturally asks us to listen more closely to this relationship.

In this medical system, shen (often translated as spirit or consciousness) is said to be housed in the blood. Blood circulates through the body’s vessels, reaching every tissue and every cell. It nourishes the deep, tender substance of our organs and lends vitality to the surface of the body: the brightness of the eyes, the softness of the lips. A settled, well-nourished blood allows the mind to rest.

This relationship is articulated directly in the Huang Di Nei Jing Su Wen, one of the foundational classical texts of East Asian medicine:

“The heart generates the blood and stores the spirit. Hence the vessels reflect both the material presence of blood and the operation of spirit.”
— Huang Di Nei Jing Su Wen, trans. Paul U. Unschuld and Hermann Tessenow,
in collaboration with Zheng Jinsheng (Internet Archive edition)

From a biomedical perspective, the mind is often discussed primarily in relation to the brain and nervous system. Yet contemporary research increasingly points toward a more distributed understanding of mind and body, where emotional regulation is shaped by circulation, nourishment, inflammation, hormonal rhythms, and stress physiology throughout the whole organism. In this view, the mind is not confined to the head, but emerges from the ongoing conversation between multiple bodily systems.

This begins to echo the East Asian medicine understanding of a Heart-Mind that inhabits the entire body. Mood, cognition, and emotional steadiness are influenced not only by thought, but by the quality of circulation, the sufficiency of nourishment, and the capacity for rest. When the body is depleted, the mind feels less anchored. When the body is supported, the mind settles more easily.

When clients come to the clinic with primary mental or emotional concerns, I always consider the state of their blood. In East Asian medicine, a pattern called blood deficiency can sometimes overlap with a biomedical diagnosis such as anemia, but it often appears without any abnormal lab values. This is not about pathology so much as sufficiency.

Blood deficiency can show up in different ways. For some, it manifests as anxiety or panic, sensations of being ungrounded, chest tightness, palpitations, or heat rushing upward. In these cases, there is not enough yin substance, including blood, to anchor the more active, upward-moving aspects of the nervous system. For others, it appears as fatigue, low mood, or a sense of depletion, where there is simply not enough nourishment and oxygen reaching tissues to support vitality. Sleep disturbances are also common, including restlessness at night, night sweats, feeling overheated after dark, or waking in the early hours unable to fall back asleep.

Certain life stages make us especially vulnerable to this kind of depletion. The menstruating years, particularly with heavy bleeding, postpartum periods, miscarriage or abortion, and recovery after physical trauma or illness are all times when blood resources are taxed. These moments ask for intentional nourishment, deep rest, and slower rhythms. Acupuncture can be one support among many, helping regulate circulation, calm the nervous system, and create conditions for restoration.

Nourishing Winter Bone Broth

This broth draws from traditional winter and postpartum recovery soups, with small adaptations informed by East Asian medicine and everyday kitchen practice. It is warming, mineral-rich, and designed to be gentle on digestion while supporting the rebuilding of blood and yin.

This recipe is shared as a general, nourishing starting point. In East Asian medicine, food therapy is always individualized. When we work together, recommendations are adapted to the person, the season, and the specific patterns present.

Ingredients

• 8 pieces dried shiitake mushrooms, soaked in warm water and sliced
  (reserve the soaking liquid)

• 1 whole chicken (3–4 lb), cleaned

• 4 scallions, chopped

• 2 yellow onions, roughly chopped

• 2 large carrots, roughly chopped

• 1 celery stalk, roughly chopped

• 5–6 cloves garlic, peeled

• 8 thick slices fresh ginger

• 1 small bunch fresh thyme

• 4 bay leaves

• 8–12 dried jujube dates (da zao), lightly crushed or halved

Optional tonic additions (use if familiar or omit entirely)

• 5 slices astragalus root (huang qi)

• 4–6 slices angelica root (dang gui)

• Sea salt, to taste

• Water, to cover

Method

Place the chicken in a large pot and cover with water. Add the mushrooms, scallions, onions, carrots, celery, garlic, ginger, thyme, and bay leaves. Bring to a gentle boil, skim off any foam that rises to the surface, then reduce to a very low simmer.

Cover and simmer for about 3 hours, allowing the broth to become rich and aromatic.

Add the jujube dates and any optional tonic herbs during the final 45–60 minutes of cooking.

Remove the chicken and strain the broth. Season lightly with salt. Sip on its own, or use as a base for simple soups with rice, noodles, or well-cooked vegetables. (The chicken can be shredded and used in another recipe or returned to the broth to make a heartier soup).

The broth can be made ahead and stored in the refrigerator for several days. It will gel when cold and return to liquid once reheated.

To Book a Treatment

• Black Spruce Acupuncture, Langford — Thursdays & Sundays

• Earthside, Esquimalt — Mondays & Fridays

• Arbutus Health, Tofino — next visits: January 6–7 and March 3–18

If you would like to book a session outside these times or explore at-home treatment options, please get in touch.

There is a bitterness in the air. A metallic smell, most palpable in the moment the afternoon sun begins to burn off the morning fog — when the salt-laden mist mingles with the minerality of the warming earth.

I’ve visited this particular corner of coastline more times than I can count. Each day it is different. Each day it is the same. Accessible only at low tide, the ecosystem is constantly reshaped — nourished, exposed, invigorated. Oystercatchers nest nearby, tucked into some crevice I’ve never found, never wanted to intrude on. Each morning they greet me — or warn me — with their sharp calls, a piercing cry that cuts the stillness of dawn. And in the evening, the crows return to the sky in their swirling choreography. Their unapologetic expression of movement, their joy as the day reaches completion — it reminds me that the appreciation of beauty is not just a human experience.

In the summer of 2015, I returned to Tofino to work with an outdoor educational program for children. We spent full days outside — on the windswept beaches in summer, under the forest canopy in the boughts of winter rain. It was then I was first introduced to the concept of a sit spot: a single place in nature you return to again and again to simply sit and observe. Nearly a decade later, now living on the southern coast of Vancouver Island, I continue this practice in newfound places tucked within — or just outside — the city.

And what does it mean to observe?
To watch how trees lean into wind.
To learn the heron's discipline of patience.
To notice how fern fronds stretch toward light, how mycelium answer the rain by fruiting into mushrooms overnight.

What would it mean to observe your body with the same curiosity?
To rest when you're tired.
To scream when you're frustrated.
To twirl when you're delighted?

In my ongoing postgraduate studies in Neijing Nature-Based Medicine, we often speak of observation as the foundation for diagnosis. If we are to understand what disease looks like, we must first become intimate with what health looks like. Nature — despite the human interventions of recent centuries — is inherently adaptive, resilient, rhythmic.

This is, to me, the heart of uncovering health: not only learning how to treat illness, but remembering what it is to be well. Remembering that we are nature. We are animals, or plants, if you prefer. And more often than not, what we need most is to get out of our own way — to soften into a pattern of movement and rest that resonates with the world around and within us.

Just because something is simple to understand doesn’t mean it’s easy to live.

“Other animals, in a constant and mostly unmediated relation with their sensory surroundings, think with the whole of their bodies.”
— David Abram, Becoming Animal

This line has stayed with me. It speaks to something I feel again and again in my practice — that sensation, perception, movement, and emotion are not distractions from reason, but ways of knowing. Traditional medicine invites us into this embodied intelligence. It reminds us that we are not minds using our bodies like machines, but ecosystems shaped by wind, by food, by grief, by season, by sound.

Finding balance within our own systems requires a cosmology of relationship. A way of listening, seeing, smelling, tasting, and touching the world with reverence. A practice of remembering that we are not separate from the rhythms around us.

Recommended Reads on Ecology + the Human Experience

• The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram
  A rich, poetic exploration of how perception, language, and ecology are interwoven — and how traditional oral cultures experience the world through the senses in ways we've largely forgotten.

• Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard
  Part naturalist’s journal, part spiritual meditation, Dillard’s writing offers an intimate look at the marvels of the natural world, explored with wonder and deep noticing.

• What the Robin Knows by Jon Young
  A guide to understanding birdsong and behavior as a way of tuning in to your environment. Teaches the art of “deep nature connection” through the language of birds.

Clinic Schedule + Booking

Victoria / Westshore
Mondays & Tuesdays via Allies Integrated Health
Thursdays & Sundays via Black Spruce Acupuncture

Tofino
July 21–25 via Arbutus Health

Home Clinic
By request — Contact me

Recently, I visited the Greater Victoria Art Gallery to see an exhibit on the Japanese art of kintsugi. In this tradition, broken pottery is repaired with an urushi lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, transforming the cracks into beautiful, organic lines that become part of each vessel’s story. These pieces don’t conceal their history—they embrace it. Much like the reshaped banks of a river after a flood, kintsugi illustrates how transformation can create wholeness in a new way, honouring both the journey and the scars.

When we face illness, injury, or trauma, there’s often a misconception about what healing means. Many of us imagine recovery as a journey backward, a return to the way we were before. But healing isn’t about going back—it’s an opening, an invitation to discover a new version of ourselves, reshaped by all that we’ve endured.

In many traditions, late winter marks the first stirrings of renewal. January 29th ushers in the Chinese Lunar New Year, while February 1st, Imbolc in Gaelic traditions, celebrates the arrival of early spring. Though winter’s stillness continues to predominate, nature has already begun its seasonal pivot, with the yang energy of the sun growing stronger each day. Trees unfurl their first leaves, dormant seeds stir to life, and rivers will soon swell with snowmelt. As the landscapes around us shift, so too do the landscapes within us.

Imagine a river after a flood. Watersheds expand and contract with the seasons, but a significant event—a 100-year flood—reshapes the land in ways that can’t simply be undone. The river’s floodplain changes; sediment is stripped away, and the familiar vegetation along the banks is destabilized. But when the waters recede, new tributaries emerge. Sediment from upstream forms islets where there were none before. Seeds carried by the flood take root in unexpected places, giving rise to fresh life. The river doesn’t try to replicate its old path—it adapts and thrives in its new one.

One of my teachers once said, “People want to get better, but they don’t want to change.” Yet healing often requires us to embrace a version of ourselves we haven’t met before—a version that carries the marks of transformation but is no less vibrant, no less whole. We can capture the potential of this season to allow ourselves to bloom in unexpected ways. What could it mean to adapt, rather than strive to replicate who we once were? The natural world reminds us that change is not something to fear but to lean into. Rilke captures this sentiment with his poem:

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

~ Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29 by Rainer Maria Rilke

In my studies and early experiences as a clinician, I’ve seen how healing isn’t about going back to what once was but about learning what health means to us in each unique and precious chapter of our lives. After childbirth, for example, a person’s body undergoes profound changes—physically, emotionally, and energetically. Their pelvis may have shifted, their muscles stretched, and their organs reorganized to accommodate new life. Postpartum recovery isn’t about reclaiming a “pre-baby body” but rather nurturing a body that has accomplished something extraordinary, finding strength and balance in its new form.

Similarly, someone recovering from a hip replacement may find their movement feels unfamiliar. Scar tissue forms, new muscle patterns emerge, and the body gradually relearns how to move within its changed architecture. These changes aren’t easy—they require patience, support, and time. But they also show us the body’s remarkable ability to adapt and find new ways to function.

Healing can be slow, uncertain, and deeply challenging. It’s not always a graceful process, and it can feel messy or discouraging at times. It isn’t about undoing the challenges or hardships—it’s about integrating them into who you are today, just as a river carries its history in the shape of its banks.

Reflections for the beginning of Spring

• What would it mean for you to feel your most whole and vibrant—in this particular chapter of your life, in this body that you are inhabiting now?

• What patterns, habits, or expectations might be holding you back from adapting to this version of yourself?

Spring invites us to release rigid expectations of who we think we should be and instead embrace the opportunities for change that life offers. Growth is often uncomfortable, but this season reminds us that renewal and transformation are part of nature’s rhythm. Let yourself be supported by the inherent capacity for change that Spring so generously offers.

Share dew point.

I’ll be keeping this letter brief, with the intention being to share some practical guidance that might support you in finding harmony between your internal environment and the external influences of nature this time of year. For more about the qualities of yin as they relate to this winter season, you may be interested in my previous post Embracing the Stillness of Winter.

And one last note — I’m pleased to share that I’ve passed my board exams! In the new year, I’ll be opening my home clinic for acupuncture. Feel free to reach out if you’d like to learn more about my upcoming offerings.

Practices

Here are gentle ways to nourish yin and invite balance during this season of stillness:

• yin is dense; move as if wading through honey, inviting slowness

• begin your day with breakfast by candlelight, savoring the quiet before the world awakes

• prepare foods with water, the element of the winter season, and using slow cooking methods (braising, simmering, stewing)

• enjoy naturally salty foods as this flavour draws energy inwards (seaweeds, miso, celery, chard)

• walk in nature at dusk, feel the descending energy of the day coming to a close

• slumber sweetly; explore your inner world with a dream journal — in folklore, placing a satchel of mugwort (artemisia vulgaris) under your pillow is said to enhance dream recall

With it’s inward pull, this season offers an opportunity to reflect on the year that has past and make meaning of it. This poem by Hannah Rosenburg expresses that sentiment beautifully.

December

It’s always hard to think about the end,
To sum up what happened from beginning to now.
What you did, who you became,
How far you went to the edge of grief,
How love always brought you back.

How you left or stayed,
How you grew and bloomed,
How you fought so hard to stay the same.
It’s hard to think about the end,
To think that soon we’ll start another year.

For now,
Let the last short days rest gently on your shoulders.
You were here and you lived,
Breathed in air, took up space,
And changed the world so slightly.

Let December hug you back,
Hold you until it’s gone.

A very hearty winter soup

胃者，水谷之海也。其海不满，五脏无以养
The stomach is the sea of water and grains; if the sea is not full, the five solid organs have no means of nourishment.
~ Huangdi Neijing Suwen, Chapter 21 as translated by Maoshing Ni

Every time we eat is an opportunity to nourish ourselves. Amidst overwhelming information about what to eat, it’s easy to forget how to eat. Pleasure and relaxation during meals stimulate digestion, creating an internal environment where your body’s energy (qi) can be directed toward assimilating nourishment. Eating food you enjoy in good company is deeply nourishing to our systems, no matter what’s on the plate.

When life gets busy, I often prepare a big pot of soup—delicious, nutritious, and easy to digest—to enjoy for at least one meal each day. Below is my favourite winter vegetable chowder recipe, adapted from Six Seasons by Joshua McFadden.

Ingredients

1 small celery root, about ¾ of a pound

½ onion, sliced

2 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 cup farro (or another hearty grain)

Several sprigs fresh thyme

1 stalk celery, diced

1 small carrot, diced

1 big turnip*, diced

1 medium parsnip*, peeled and diced

1 cup cauliflower florets*

2 cups shredded kale*

*Use any combination of root vegetables that you like!

Instructions

1. Cut away all of the tough exterior of the celery root, including any dark spots. Cut into chunks. Put the celery root, onions, 1 garlic clove, butter, 1 teaspoon salt and 20 grinds of black pepper with ½ cup water in a medium pot. Cover and bring to a simmer until all the vegetables are very soft. Let cool and then puree in a blender or food processor.

2. Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven or large pot over medium heat. Add the remaining garlic clove and cook for a couple of minutes to soften the garlic. Add the farro and toast for 7 to 8 minutes more. Add the thyme sprigs.

3. Add the celery, carrot, turnip, and parsnip and 1 teaspoon salt. Cook until slightly softened, about 8 minutes.

4. Add just enough water or vegetable stock to cover by ½ inch. Add the cauliflower florets. Adjust the heat to a lively simmer, cover and cook until the vegetables are tender, about 15 minutes. Add the kale and cook for a few minutes more.

5. Stir in the celery root puree. The finished soup should be thick; if it seems too thick add more water. Taste for seasoning, adding more pepper if desired.

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In my own garden, I’ve realized that what brings me the deepest satisfaction isn’t the seeding or the harvesting; it’s making compost. Or rather, creating the conditions for it to make itself. There’s beauty in knowing that we can gather the scraps of what’s no longer serving us, allowing it to break down, harmonize, and transform. The darker, longer nights of autumn give us this gift—the earth’s energy pulls downward, inviting us to reflect, to digest, and to renew.

Lately, I’ve been feeling the weight of the grief in the world—a shared sorrow that seems amplified as we enter a stiller, more inward season. In traditional Chinese medicine, sorrow is the emotion associated with the lungs and the large intestine, organs that govern our boundaries with the outside world. Physically, an imbalance in the metal element can show up as tightness in the chest, shortness of breath, dry skin, or digestive issues. Just as the sun setting over the horizon is a natural motion, so is the energy of sorrow. Our emotions can signal when things are out of sync with who we are or what we value, gently nudging us to consider what we might release to move forward and what we need to hold close to sustain us. Sorrow is not something that is meant to be carried indefinitely; it is a necessary and refining force.

A softening, a gentle loosening of what we’ve held tightly; this is the invitation of Autumn. Like trees shedding leaves to store energy in their roots, we too can discern what no longer serves, making space for new growth. Discernment—the ability to judge well—helps us decide what to release and what remains essential, guiding us toward a clearer way forward.

Words that may support you in moving through this season:

I let sorrow move through me

I let go of what is no longer useful to me

I gather my resources deep within

When we bring discernment into alignment with justice, we create space to not only reflect but also respond to what we know is unjust. In this way, discernment is not only personal but also profoundly collective, moving us toward the fairness and integrity we need to meet the world’s challenges with clarity and compassion. This isn’t to say that our internal sifting is going to create the systemic changes that are needed in a world that feels overwhelmingly cruel. However, if we can gift ourselves ease amongst the turmoil that surrounds us, this allows us the determination to act from a powerful place of rootedness.

秋三 此謂容平 月 | [The] three months [of] autumn [are] called receiving (róng) [and] balance (píng).

天氣以急地氣以明 | [In this time, the] heavenly qì quickens (jí) [and the] earthly qì brightens (míng).

早臥早起與雞俱興 | Retire early [and] arise early, [when the] chickens all [begin to] stir.

使志安寧以緩秋刑 | Allow [your] will (shǐ) [to be] peaceful (ān) [and] tranquil (níng), [in this way] soften autumn’s punishments.

此秋氣之應養收之道也 | [In] these ways, [the] resonance of [the] autumn qì corresponds to [the] way (dào) [of] nourishing gathering (shōu).

- Excerpt from the Yellow Emperor's Inner Classic, translation by Dr. Edward Neal

Introducing dew point.

You may have noticed a change in the newsletter’s name—it’s now dew point, which is also the name I’ve chosen for my budding acupuncture practice. After completing my three-year acupuncture diploma in June and recently writing my board exams in October, I’m now awaiting results and looking forward to starting this work. My aim is to support individual and community health, empowering people with knowledge and resources for sustainable wellness.

The name dew point reflects my approach to viewing the body as an ecosystem, with the same qualities of balance and renewal we see in nature. In the natural world, the dew point is when air reaches just the right balance of moisture and temperature, forming droplets that nourish the earth. This speaks to the yin and yang principles that are at the foundation of Chinese medicine—the dynamic between coolness and warmth, moisture and dryness, the tangible and the ineffable. Ancient Chinese medical texts depict the body as a network of interconnected watersheds, illustrating how restoring balance in these ecological systems fosters health. The word point also nods to the point of the acupuncture needle, a precise tool (one of many in an acupuncturist’s toolkit) for supporting balance and change. With dew point, my goal is to provide care that not only addresses physical health but also supports clients in feeling resourced and connected to their own well-being.

I’ve been setting up a welcoming home clinic in the North Park neighbourhood, located on lək̓ʷəŋən territory (Victoria), where I’ll offer treatments (photos below!). I’m also exploring opportunities to work in a collaborative clinic space as a way to continue connecting with other practitioners, learn from mentors, and offer a more accessible location, as my home clinic has two flights of stairs.

Thank you for your curiosity and support as I move into this next chapter. My hope with dew point is to share the richness of traditional east Asian medicine with more people—to offer a way of understanding health that reflects our connection to the natural world. Whether you’re local or reading from afar, I look forward to exploring the elegance and depth of this ancient medicine with you.

In ancient Chinese medicine texts, the body is likened to a landscape. Practitioners saw our biology as a microcosm of the natural world, not merely as a metaphor but as an intricate system of ecology within our tissues. Within us is an ecosystem, composed of structural (yin) and physiological (yang) components, constantly and intelligently shifting in response to stimuli. Just as natural landscapes vary across geographic regions, there is no single representation of a healthy ecosystem between two individuals. Health is a dynamic process of maintaining equilibrium with relative ease, nourishing our inner landscape based on our unique needs, and adapting to changing seasons and chapters of life. 

Classical texts describe a complex system of channels in the body, likening them to rivers. These watersheds are each unique in their characteristics and functions yet together form a balanced whole. Intricately layered from the surface of our skin to the depth of our bones, they flow easefully when in balance and circulate nourishment to every cell.

“It is by virtue of the twelve channels that human life exists, that disease arises, that human beings can be treated and illness cured. The twelve channels are where beginners start and masters end. To beginners, it seems easy; the masters know how difficult it is.” - Huang Di Nei Jing Ling Shu, Chapter 17 (Deadman)

Using skills of inquiry and perceptivity, we can use the correspondence with watersheds to identify where disease may be likely to develop. Is there an accumulation of debris causing turbid waters? Is there a flood eroding the banks and pushing sediment downstream? Acupuncturists are environmental stewards of the body, using needles for ecological restoration. We find where river beds are empty or banks overflow and gently irrigate these waterways back into balance.

Tightness in the chest might be felt with unresolved grief; the stagnation of emotions manifesting as tangible pressure on our hearts. Heaving sobs nudge this log jam that has built up over time, allowing for an open flow of nourishment to be re-introduced downstream. Healing occurs with tears, sighs, laughter, singing… the body’s innate wisdom bringing movement where flow was constrained.

Our ancestors also knew that we are deeply influenced by the climatic and environmental factors that surround us. Sluggishness may be felt in high humidity as the dampness weighs on our limbs. Summer heat quickens the blood and can stir “hot-temperedness” and irritation. Cold can invade our joints, slowing circulation and causing stiffness or pain. When we are attuned to the climate and the seasonal shifts we experience, we can more easily adapt and counteract any external influences with food, herbs, or bodywork interventions.

In northern climates, burning of mugwort (moxibustion) over the skin provides penetrating warmth to protect from cold-related diseases; in the autumn months when the air becomes crisp and dry, apples ripen and can be eaten for their moistening effect on the lungs. A practice to cultivate your relationship with nature could include finding a “sit spot” that you return to several times a year and observe how the plants and animals respond to the changing seasons. Feel how your body responds as well - what sensations or needs are communicated?

When we care for the earth, we are inherently caring for ourselves and the generations that will follow. We breathe in the smoke of wildfires and it becomes us; we seed the scorched earth and it tends to us. By embracing nature as our mentor, we can cultivate harmony within our inner and outer landscapes.

images by Cristina Gareau

Recommended inspiration & information

• Biomimicry, an Operating Manual for Earthlings from the Onbeing podcast. A beautiful and hopeful conversation that brings nature as mentor into a modern context.

• To Build a Home from the Ebinum Brothers dance duo. “We created our movement to tell a story of how nature brings us together, watching the communication of the wind and the water including the trees, watching them speak without actually speaking, that's what we wanted to create with our movement.”

• What our grief for Jasper tells us about our love for the natural world from the Narwhal. A look at how our collective awe of nature is universally human and bridges ideological divides.

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夏三 此謂蕃秀 月 | [The] three months [of] summer [are] called prolific blooming (fánxiù).

夜臥早起 | Retire late [in the] evening [and] rise early [in the morning].

使氣得泄若所愛在外 | Allow [your] qì to pour [forth as if expressing your] love (ài) [to the world around you].

- Yellow Emperor's Inner Classic, Plain Questions (黃帝內經, 素問), Translation by Derek Steel, R.TCMP

Summer is the season of yang’s utmost expression - it is the expansiveness at the top of a breath, the brightness of the full moon, the generosity in a warm embrace. The still heat reverberates with the sound of laughter across cool water bodies. An abundance of social connection sparks joy and stirs warmth in the heart.

Fruits alchemize their sweetness in the sun, squash flowers cheerfully signal pollinators, and vines overwhelm their trellises. Gardens are lush with green and parched with yellow.

Changes in seasons remind us of our humanness - we intricately respond to and relate with shifts in our natural environment. When an imbalance is present within ourselves, or when there are extremes in the environment, these transitions are more difficult.

Eating seasonally, and with an understanding of our own constitution, supports us in harmonizing our internal landscape with the climatic influences that surround us. Fortunately, many of these practices are felt intuitively. When embodied, we reach for the foods that will nourish and balance us. Juicy watermelons, lemonade stands, and tomato salads instinctually draw us in for refreshment. Culinary traditions in equatorial regions use spicy, pungent foods to promote sweating, pushing internal heat out to the surface and cooling the skin. What food wisdom is practiced in your own ancestral or cultural lineages?

Summer is the time where more raw foods can be introduced in moderation. To get the most nourishment, continue to cook most foods, as summer heat combined with too much cold food weakens digestion. Lightly cooking foods by grilling, steaming, or sautéing is most appropriate for summer. Enjoy the variety of foods that the harvest season has to offer, picnic in a cool breeze, and share with good company!

Foods that Nourish Yin and Clear Heat

Yin has a cooling nature when opposed with Yang which is warming. Keep in mind that the most nourishing foods will be those that stimulate our appetite and are eaten when feeling calm and rested.

Herbs

• Marjoram, Peppermint (Spearmint is warming), Chrysanthemum*

Fruits + Vegetables

• Almost all Fruits are cooling, including Tomatoes!

• Broccoli, Cauliflower, Chinese Napa Cabbage, Cucumber, Eggplant, Lettuce, Potato, Radicchio, Radish, Romaine, Snow Peas, Spinach, Sprouts, Summer Squash, Swiss Chard, Watercress

• Juicing increases the cooling quality of fruits + vegetables

• Rinds & Seeds of citrus balance the more cooling quality of the juice

Grains + Legumes

• Barley (commonly made into tea to cool summer heat), Millet, Wild Rice, Wheat, Blue Corn

• Mung Bean, Great White Northern Bean, Aduki Bean, Lima Bean, Soybean

Other

• Seaweeds

• Tofu

• Scallop, Crab, Clam, Snails

• Green Tea (warm Green Tea will be more cooling than Iced Coffee - coffee is bitter and warming)

Remember: Cold in temperature does not equal cold in nature. Keep your digestive organs happy (and also savour that ice cream from time to time ;)).

Summer Pea + Mint Soup

Plan summer adventures with friends as you shell peas on the front porch. This soup can be served chilled or warm*. Recipe adapted from Together at SoBo by Chef Lisa Ahier.

Serves 6

Ingredients:

• A glug of olive oil

• 6-8 cups veggie stock**

• 2 lbs shelled fresh English peas (or frozen)

• 2 cups summer squash, diced

• 1 small leek, sliced

• 2 stalks celery, diced

• 1-2 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

• Salt + pepper to taste

• 1/2 cup heavy cream (or coconut milk)

• 1 cup fresh mint leaves

• 1/2 cup fresh parsley leaves

• 1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

• A pinch of red chilli flakes

• Garnish suggestions: lemon zest, thinly sliced radishes, chives, edible flowers

Method:

1. Add the olive oil, leek, celery, summer squash, garlic, salt and pepper to a large pot. Sauté until cooked, but not browned, about 15 minutes.

2. Add 6 cups of the stock, reserving 2 cups, and bring to a boil.

3. Add the peas and boil for about 2-4 minutes.

4. Add the cream and simmer for a few more minutes.

5. Take off the heat and let cool.

6. Once cooled, add the mint, parsley, red chilli flakes and lemon juice. Use a blender to reach a smooth consistency, adding the remaining stock as needed.

7. Chill in the fridge for 2 to 4 hours. Taste and adjust seasoning.

8. Add your choice of garnishes. Bon appétit!

*Serving the soup warm might be preferable if you have a tendency to feel cold or have weak digestion.

**If you are making the veggie stock at home, add some of the pea pods from your shelled peas.

I put my garden to bed this week. Laying a sheath of wet, rotting leaves across the soil to protect the earth below from pounding rains and penetrating cold. The mulch preserves the integrity of the soil beneath while contributing nutrients that will invigorate the dormant seeds below when Spring warmth returns.

In Chinese Medicine, Winter is where we find ourselves at the most yin expression of the seasons. It is the stillness that is felt at the bottom of an exhale before we take our next breath, the placidity of an undisturbed pond. Whereas the exuberance of Summer tingles at the surface of our skin, Winter contracts inwards to the depth of our bones. A perceptible pause, a silence insulated by the snow, a time to pose questions without answers.

This inward movement can elicit feelings of fear and anxiety, the emotions that resonate most closely with this season. If we think of our ancestors, this fear was very tangible as the dark, cold months ahead posed a threat to survival; concerns that are still imminent for many members of our communities. Many can relate to this fear arising in other ways, as the stillness invites us to interpret, digest, and integrate all that has stirred within us in the past year.

As January begins, enacting new year’s resolutions is the cultural norm - however, if we take the opportunity to embrace the yin nature of the season, we can begin to make meaning of our experiences that have accumulated during this past cycle. Yin encompasses all that is tranquil, receptive, and complete. It is through embodying these qualities that we can nurture the transformative, expansive energy that is engendered by Spring. With this in mind, I encourage you to hold those tender buds of inspiration close to your heart and whisper “be patient, I’m still resting”.

A practice to support you in further exploring the qualities of this season might include spending an evening in candlelight, without artificial lighting or screens. Experiencing the depth of night in a way that would have been familiar to our ancestors illuminates how the comforts of modernity - while appreciated - have allowed us to become removed from these seasonal rhythms. Beginning or deepening a meditation practice is a way that we become more empowered to navigate our own inner landscapes with more understanding, compassion and curiosity. Gathering with friends and family brings balance to this introverted time of year and cultivates nourishing relationships. Lastly, practicing a form of creative expression such as journaling, painting or dancing, allows us to sift through our inner experiences and express them outwardly. With that, I’ll leave you with a few prompts to consider for reflection:

• What have I learned in the past year? Which experiences are most important for me to integrate?

• What is this moment in time asking me to pay attention to?

• How can I support myself in receiving inspiration before this next cycle begins? What do I need to let go of to make space for what is to come?

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Of all the Winter vegetables, Cabbage is my favourite. Its flavour is both sweet and pungent and has a slightly warming nature. In Chinese Medicine, cabbage is used to moisten the intestines, heal wounds, and to benefit the skin. In the Winter, I always grab a cabbage at the local farm stand since it can easily be prepared into a variety of delicious meals in a pinch.

Steamed, roasted or raw - just add some butter, lemon, salt and pepper + a whole grain of your choice and you have a hearty Winter meal. Here is a recipe for a comforting cabbage soup that I prepare when I’ve found myself staring at a near empty fridge after a long day at school. It can be enjoyed on its own or with a thick slice of sourdough bread.

Image: Cristina Gareau

Recommended inspiration and information

What I’m reading/listening to/watching these days:

• Weaving Sundown in a Scarlet Light: Fifty Poems for Fifty Years by Joy Harjo. I was introduced to Joy Harjo a few years ago by my meditation teacher, Natalie Rousseau. Her well-known poem ‘She had some Horses’ resonated deeply with me as it describes the complexity of the inner human experience - something that we are brought into even more intimacy with in the depths of Winter. ‘Skeleton of Winter’ is another favourite of mine and you can listen to it here.

• Interstitium from RadioLab. This podcast episode introduces us to the ‘recent’ discovery of the interstitium, a vast network of fluid channels inside the tissues around our organs. Chinese medicine practitioners have been using this foundational understanding of human physiology for thousands of years to inform the channel-based method of acupuncture treatments. This new understanding from a Western medicine lens may help bridge the gap between ancient and modern medicine.

• Bear. A controversial novel by Canadian Author Marian Engel published in 1976 that won the Governor General’s award. Engel tells the story of a young archivist, sent to northern Ontario, where she enters into a spiritual and sexual relationship with a bear. Bear brims with themes of femininity, escapism, and solitude that mirror this season so well.

Learning Traditional Chinese Medicine… It feels like I’m being given the framing and tools to comprehend something that I didn’t know before, but know to be true. We view the world through a filter that’s been woven from our experiences; the time, place, and cultures that we were born into are guiding ropes of this tapestry, with many other connecting threads adding complexity to the design. 

To learn something that skews your worldview so drastically takes a beginner’s mind - a willingness and openness to accept new ideas without allowing them to be coloured by preconceptions. Understanding the cultural and historical contexts that shape our assumptions about truth helps us recognize barriers to accepting knowledge generated differently. With this recognition, we can build our capacity to hold multiple perspectives as valid.

To be so quiet that you can feel the rhythms of nature. This is what ancient Chinese physicians would do: sit, observe the seasons as they passed, feel the patterns of motion within their own bodies, those that arise in health, and those that arise in disease. The cultivation of this medicine over thousands of years has amassed a body of knowledge that is so vast and varied, I know that I’ll be continuously satiating my curiosities for the coming decades. These writings will be my attempts to share a glimmer of these teachings with loved ones and community.

Late Summer

I’m starting to notice the subtle shifts, the turning over as we continue the descent from summer solstice into shorter days and cooler nights. In the Chinese calendar, August 8th marks the beginning of Autumn (Li Qiu). Leaves begin to wither, yellow and fall while seed pods become plump with stored vitality. Fruits ripen in a warm sun that is slowly finding its way closer to the horizon. Where rain has returned, the earth is damp and sweet.

In Victoria, the recent days of cloud cover are giving much needed respite to the garden as I sow the last of the seeds for winter crops. Traditional Chinese Medicine arose within an agrarian society that was deeply connected and reliant on seasonal changes and climatic patterns for survival and prosperity. Late summer is a time of harvesting, saving seeds, and preserving foods for winter. In the same way, it’s also a time when we can begin to gather inward our own resources that we have received from the abundance of summer.

It’s not uncommon for people to feel melancholic at this time of year as we feel the slow approach of winter. Grieving the joy and elation that peak summer provides, the warmth of the sun and long, lingering light. Grief is the emotion that resonates most strongly with Autumn, it is associated with the Lungs & the Large Intestine organs, the sound of sobbing, and the ability to let go and shed what is no longer needed.

In our culture, there is a tendency towards favouring the expansive and dispersive energy of summer over the contractive and consolidating stillness that the darker months bring. Getting curious about how the shifts in seasons affect our own minds, bodies, and emotions - in ways we may find challenging or ways we may embrace - can support us in cultivating compassion for these ebbs and flows that are inherent in a healthy and resilient system.

Practices to feel into this season of late summer may include gentle clearing out of clutter in our home spaces, preparing to spend more time nesting indoors as the weather cools. There can be a tendency to try to ‘get the most’ out of the last bit of summer, even if we are feeling burnout and over-saturated with socializing. If you are feeling more introverted, give yourself permission to attune to this, bringing in more discernment to which social gatherings you want to participate in. Enjoy the peak of harvest season from our gardens and local farms. Preserving bountiful crops supports local food systems and gets us more in touch with the food that nourishes us. Spend time in nature and observe the plants and animals - how are they responding to the waning light? (Has the bird's morning song faltered? Are the trees thickening their bark?). Go for a walk at dusk and feel the sinking quality of the sun setting over the horizon. Remembering that - despite the tasks, schedules and societal roles that can overwhelm us - we too, are nature.

Seasonal Nourishment: Slow Roasted Tomatoes

This is a simple way to enjoy and preserve tomatoes that I learned from ma tante (my aunt) Sylvie. I usually make this with roma tomatoes but cherry tomatoes are also delicious (the cooking time will be a bit less and no need to cut them in half).

Cut roma tomatoes lengthwise and deseed. Place on a baking tray with parchment paper, open side up. Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle salt and pepper, and any herbs you enjoy (I love thyme & oregano). Place in the oven at 350°F for about 1.5 hours. If you are using more than one tray, make sure to rotate them part way through. Cook until the tomatoes are no longer watery, but not dry either - there really is no wrong way to do this, the idea is that the tomatoes are concentrating in size and sweetness. My favourite way to eat these is in a salad with fresh tomatoes, basil, and feta cheese (also try them on sourdough, in an omelette, with pasta…). To preserve, portion into freezer-proof bags, squeeze out the air, and freeze.

Recommended inspiration and information

What I’m reading/listening/watching these days:

• Tao of Trauma: A Practitioner's Guide for Integrating Five Element Theory and Trauma Treatment by Alaine D. Duncan. Integrating somatic experiencing and polyvagal theory, Alaine describes how we can use a Five Element lens to restore balance within a system that has become deregulated by traumatic stress.

• The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down: A Hmong child, her American doctors, and the collision of two cultures by Anne Fadiman. Exquisitely written. This account of a Hmong family's experience with the American healthcare system really exemplifies how healthcare and cultural values are so deeply enmeshed.

• Six Seasons: A New Way with Vegetables by Joshua McFadden. This has become my go to for inspiration of seasonal recipes. Also, for those looking to get into preserving Put ‘em Up!: A Comprehensive Home Preserving Guide for the Creative Cook, from Drying and Freezing to Canning and Pickling is a staple on my shelf.

• Who Am I?. A documentary film that follows the career of a Taoist Chinese Medicine practitioner, Dr. Ming Jie Wu, who now lives and practices in the US.