Episode 01: How I Talk About Acupuncture and Healing

Welcome to Cara’s podcast!

In this introductory episode of Roots & Points: Understanding Acupuncture Medicine, we’ll talk about language, ancestral qi, and healing relationships as we navigate meaning in medicine.

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View this episode’s full transcript:

Hey friends, I'm your host, Cara Mafuta Raboteau from Acupuncture In Motion, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Welcome to the first episode of my podcast, Roots and Points: Understanding Acupuncture Medicine! And happy Full Flower Moon.

Recently in conversation with a friend, I was asked how I like to talk about healing practice, and what might be at work beyond two people in a healing exchange, which reminded me that I've been meaning to start an acupuncture podcast, but have felt stuck. I didn't realize until being asked that question, that part of my block has been that I often feel excitement, and inspiration, but also tension, and discomfort with how I talk about healing.

I'm reminded of a day that I experienced these dynamics when a patient walked into my clinic, and when I greeted him, he asked, "Why do y'all talk like that?" I was a little confused by the question, and stammered in reply, "talk like what?" and he repeated, a little jokingly, "why do y'all talk like that? acupuncture people, yoga people, y'all all talk like that.."

I finally realized some of what he meant, and I explained how I was using my "library" voice so as not to disturb other patients who were resting or sleeping," but I could tell my answer didn't fully answer the question.

I felt exposed. Found out. He had picked up on my “work” voice.

I was grateful for this little disruption in my busy routine of going through motions in the treatment space, and how it invited me to pause and reconnect with self energy by having a little fun so as not take myself so seriously so much, even at work.

A couple years later, after the onset of the Covid pandemic, and pivoting my business from home while home-schooling my kids, they'd also invite me to have fun with language, in particular when they’d joke about how my work voice sounded different than my home voice.

(Sidenote to my partner and kids - I will continue to say “on” the way my mama says it, not “ahn.” and “buried” is “buried”, not barried.)

But anyway, I think a lot about how I talk about the work I do, because it's an important part of establishing rapport with each and every patient. There's never a perfect way to talk about traditional Chinese medicine because it has been shaped over the millenia by multiple influences, relationships and nuance. Usually, the medicine lends itself to be conceptualized and spoken about in "both/and" terms, rather than in an "either/or” way. It is many things all the time.

I find myself shifting from referring to it as acupuncture medicine, to Traditional Chinese medicine, to Traditional East Asian medicine, to just plain medicine. When I talk about certain acupuncture and herbal terms that can't be directly translated from Chinese to English, though I try my best, I know that I am saying things incorrectly all the time.

As I'm unpacking how I talk about medicine, I'm also thinking about how language is medicine.. ..or at least it has the potential to be, depending on how it's being used as a medium.

As it is for many, my relationship with language is a bit complicated. Depending on who's speaking, what is being spoken, and the context of conversation, language can be loaded with privilege, or lack thereof, and often both. Language can be hea-vy. It can be fleeting. It can be restrictive. It can be liberating. It can be meaningful and long-lasting, and it can be meaningless and temporary.

In Traditional Chinese medicine, the vital energy of the Kidney - or Kidney qi - is associated with the ears and hearing. Kidney qi is viewed as foundational to the qi of all the other organs of the body, and it's associated with our inherited makeup - our essence - what we inherit from our parents and ancestors.

So, I'm thinking right now about my origins - or, in other words, my yuan qi, my ancestral qi - how I inherited language, and the internal process of reconciling my attempts to get to know my grandparents who spoke different languages than me, and the creative potential that was generated when working to move beyond my limited sense of hearing.

Growing up, I spoke my mother's language, English, and I taught myself a little French, one of my father's languages. Hip hop culture - like other ancestral black art forms such as jazz, blues, and spirituals, to name a few - became a language that me and my peers used and improvised with to understand each other and all the spoken and unspoken contradictions that life in the beautiful, harsh, and quirky late 20th century imposed on us.

My paternal grandfather spoke French, Lingala, and Kikongo - and my paternal grandmother spoke Lingala. I became frustrated and inspired whenever I struggled to understand my grandfather, but we'd manage to get by with French, and nonverbal communication. He was the only person in our large family who spoke the ancient language, Kikongo, so when he died, I not only mourned the loss of him, I also mourned the loss of his knowledge.

But while verbal communication with my grandfather was difficult, it was near impossible with my grandmother. I barely knew any Lingala, but as a creolized Bantu dialect, I could recognize a few French words sprinkled here and there. This limitation offered up an opportunity to find new ways to talk to each other. I discovered a new kind of intimacy and bonding with her - Mama Nsimba, as many called her - as we invented ways to understand each other.

We shared a few verbal words, "mbote," "merci," "nzambe," and my favorite was "koko." This is the root word for both grandmother "mama nkoko,' and grandchild, "nkoko." When we'd see each other, we'd exclaim, “Kokooooo,” kinda like “wazzzzzzuuuuup,” but for us it was “Kokooooo."

What meant the most to me about this sharing was that it established a common ground and mutuality between grandparent and grandchild, and reminded me of the cyclical nature of the lifespan. Though she was my elder and I was her grandchild, sometimes our playful exchanges felt like we were both children.

My nkoko and I developed our own sign language, our own system of facial expressions, gestures, intonations, and laughter that enabled us to get the essence of our point across to one another very effectively.

I have a memory of one exchange with her when I introduced her for the first time to her great-grandchild, my firstborn. It meant the world to me when she saw me feeding my baby and encouraged me - she gestured to her chest, raised her eyebrows, puckered her lips and nodded in approval. As a first-time parent, often feeling clumsy and clueless, I didn't realize until that brief, ordinary, yet meaningful moment, how much I needed acceptance and blessings from an elder.

For me, healing is a language that lives in small shared moments that move beyond how and what we say to each other, to more of the way we are with each other. It is music. It is a dance. The improvisations, the guessing, the correcting, the getting things wrong, the getting things right, the almost getting, the figuring out, and feeling through.

All of these workings are parts of the language of living in a universe that, in my mind, is infinitely shape-shifting, making, and re-making.

Thanks for listening. Stay tuned for the next episode of Roots and Points coming soon. If you’re interested in trying acupuncture medicine, contact your local licensed practitioner. Take care.