The Misunderstood Coca Leaf

We are off to visit Peru for ten days and my thoughts return to the letter I wrote to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton in early 2011 about the coca leaf.

http://sue-mcghee.blogspot.com/2011/01/coca-leaf-and-united-nations.html

My views on the coca leaf are somewhat vehement and biased due to my early association with the natives of Bolivia and Peru. Those of us who have traveled to the region are prepared for the availability of the coca leaf – a natural leaf grown extensively in western South America and often imported to the U.S. in order to manufacture cocaine.

But coca is not cocaine. The leaf contains fourteen alkaloids, one of which is cocaine and this single alkaloid represents about 1% of the entire leaf. You need a whole bunch of leaves to extract enough cocaine in order to manufacture the illicit drug, but only by adding other ingredients.

The coca leaf has been a staple of the indigenous culture throughout Peru and Bolivia for centuries – the Quechua and Aymara people , especially those who live in high altitudes chew a kind of quid, called the “acullico” to aid in digestion and combat the high altitude and fatigue; they used it for many other additional ailments too lengthy to list here. When consumed like this or in a hot tea called maté de coca, it is only a mild and harmless stimulant, less harmful some say, than caffeine or nicotine.

In 1961 the coca leaf was placed on the UN’s illicit drug list along with Opium and Heroin. It has never been removed in all these years, even though the World Health Organization and other agencies did the research and clearly found that the coca leaf is not only not a narcotic, but has health benefits that most of us are not privy to.

“In the 1990s, the World Health Organisation presented a report stating the coca leaf did not present any foreseeable health problems. In 2006, it released a further report, which identified the ability of the coca leaf to suppress appetite and increase endurance, as well as recognising the leaf’s historic use “for the relief of gastrointestinal problems and respiratory ailments and treatment of altitude sickness”. According to a 1975 Harvard study, the leaf is rich in phosphorous, calcium, riboflavin, vitamins, and iron.” The Sydney Globist 2012

As a child living in Bolivia, I was surrounded by native people who chewed the leaf. My parents drank the tea and when visiting diplomats arrived, they were served maté de coca to counter the effects of “soroche,” the high altitude sickness for which many visitors are unprepared.

This is not intended as a political statement, just a reminder that through an abundance of misinformation and deliberate lies, facts can be overlooked or thrown to the wind. The real truth is that the coca leaf is beneficial to all of us if used with moderation and intelligence. Grapes are not wine and barley is not whiskey. The poppy seed is not opium and coca is not cocaine.

Perhaps it is time for the "eagle to join with the condor;" perhaps it is time to learn from each other and respect one another’s rights to live our lives with respect, maintaining our dignity and traditions. If we learn to respect ancient tradition, perhaps then we can heal the rifts between the U. S. and left-leaning countries such as Bolivia and Venezuela. We cannot expect the entire world to follow our principles in governing and tradition, but that should not mean we can't get along; why can't we respect that?

See "When the Eagle Flies with the Condor," @ http://www.suemcghee.com/

See my interview with Unusual Historicals along with excerpt from my novel, "When the Eagle Flies with the Condor, a novel of the Sixties"

Check out an excerpt from my novel, When the Eagle Flies with the Condor on Unusual Historicals:   

http://unusualhistoricals.blogspot.com/2012/02/excerpt-thursday-when-eagle-flies-with.html

...and the interview published February 19, 2012 @

http://unusualhistoricals.blogspot.com/2012/02/guest-blog-sue-mcghee.html

The Artist - a review

Yesterday was movie day, the first in many weeks.  We tried to get in to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy with Gary Oldman, a favorite and underrated actor in my opinion but were too late.  The Artist was showing in only ten minutes so we hurried to get our seats in the small art theatre down town.

Since I had no idea what to expect, not having read reviews, I was swept up in this film about the late twenties and early thirties Hollywood silent film era in just one scene, George Valentin taking two or three too many bows on stage with his dog, Uggie, after the showing of his hugely successful silent movie.

The was, I suppose, the first silent movie ever made in our lives; those of us who were born after the twenties and it was delightful.  Delightfully performed, delightfully scored, delightfully danced and delightfully mimed.

The Still Point - a reprise

As Yoga practitioners, we concern ourselves with the rhythm of breath; we try to slow it down and concentrate on the pauses between inhalation and exhalation. We recognize the moments of rest between asanas, those temporal pauses that give Yoga the spiritual component you don’t (always) get from running the treadmill. In Zen this moment of consciousness is called the “center,” or mindfulness; in Hinduism, a slice of Nirvana, in sculpture it is called “negative space,” and in the poetry of T. S. Eliot, it is known as the Still Point:

"At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time."

Burnt Norton – II The Four Quartets

Still more to the "point" is:

"Trace the gold sun about the whitened sky

Without evasion by a single metaphor,

Look at it in its essential barrenness

And say this, this is the centre that I seek. . .”
Credences of Summer by Wallace Stevens:

I’ve spent a good deal of time studying the Still Point in my life and I think I can now define it:  it is simply, being -- being to the nth degree. It is the quietude that heals and exalts, a moment of contemplation, the solace we get from meditation or prayer, a walk in the woods, a respite from the constant monkey talk of our minds. It is the pause , . .

". . . between two waves of the sea. . ."
Little Gidding, T. S. Eliot, Part V.

It's the unknown piece of us that's been missing;  it is the void that seeks to be filled;  it is the ultimate knowing.                                  

(Originally published April, 2010)

End of Year Observance from one Writer to Another

It’s time to reflect. The end of the year is a good time to do that; one’s birthday is even better. Nevertheless, I do a lot of introspection these days. My horoscope said 2011 would be a superb year in which I would have much success in many areas including, publishing, the arts (meaning to me – writing), journalism, job opportunities, increased wealth, love, etc., etc. In fact, I have had some success in those areas but not what I expected when I published my novel earlier this year.

Even though I may have accomplished some of my goals, I feel I've been less than successful in others.  But this is intended as a message of inspiration -- not of disappointment!

You see, one must look at things from a positive perspective. (My son Stephen says, you get more of what you focus on). So, let me recite instead the good things that have happened in my life recently.

I’ve expanded my writing community through the publication of my novel.

I’m averaging 20 or so hits a day on my blog. Not a lot, but growing.

Sales from my book got off to a pretty slow start earlier in the year, but are now picking up.

I was selected (without promoting myself) to become a featured novelist by 5-STAR books and their new website.

I’ve had a few good reviews that I didn’t have to pay for.

I have friends who are there when I need them and are very supportive.

I live in a nice house, and am not picking through trash cans to stay alive.

I’m robust and healthy and full of the “ol’ Nick,” as my husband likes to say.

I have a good man who helps me through the dark times.

My writing has been described as compelling, lucid, graceful, limpid, and thoughtful.

This is certainly progress and yet I want more. 

You see, I’ve been writing since I was twelve, seriously writing. I started when I received a five year diary and believed I would not live to finish it at seventeen. The diary turned into journals, essays, short stories, novels, plays and now blogs. 

I make myself remember the history behind Karl Marlantes’ novel, “Matterhorn, a novel of the Vietnam War.” I love his story because it reflects the victory of the human spirit over rejection upon rejection. Here is a veteran who came home from war in the early seventies, began writing a novel at that time, tried to get published, was rejected, tried again, put it in the drawer, dragged it out a year or so later, submitted again, and was still rejected. His novel was finally published by Atlantic Press in 2010. That’s something like 35 years, folks.

I decided not to wait that long and have gone the "Indie" route. But I believe in the tireless perseverance of people like Marlantes who have the faith in themselves and in their talent to keep at it -- those of you who are still trying to go through the agent-publisher-rejection routine.  I wish you nothing but  success and a good financial advisor.

As for me, I'm a hard woman to keep down.  I will never stop writing for long, and I, like many of you, have an agenda of projects that are as long as my arm.  In fact, just writing about it here and now, inspires me to sit down tomorrow and begin my next novel.  I have a spunky protagonist who wants to be heard and the conflict is as weird and whacky as I am and maybe a little complicated, too.  I like that.

For better or worse, we are writers who don't just talk about it.  We follow the voices wherever they may take us and we learn from them -- the sometimes weird, quirky characters that rise up out of our imaginations and clarify who we are. These people make sense out of a sometimes non-sensical existence.  They keep me sane even if they are in-sane.  I love them and I miss them and I can't live without them.

Because of that, I can never stop writing and neither can you.  That is the one thing we can never do. That would be anathema to everything we are.
 
So, here's wishing us all a very happy and busy new year, filled with writing, learning, good conversations with interesting people at the coffee shop or in our minds and in keeping our focus and our faith.   

Ciao for now, Sue McGhee

The Hunt

It was the annual harvest ritual, replete with rites of initiation and blood sacrifice. They flew out from Florida every November except the year his mother died and stayed with Uncle Roy and Aunt Mathilda and their two sons in Longmont, Colorado. Usually there was snow, deep and feathery and difficult to walk in. Adrian and his cousins learned to lift their legs high out of the powder and chase one another, their knees pumping like pistons, and then fall back in the soft snow to flap their arms producing angels’ wings.

They learned to track, silently and respectfully, trying to think like the animal they hunted. After hours of shivering behind a blind of bark, they were cold and stiff but they also ached with excitement, waiting for the chosen one to appear. Adrian mostly remembered the hush, holy and mystical. It was as though the meadow were a sacred place, filled with green-tinted snow to commemorate a tradition of lush foliage. It shimmered like a fairy land and even the tiniest twig of the smallest bush twinkled its own special message from individual shrouds of ice: hush, hush, you raucous boys. You trespassers from an alien world.  The snow itself muffled their human sounds and softened their other-world intentions.

He had loved the stillness but he had not loved the kill; the gutting of the still warm, quivering animal as the life force escaped in steam into the frigid air; the roping of the carcass across camper top and the driving home to grateful and admiring women undermined by the fury of his sister: it's murder she had said.  It's tradition, he answered. But he couldn't say more because he was unsure himself.

He hadn't liked the killing and his father had not insisted on his liking it, but he had made him go along to learn about it.  It wasn't just a sport, he father said. It was a necessary skill on the approach towards manhood. One must know how to survive the wilderness if one is to be a complete human being -- a man. But he was adamantly opposed to reckless killing and killing of the young. Hunting was a noble endeavor—a contest between man and beast in the animals’ own domain; it is man against nature—a ritual contest whose roots lay within man’s deepest racial memory.  Man should not be against Nature, his sister had countered, he should be a part of it. His father continued that when the odds become unbalanced, the integrity is diffused and it becomes an ego trip amounting to slaughter.

Adrian still remembered the late night camaraderie  around a wood fire and how he shivered close to his father absorbing the inevitable ghost stories, fishing tales and glorifications of the hunt until late hours. And finally, with the smoke from the campfire captured in his hair, he would stumble off to bed, snuggling inside his mummy bag, shivering naked within, until he and the bag became one huge mound of well-fed flesh, and he slept.  He had awakened to the sizzle and sound of bacon frying, the flames of the campfire whipping in the raw winds whistling down the mountains, and to the ubiquitous aroma of coffee boiling up into a thick, black liquid into which his father had ultimately dropped all of the egg shells, in order to clear it up and make it potable.



Pablo Neruda

Almost Christmastime! Merry Christmas to all.

While I was writing my novel, "When the Eagle Flies with the Condor, I had the opportunity to research Pablo Neruda, who was, more than likely, the favorite poet of Che Guevara, a real-life/fictional character in my book.

Neruda said:

"On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished.  That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordineary family of humanity."

I say, that without poetry, without literature, without any ot the arts, man is bereft of that special magic which makes him god-like.  Neruda and most poets, whether they are painters, musicians, actors or writers know that like bread, poetry--the arts--feeds us and thus we become remarkable.