Soul Chamber: Chapter Four - Continued

ONE way was to assist Cassarina in cataloging her collections of foliage and medicinal plants. At times, I would make subtle inquiries in trying to inadvertently coax from her any evidence of a similar experience, but I only was paid with shrugs of indifference and silence. Her interest was of the original motive, the treasures of the jungle, conveyed in her inherent behavior. Alll things in nature are spiritually connected, and that is the divine spirit that embodies us.

The work was monotonous but not unpleasant, though I found being around Cassarina challenging. She was absolutely pragmatic about her ethnobotany collection at the settlement, taking these matters in utmost significance. Cassarina emphasized how important it was for me not to make mistakes, following her instructions explicitly in cataloging the various species. Other than that, she hung back about her intimate appreciations of life.

“You’re more of a ‘nature’ type, rather than a ‘nurture’ type,” I ventured one day to break the dull moments standing in the stuffy hot research tent, pressing leaves between journal pages.

“Rather an off-handed observation, Jules,” Cassarina replied.

“Nature versus nurture, the age old debate.”

“Such matters are for psychological babble.”

“One is scientific dominance of perception, the other is humanistic. Look around you Cassarina. There are people to be observed, their lives following an excited sense of purpose in this out-of-the way corner of the world.”

“Bloody extrinsic theory.”

“Nature mingles in the state of ecstasy, melted into the silence of an even deeper import, the entheogens...”

“Be careful with that!” Cassarina cut me off, deliberately grabbing my wrist for a moment. “Lay them flat first.” I was about to press a page that would crease a leaf.

“Dreams of acquisitions.” I finished my sentence.

I looked at the doctor next to me, realizing that I had scarcely known the importance of the contact between us. Perhaps it was her touch that triggered the actual impression of her leading me to take things as they came. The light of the fact was she didn’t have any idea of what I was thinking. What I sensed was Cassarina joined the expedition based on harder terms, maybe a consequence of things that pushed her convictions to prove self-worth. Maybe it was some kind of truth that I was too stupid to penetrate.

“The relations I am only concerned about are cultures, plants, and diseases derived from phylogenetic foliage where feasible. This is a method of confirming that the plants have biologically active compounds in them. I want to use a much more efficient means to analyze and compare herbal remedies for diseases such as diabetes, diarrhea, and malaria used in traditional cultures.” She never looked up at me while she dictated her thoughts.

One day I tried to make a remarkable portrait of charm for her by telling a few jokes. Unimpressed and a bit miffed, she took a needling stab at my archetypal research of the Lacandones psyche in a querulous declaration that my research was a “frivolous voyeuristic escapade.”

“You can never fully understand human nature through a test tube,” I argued.

“Oh, how insightful, Jules,” she retorted. “Is that what they taught you at Berkeley?”

Cassarina was one to turn her opinion into sledgehammer directness.

“Psychology makes science into the mythical quest for the Holy Grail. Your scientific discipline turns chemistry into alchemy. Psychologists mistake their own shadows as God.”

A tense silence fell between us, but she didn’t let up ribbing me.

“The physical health of a culture is the evidence of its consciousness, not the other way around,” the mistress of wisdom said.

I had become exasperated like a parent tolerating a bickering child, suffering the deluge of her antagonistic badgering.

“Your version is completely forged, Cassarina. It is not so appealing for me to seek the meaning of life in such a manner that follows the constraints of a Draconian mindset, as it is to understand the phenomenology of human nature controlled by time and space,” I said heatedly.

She stood before me with a British stiff upper lip, but I could see the lower one quivering. I took the opportunity to make my strike.

“Look about you, the pestilence of our degenerating society is right here draining these indigenous people of their existence. Is this baseline normal mental health? I believe you’re on your own quest to find the divine cure for corporate pharmacology to patent and profit at the expense of the afflicted masses! You just as well should be exploiting the knowledge of these people for commercial gain, while they pay the price of extinction.” I glared at her.

Cassarina looked pained and disqualified. I had struck upon the very cause for the dwindling numbers of Lacandones remaining alive, putting her at the center of the corruption.

“That’s not true,” Cassarina fiercely riposted.

“It’s a fact,” I said.

“What is the test of truth?” Cassarina furiously said.

“Time,” I quickly replied in retaliation.

“Then so long as we have the test of time, we can see how the puzzle is solved,” she said vociferously, turning and stomping out of our tarpaulin roofed field station as if she preserved her cocksureness. I starred after her, watching the gait of her lissome body tramp off. Her anger made her even more beautiful.

“But will you trust your life journey over to it?” I muttered while resuming my tedious sorting of flora on the table.