This is one of those days, one of those posts, where I'm writing just because I have to write. Because I can't just sit here and cry. I missed my VA appointment yesterday. That one was with the psychiatrist, and I missed it because when I woke up I got distracted and forgot what day it was until about half an hour after the appointment was supposed to start. That appointment was at 8am. They only offer "those appointments" (I have no idea what that means) at 8am. Today, I will miss another VA appointment, this one because it conflicts with my son's counseling appointment; both our appointments are at 2pm. I called the VA clinic I go to, and rescheduled both the appointment I missed yesterday, and the one I will miss today. I waited four months to make these appointments, and waited five weeks between scheduling and, well, missing them (and in the midst of those five weeks, the VA changed the appointment times - I found out by showing up for an appointment that wasn't happening at the time I showed up - so the ones I'm missing are not even for times that I scheduled, all because the VA is evil). I'll wait three more weeks for the new appointments, which the VA may or may not reschedule, with or without letting me know. Both of the appointments are just to get referrals for other doctors. And all I want are refills. I'm not coping well. It all seems so fucking hopeless.

I just want to not be sick anymore.

Somebody please just make things better, instead of worse. My efforts aren't getting me anywhere. 

in an alley in Bisbee, Arizona

This was written on 14 June 2013.

In an alley in Bisbee, there’s a coffee stand, a woman who sells hand-painted silk scarves, and a metalsmith who sells the most amazing jewelry of precious metals and stones. This is Peddler’s Alley. Seth runs the coffee stand, giving out free espressos and selling bags of coffee beans. June sells her scarves. Autumn is the metalsmith. Trez, the hotel manager from across the street, likes to hang out and drink coffee in the alley. When the guests are all settled in for the night, she joins us for a beer or some of Seth’s whiskey. Sometimes Belle and Patty come over from the cafe next to the hotel. The Honey Man, Reed – he makes our local honey – comes to get some free espresso from Seth and chat with the rest of the alley. I’m there, too, but I’m not usually a productive member of our little alley-family. Sometimes I do oracle readings, which are like tarot readings but less complicated, for whoever wants one. That’s my contribution.

Today, we had dinner together. The cafe was getting ready to close for the day. It had been a slow day, so they had an entire quiche left over. Seth bought the quiche and a pitcher of ice tea. Belle, Seth, and I handed out the ice teas in the alley. Patty heated up the quiche and brought it across the street to the alley. I cut and served the quiche, while Patty and Belle went back to clean up the cafe.

The conversation went like this –

June: Cut small pieces, Katy. We just ate a bunch of this (gesturing to a lidded pot).

Katy: Sure thing.

Seth: Oh you need – (reaches for a roll of paper towels) – something to put that on.

Katy: Nope, Patty brought us wax paper.

Seth (not hearing, handing over a paper towel): Here –

Katy: No need hon, I got this covered. (Winks.)

June: Yeah Seth, she’s got this covered.

Katy (to Seth): Thank you sweetheart. You’re awesome. (Takes the offered paper towel; passes the first piece of quiche to June.)

June: No, give that to her. (Pointing to a tourist who was looking forlornly at the nearby, but closed, restaurant.)

Katy (to the tourist): Would you like some quiche?

Tourist: Oh, no thanks, we have to eat dinner in an hour, so...

Katy: (Shrugs.) Ok, your loss. Here Trez, this is for you. (Handing quiche slice to Trez.)

Random local person who happened to stop by right then: Haha!

Trez: Thanks!

Reed: Hey, lemme try some of that quiche. That looks good... Oh man, that’s rich. Who made that?

Katy: Patty.

Reed: That’s delicious. I have to take home some of that for the old lady. Can I take some home?

Seth: Sure – that’s what it’s there for.

Customers came and went; some joined our conversations, some shrugged us off. Most of them got espresso from Seth.

Trez: Maybe that’s my guests – (runs across the street, just ahead of a couple tourists carrying luggage; she disappears into the hotel).

(June nods sagely.)

Seth: I’m thinking about going to upstate New York.

Katy: Really? What part?

Seth: Upstate.

Katy: Where in upstate? I’m from there.

Seth: Finger Lakes.

Katy: I’m from the Finger Lakes! Where are you going?

Seth: Lake Chitaqua. My dad turned me on to it. There’s this place he goes in the summer, and he lives for it.

Katy: Cool! It’s so beautiful there, especially in the summer.

Seth: I might do an event there.

Katy: Need a helper?

Seth: Maybe –

Katy: Ooo, pick me!

Seth: Yeah!

Katy: So when are we going?

Seth: This summer. I don’t know.

Katy: Well, I have til the end of July.

Seth: Sweet, that’s my time frame.

Katy: So what’s going on at Lake Chitaqua?

Seth told me the story, then, of how he and his father came to terms with each other, just a few years ago. He didn’t like his dad much, growing up, he said, and he moved out quite young. After he moved out, he’d call his dad once in a while, but hated doing so because the conversations were never pleasant. They didn’t argue, or anything like that, but his dad was something of a hypochondriac and would tell Seth that, someday, Seth would have the same health complications he believed himself to be plagued by. Seth felt his dad was trying to bequeath those illnesses to him, and he found himself reluctant to call his dad. He’s say, “Hi Dad, how are you?” Then he’d kick himself for asking, because he dad would respond with a listing of medical misfortunes.

Seth: And I never wanted to go home unless I could do it on my own terms. I pay for everything. If I want to go somewhere with him – last year, I wanted to go to Santa Fe. I called my dad and said, “hey, let’s go to Santa Fe. I’ll send you a plane ticket, you just get on the plane and meet me there. I’ll rent a car at the airport.” And I did. I flew us both in to Albuquerque, rented a car there, and drove us to Santa Fe. And it was great. But I never wanted to make him provide the vacation. I provide the vacation. He just comes along. I like it that way.

A few years ago, his dad called him. While they spoke, Seth realized that the neediness usually so present in his dad’s voice was – gone. His dad told him about going to this retreat at Lake Chitaqua, and how it was a life-changing event. Seth’s dad learned, at the retreat, that in all his life, he had never learned to say “I love you.” Further, he learned that all his life, he had been going to doctors when he needed to feel cared for. Seth’s dad said, “my biggest regret, is that I didn’t do this sooner in my life,” and he wanted very much to share the experience with Seth. After some resistance, Seth agreed to go spend a week with his dad at the retreat at Lake Chitaqua. He stayed an extra week; when it was time to leave, he let his dad go and booked the extra week for himself. This year, he wants to go back.

Seth described the retreat location: hundreds of acres of gated land where no cars were allowed. People would drop off their luggage, then park their cars by the entrance for the week – or weeks – they were staying. They’d walk everywhere – around the lake, to the opera, the theater, the symphony, the lectures. Speakers come from all over the world for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to speak at Lake Chitaqua, and there is a different theme every week. The second week Seth stayed there, the theme was National Geographic: Oceans. They would talk about science all morning, and theology all afternoon, then go to the opera in the evening.

I wondered what the theme was the week Seth’s dad discovered how to say “I love you,” but I didn’t ask. He was telling his story and we were sipping Irish whiskey from his flask. It wasn’t a good time to get interrogative.

At the end of the evening, Autumn has packed up and gone to dinner with her husband, Logan, who came to visit toward the end of the day. June has gone, too, with her rainbow of scarves, and Nicole and Kirsten have parted ways. I tell Seth about the paper I have to write, and how I’m not sure that I’ll be able to, since I’m not around many families at the moment.

Then Kirsten stopped by to see Seth; she and I introduced ourselves to each other. The three of us talked about road trips and motorcycles and cars. Seth pondered how he would drive to New York. Not a direct trip, he said – he wanted to be in each place. He wanted to enjoy every stop on the journey, to have lunch with people who knew his coffee. He has at least 200 customers in every state. Every place he goes, if he gives enough warning, he can meet someone who drinks his coffee and have lunch with them. He wants to meet as many people as he can. He loves people, he says with a smile, and people love coffee. I think he’s right.

Nicole stops by next. I’ve never met her before, either, but she’s familiar, like we’ve seen each other somewhere, somehow. It’s a small town; that’s not surprising. Nicole is full of life, a flower about to burst in a pink velvet dress and brown boots. Nicole and Kirsten talk animatedly about Santa Cruz and Nicole’s latest gig, managing the creation of an art installation at the MOCA, the Museumof Contemporary Art, in Tucson. Her friend Chico had asked her to be part of the team. The piece her team created is called “Chrysalis,” and she talked about all the changes in her life and how the project was so appropriate for this period of her life. She talked about being the only woman, in charge of a group of men, and how that made her want to “do fist pumps every day.” She felt like the butterfly emergent and powerful.

On a whim, I decided to do an oracle reading for Seth. While he entertained customers and Nicole and Kirsten caught up with each other, I shuffled and drew my oracle cards. When the customers departed, I nodded Seth over to my cards and explained the reading to him. The reading helped him make a decision: he’s going on a road trip this summer, north to Colorado, then east to New York. He’s going to sell his coffee at Lake Chitaqua. I’m so proud of him.

Then I notice, for the first time, the beautiful stained glass windows on the second floor of the building across the street. I mention it to Seth. He agrees. We stare at the glass for a moment, slightly inebriated and almost out of whiskey.

"I feel like I'm going to cry," he says.

I ask, "Good cry or bad cry?"

"Good cry."

"Oh, good then."

"I can just feel it. You know, life is so beautiful. It's like how old people's eyes always have that sheen of wetness. Their eyes have seen so much, and it's all there, all that beauty, and there's so much that they're about to burst. They've seen so much beauty. The tears are always just about to fall because life is so beautiful. It's like that."

"That's going in my paper," I say.

"That's cool. It should," he replies.

Normanstops by, seeing Seth and I still there. Norm is one of Seth’s employees. We chat. A kid stops by with a young sparrow on his finger. It can’t fly because some of its flight feathers have been damaged. A cat, maybe, from the looks of the sparrow’s matted downy and torn tail. The kid thinks the bird is “part finch and part sparrow” but the rest of us doubt that very much. He’s looking for food for the little bird, and I recall that I have chia seeds in my kitchen. So I say good night and leave the alley, kid and bird in tow, hoping to write a paper after I feed the bird.

bones' apothecary: agave

I have an agave in my front yard. You'd think a plant in a category called "succulent" would be... I don't know, nicer.

It could double as a guard, if it were just a little closer to the gate. Back before I knew what this cursed plant was (not so long ago), I referred to it as "that stabby plant out front." It's kind of a jerk, with its stabbiness. The sharp points are actually darker than the rest of the plant, so if you're not looking right at them (and are unfamiliar with the plant, as I was), it'll sneak-shank you as you walk by.

Yeah, me and this plant did not start out as friends. And honestly, "friends" is too nice a word for our current working relationship, which mostly involves me leaving That Stabby Plant alone.

Recently (tonight) I learned that pretty much that whole plant is edible. Also, when roasted, the inside of those pulpy leaves (aka, your shank-wielders) tastes like molasses.

You hear that Stabby? I could totally eat you. And revenge shall be sweet. 

Fortunately for Stabby, I don't own this property, and me removing a 7-foot agave that's probably ancient would not go over well with my landlord. So Stabby and I won't be parting ways any time soon.

Unless. Unless Stabby decides to flower.
I've learned all sorts of things about agaves tonight. For instance: most species only flower once in their lifetimes. Once they've flowered, they die; in other words, agaves are semelparous. A few (not the ones my region of the world) can get away with flowering twice before they're done. One gardening blogger recommended being "mean" to your agave plant - not encouraging them to reproduce, by not making their environment ideal. Withhold the pampering - the extra rations of water, the especially fertile soil - and your lovely agave could last decades! I might start fertilizing mine.

Not only out of spite though. No really! These plants are incredibly useful!

The seeds can be ground into flour.
The blossoms can be eaten, though they're bitter if not boiled first.
The flower stalks can be roasted and eaten, or juiced to make pulque - the main ingredient in tequila. I'm pretty sure that means agaves are medicinal.
The leaves can be roasted and eaten (you'll want to remove the husk after roasting, and before consuming).
The fibers from the stalks and leaves can be used in all sorts of things, if you're crafty like that. Weaving, brushes, et cetera.

It takes For Ever for one of these plants to bloom, though. Their common name is "century plant," because it feels  like it takes them a century to bloom, especially if you're waiting for it. Typically they'll bloom much sooner, within 20 years or so. And of course there's variation on that timeline by species. It appears - from my brief internet search - that smaller agaves tend to bloom sooner than larger ones. (Which makes sense - the larger plants spend more energy on somatic development as opposed to reproductive development.)

(Incidentally, the gardener I mentioned above refers specifically to the agave americana variety, which is the most common in the Southwest and probably what I have in my yard. Alternatively, mine might be an agave durangensis, which also appears similar to mine in the web pictures. It's hard to say though. I'm not finding any definitive information to discern the two, or any great pictures. All I can be certain of is that mine is not the striped variety of a. americana.)

 

one version of a. americana

a. durangensis

I've found very little to support any medicinal uses of agave, other than in the production of tequila (which really should not be ignored). There's some mention of agave sap as a disinfectant, but absolutely zero reason to suspect that's true; this is not a reference to the disinfectant properties of tequila, but a claim that the unprocessed sap has disinfectant properties. At best, I would venture that the sugar-like nature of the sap might  have similar preservative properties to other sugars.

As a representative in magical uses, I personally would consider agave an excellent guardian. The rosettes (the radially-oriented cluster of leaves) are fiercely protective of the plant, as are the stalks.  In fact, if you don't handle the dried stalks properly they'll get ya. The plant as a whole makes me think of fire: abundant in it's usefulness, but inherently dangerous and requiring mindful handling.

If you decide to work with the dried stalks, wear gloves. The fibers of the stalks are quite pokey, and they are so fine that it's nearly impossible to see them once they've embedded themselves in your flesh. They make wicked, hair-like splinters. There's one under my fingernail right now that's still working it's way out. I can tell it's still there, because the dried blood around it is still there. Also, it hurts. So wear gloves, and sand that thing down with a very fine grit sand paper. That'll make it better, but it's probably next to impossible to get all the fibers smoothed out, so I also recommend giving your agave stalk some sort of wrap where you plan to grasp it. I have both a wand and a staff made from agave stalks (wild harvested, not from Stabby). They came to me through my ten year old son, who collected them and brought them home as gifts. I used rabbit fur on my staff, but I don't hold it a lot. Leather would probably be better for something you're going to use often. Or any fabric thick enough to tame stray fibers and keep them out of your skin.

This staff is ridiculously tall, and I'll probably end up shortening it a bit. If I do, I'll take some off the top. I really like how the bottom 'bulbs' out and makes a solid base for the whole thing. It's good for grounding.

Notes

By the way, yuccas are part of the agave family, too, but they're a different genus. I'll talk about yuccas separately, and later.


Also, I'm in the market for a good southwest herbalism book. Comment with leads if you have any please!



References

http://www.gardeninggonewild.com/?p=7002 Gardening Gone Wild (blog) by Debra Lee Baldwin, "Uh-oh. My agave's blooming." Appears to have been posted in 2009, but I can't actually find a date for that post (I'm basing my estimate on the dates of the comments).

http://www.succulentguide.com/cactus/?genus=Agave Succulent Guide: Genus Agave. Lots of pictures, but no hard data.

http://www.succulent-plant.com/families/agavaceae.html The Agave Page. Somewhat better pictures and a little more information than the Succulent Guide.

Book: Indian Uses of Desert Plants, by James W. Cornett. 2011. Nature Trails Press. It's more 'glorified pamphlet' than book, but it's a handy little thing to have. It can be found here.



For more information

http://www.allaboutagave.com/ How to make agave nectar (a nice sugar substitute); this is not a step-by-step guide, just an overall explanation.

http://www.ars-grin.gov/cgi-bin/npgs/html/taxon.pl?1690 The US Department of Agriculture weighs in with the taxonomy of agave americana.

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10025868 Apparently agave leaves contain potential skin irritants in their pulp.

a bit of fiction

A bit of fiction, pulled from my dreams last night. 

I have weird dreams.

~

Eggs scrambled with spinach and mushrooms, a little salt. Peaches, sliced. Cottage cheese.

Check, check, and check.

Naylee will give me that face, the one filled with sweet happiness. I turn off the stove and scrape the eggs onto a plate.

A couple forks from the drawer, and -

There she is. Radiant. Bouncing into the room.

“Jorg! Look what I made!” Naylee giggles and holds up a ridiculous… sea slug? “It’s a sweater, obviously.” She’s laughing outright now, unable to even attempt a straight face. I’m grinning back at her, despite being completely confused. The knitted thing is huge, and orange, and when she holds it up that high it blocks my view of her. Still smiling, I let her hand it to me. It could be a sweater, if I had no arms. I’m helpless. Naylee’s smile quiets. “Don’t worry,” she coos, “you can put it with the rest.” Relieved, I toss it to the top of the kitchen cabinets, where a collection of ill-fated knitting projects is accumulating.

“I’ll get the hang of these things one of these days,” Naylee insists. “I don’t know about that orange though. That might be a trim-only sort of color. A little goes a long, long way, ya know. Oooo! Peaches! Hmmm, you must like me an awful lot.”

That’s my Naylee. Teeny Queen of Distraction. My heart thumps. I reach for her waist, and I like the way my hand wraps from one hip to the other.

“Come here.” It comes out of my throat as a growl.

“Oh, scary! You know sexual dimorphism in humans isn’t supposed to be this distinctive, Jorg.”

“Mmmm, I love when you talk dirty to me, Naylee.”

She’s giggling again and just like that, I’m taken. Again and again.

“Hey there big man,” Naylee bats her eyelashes, “are you gonna feed me first or what?”

I pull her close, so gently, and ask her, so softly, if she’s really that hungry. A kiss on her cheek, then her lips.

“Not really, no,” she whispers back.

“I need you,” I admit.

“Oh please,” she laughs.

I had meant it, but that’s okay. I smile and kiss her again and play along. “My princess, my love, you taste like joy.”

I’m rewarded with a new round of giggles and accusations of romantic delusions. She’s right. She always is, she just doesn’t know it yet. I pick her up and kiss her again.

“Oh, you got me!” she squeals and smirks, “whatcha gonna do with me now?”

I carry her across the kitchen and into her gardening room. There’s a couch there, under the big bay windows.

“Naylee, may I?” I whisper in her ear.

“Yes please,” she says.

I set her down and lay myself on the couch. I’m careful - no need to break any more furniture throwing my weight around. When I’m settled, I tug her hand. She straddles me, her knees at my hips, and leans down for more kisses. I catch her again in my arms and hold her as close as I dare. The air around us seems to heat as we kiss. She rubs her body against me, sending hisses of urgency up my spine. Distantly, I feel myself rumbling and I grow stronger against her warmth. I open my eyes to take in this whirlwind of a woman - sometimes I have to see to believe - and a flicker of movement comes from the open room to my left. Releasing Naylee with my left arm, I grasp her tighter with my right and catch the little fucker in my left hand. My grip dwarfs his fist, and I give it a shove, sending him back across the room. Still squeezing Naylee with my right arm, I pull her in closer to that side. She’s taking advantage of my turned head and trailing little kisses along the side of my neck.

“You really need to do something about that,” Naylee says between kisses.

“I know,” I grunt. A blond scrapper of a boy is taking aim for my head again. This time when I catch his fist, I squeeze. First the bones crack - a very satisfying sound - then they crumble, and the boy disintegrates. I sigh. Naylee trails her kisses back up to my face, and I hold her with both arms again. And I’m taken. Again and again.

Organization/metablogging

I've been thinking a lot about how I want to organize this blog as I move forward with it. In January, right before I got sucked into the maelstrom of my last semester, I considered transferring my blog to wordpress. I got everything imported to a wordpress blog and played around with it a bit, trying to decide which I preferred - blogger or wordpress. As it turns out, it doesn't really matter much to me. I like them both. (Admittedly, much of what I like about blogger is that I'm accustomed to it, but that's okay.)

Anyway, here's what I've decided: I'm going to split my blog into two. This one will remain as my personal blog. The wordpress blog will be for my academic writings. I'll link to those here when I post a new one, which probably won't be terribly often. My fiction is getting moved to my website. Links to all this will go up on the sidebar, probably next week. 

See you soon!

Aaaaaaand I'm done!

So you may have noticed my absence; I've been gone for about a semester (timing not a coincidence).

This last semester almost killed me, but I'm graduating today. This evening. Whoa.

I'm still having random anxieties over it. Like, what if somehow my name didn't get added to the list because I didn't fill out form 397A42 five months in advance in triplicate? What if I'm sitting there in front of my family - who are actually showing up (whaaaat?!) - and my name doesn't get called, and I just sit there like a dumbass? And my family's like WTF Bones?

Sigh.

I called the people in charge of the ceremony this morning. I'm on the list, it's all good. No worries.

This just doesn't feel real enough to not go wrong - to not end up being not real.

But really, it is real. Weird.



Anyway.
I have from now until the end of June or so to find some income for my home. Until I do, my tasks for myself are to 1, find a job, and 2, be a writer, and 3, be a painter.

Pictures and writing samples to follow. 

bones' apothecary: arnica

Names that I know of: arnica, arnica montana, leopard's bane, mountain tobacco

I've been using arnica to help with the nerve pain I get in my right wrist. The cause of the pain is similar to  carpal tunnel, combined with arthritis. A Wise Woman I am friends with recommended arnica - one teaspoon in a mug of hot water, like tea, no more than once a day - and it has been working remarkably well. So of course I had to research it a bit.

If you look up arnica on google, you'll come across a lot of warnings about taking it internally, typically with a caveat that it's ok to take the "homeopathic" versions of the plant, which "have no detectable amount of the plant in them and are generally considered safe for internal use when taken according to the directions on the label."

Well, if there's no detectable amount of the herb, then what you're taking is essentially a placebo. At least that's how I figure it. ...I'm not even going to get into placebos right here and now.

So anyway, the available online resources say not to take it internally. The adverse effects that one should expect, if one were to take arnica internally, are harder to find than the warnings. A common refrain goes something like this: "Since arnica is an unproven treatment, there is no clear advice on how to use it. Given its risks, talk to a doctor or pharmacist before taking arnica orally." That is not terribly helpful. Somewhere - I can't find it now, sorry - there was an article which mentioned gastrointestinal distress as a side effect of arnica; I imagine that's part of the toxicity to be wary of, but I have nothing to verify that.

So anyway, here's what I do: I put one dried flower head (which is about a teaspoon's worth) into a tea infuser, and put that in a mug of hot water (just below boiling temperature) and let it steep for a few minutes. Then I take the infuser out, let the water cool a few more minutes, and chug the whole thing.

It doesn't have much of a flavor. Just tastes like someone put a daisy in my water, which isn't a bad flavor, but it isn't good either. I don't think I'd bother trying to make this taste good. It's easier to just drink it quickly.

It might be better to go the recommended route and use arnica externally, directly on the site of injury. Here's a couple salve recipes I found for that sort of thing:

1. http://shalommama.com/arnica

2. http://frugallysustainable.com/2013/06/how-to-make-a-arnica-salve-the-perfect-herbal-sore-muscle-rub/


Please don't construe anything I say here as medical advice. I'm totally unqualified for that sort of work. 

image is from "A Modern Herbal"

UPDATE (added 15 May 2014) - through trial and error, I've discovered that for myself and a few of my bravest friends, arnica does not help for pain related to muscle damage, but does help for pain related to nerve damage.

Resources:

A Modern Herbal website (information is from the early 1900s) http://www.botanical.com/botanical/mgmh/a/arnic058.html

Mountain Rose Herb Co. (a supplier) http://www.mountainroseherbs.com/products/arnica-flowers/profile

PubMed articles (actual scientific studies) http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20412090

~


Okay, I just couldn't leave it alone. So here ya go - the homeopathy controversy, in my opinion.

I found an article (a proponent of homeopathy) that summarized their view of the controversy this way: 

• "Homeopathic medicines are diluted to such a degree that skeptics claim the small doses are merely placebos. They argue that, in theory, it is impossible for them to have any therapeutic effect because it cannot be explained how they work. Experienced homeopathic practitioners and patients make the counter-claim that they actually work in practice."

I'm going to ignore the obvious bias, since the author clearly intended to be persuasive, and go straight explaining why I think his "argument" is crap, and why it's analogous to creationists who say evolution is "just a theory." 

The most important bit here is that placebos work in practice. They also work in theory. 

While I just stumbled on this argument this morning, in my search for information on arnica, I can say with complete confidence that no scientist worth their salt would say it's impossible for something to work simply because we don't understand it. Science is, in fact, the pursuit of understanding the things we cannot explain. Placebos are one of those things that we know work (at least sometimes, and at least for some people), but we have lots of competing theories on why they work. Kinda like how we know evolution works, but we're still figuring out all the different mechanisms and applications. 

I would argue - with the article cited above - that it is impossible for the herb in any given homeopathic medication to work, because there is no detectable amount of the herb in the medication! So sure, the medication might work, but it's not the herb doing it. It's something else. The solution perhaps? The placebo effect? Both? No idea. But it's not the herb, because the herb isn't there. 

So, Larry Malerba, D.O., I think you're full of poo. And I think that you - and anyone who spouts this poo - is doing actual herbalists and their seekers a serious disservice. 

And I'm done here.