Honoring Bajrabarahi: Truth, Medicine, and Connection

Walking down to the Bajrabarahi Temple, I realized I hadn’t brought water. But the river runs right there, and maybe that’s why she “fell” from her original place up the hill, where there is an old well that has dried up. Perhaps she wanted to be near the water. As I cupped my hands, I thought to bring some water to her, yet remembered to first offer some to Ganesh (or perhaps Vinayaki, his feminine counterpart), asking them to remove any obstacles blocking me from being my best self. Then I poured the water on Bajrabarahi and the other gods or goddesses (who I believe to be the Ashtamatrikyas but am still finding my way through understanding all of the complexities with this temple). I left the usual chocolate offering (in this case, dark chocolate-covered almonds), hoping that she likes the occasional dessert item. Bajrabarahi once told me, “You will never regret being wild.” So, I like to think she embraces a break from the usual rules.

Up on the top of the hill, by the old well, they’re building a statue for her, a symbol that stirs mixed feelings in me. It seems that symbols can guide us, and they can also deceive us, tempting us to lose our way. In Chinese medicine, there’s a concept that mirrors this balancing act—Jing Qi Shen 精氣神—a triad that reflects the braided reality of the world we live in. Each element—Jing, Qi, and Shen—offers its own density or essence, bridging the physical and spiritual.

Jing 精 is essence, tangible and material, like rice. It’s what we see and touch, that which we work with daily, producing simple things like steamed rice or complex creations like rice alcohol.

Shen 神, often translated as “spirit” or “mind,” is intangible, yet powerful. It is what Bajrabarahi absorbs from our offerings—the unseen, our intentions, fears, and prayers, something that can’t be touched but profoundly affects the material world.

Qi 氣 is what binds them, the bridge between seen and unseen, like steam rising from rice—present, yet elusive. It’s both noun and verb, the connection between tangible and intangible.

As I think about Bajrabarahi, I’m reminded that finding truth is a dance within these essences. Truth extends beyond what we can see and measure; it's something that can be felt, intuited, and deeply experienced without necessarily being quantifiable. In the same way, love, trust, and connection between people are powerful truths that shape lives, yet they're not something we can measure with numbers or capture with empirical data. We can see signs of love—actions, words, body language—but love itself isn't an object; it's a felt presence, a binding force that exists in the spaces between people.

This is also true of the land we inhabit, which is more than soil and rock; it holds memory, history, and spirit, and people interact with it not just as a resource but as a living presence that guides and teaches. This truth can't be fully captured by measurements of mineral content or GPS coordinates; it's understood relationally, through stories and ceremonies, and passed down through generations.

The Greco-Roman focus on linearity and quantifiable data seems to be so integrated into mainstream medical culture. It’s clear that these ways of understanding the world are also taking over within Western countries, including the US acupuncture model as well. This reduces complex bodies to separate parts and speaks about the body as a machine. While that machine-metaphor can be useful in helping us to understand some aspects of the functionality of the body, leaning into it too strongly can reduce our ability to practice the best medicine that we can.

As Gil Hedley says,

“Rather than thinking of the body as a bunch of parts to be analyzed and dissected, we can learn to appreciate it as an interconnected web of tissues, as a sacred whole… It’s not just muscles and bones but an experience, a feeling, a history—a presence of who we are.”

Here in Nepal, we check vitals, screen for diabetes, and assess respiratory health, yet the work also brings a human element that we must not lose sight of. Each data point must be woven into the context of a larger, interconnected health story. A high blood glucose level might lead to a discussion on diet, which could connect to socioeconomic factors or cultural practices around food. It’s an opportunity to see patients not as isolated data points but as whole people, with histories and habits shaped by their environments and communities.

We have an opportunity to embrace Qi and Shen alongside Jing. This work allows us to honor the unseen elements that weave through our lives. Engaging across these disciplines, while working within an increasingly materialist system, feels essential yet challenging.

If we wish to address broader crises—climate change, political unrest, the survival of uncontacted people, and all other beings we share this world with—we must honor Qi and Shen as much as Jing. We need to allow these living stories to unfold. For me, this practice of balance begins at Bajrabarahi’s temple, where I find a moment of reverence and surrender, opening myself to something greater and timeless—a balance I strive to bring into my daily life and work. In her presence, I feel the possibility of dissolving untruths, stepping beyond fears, and embracing the wisdom of interconnectedness. Honoring these truths is a sacred act, a way of remaining open to life’s wild heart and the continuous dance between seen and unseen.