Healing: Commerce or Community

“No quiero tu filosofía si no sabes sembrar maiz.”
“I don’t want your philosophy if you don’t know how to grow corn.”

I heard this quote at the album release of “Somos Medicina,” the latest project by the musical artist Chispa. It was a lovely afternoon in Brooklyn. My love and I walked up to the community garden entrance and were greeted by a gate covered by maypop vine with a few fruits; it was the first time that Jimena had ever seen passionfruit outside of Ecuador. When we walked in, the community was alive: young vendors selling art and herbal teas, friends catching up under the shade of trees, abuelas yelling “cuidado” to their grandchildren chasing each other. The stage to our right, set with electric guitars and Colombian tambores. To our left, donation-based, homemade pozole and aguas frescas. And behind that, a garden overflowing with vegetables, fruits, and flowers: tomatoes, okra, tomatillos, kale, gourds, milkweed, and asters. Every inch of soil and plant was the result of community care.

(Image Credit: IG - @aka.chispa)

Jimena had brought me to be inspired by Chispa’s work. “Somos Medicina” was album of songs born from lead singer Julia’s years learning to grow food and medicine. Each song was an ode to the plants they worked with and learned from. One song, in particular, started with this quote: “No quiero tu filosofia si no sabes sembrar maiz.” This wasn’t abstraction, exaggeration, or idealization. Julia had, in fact, learned to grow corn, and not just any corn. Before the concert started, Julia invited their friend to take the stage and share a poem. The young Boricua who came up read a poem in Spanish praising Lenape corn — sehsapsing, if I remember correctly. Again, this was not something abstract. They recited the poem to the very real blue kernels strung around their neck, and they thanked the seeds for teaching them that they too, as a Boricua, have a home here in the North. These two artists did what I had been wanting to do for years: they used their art to encode and express their embodied practices with the land. 

In the anxiety-filled haze of 2020, I started to explore notions of community, healing, and nature. However, these concepts were always in abstract form, mediated through a screen and consumerism, and curated by experts who claimed to know more than us. Mi gente, this was the world of Witchy Instagram. The panic of COVID-19, the desire to reconnect to our Afro-Indigenous roots, and the desperation for healing turned out to be the perfect marketing opportunity for overnight celebrity brujos and brujas. And to be clear, I’m not talking about the true mayores de tradicion, a few of whom earnestly tried to share their wisdom with young people in the digital space. I’m talking about content creators who livestreamed weekly divinations that were then made bite-sized for daily posts with product placement. Content creators who, as their anxious followers grew in number, started their captions with “Beloveds,” continued with a promotion for a workshop (“moon,” “mystery,” or “medicinal”; generally something starting with “m”), then ended with a synchronous flat-rate: $111, $222, or $333. Content creators who would reaffirm to their followers:

“If you are listening, you were meant to hear this message.”
“This is the universe telling you yes.”
“Release what no longer serves you.”

And I bought into it hook, line, and sinker. I watched endless videos of Instagram witches and wizards divining about the state of our spirits and communities. I ordered $20 dollar, 4oz bottles of agua florida, moon elixirs, palo santo, and herbal bundles for protection, and I watched  weekly tarot readings for good measure. All of this was, in my mind, going against the white supremacist, colonial system that had pathologized and criminalized these practices. I was going back to the root of things. Yet, in many ways, I was just replicating that system in a new form. What happens to Afro-Indigenous healing practices when they are mediated by profit-driven, data-mining tech companies? Or when practitioners are seduced by the promise of alternative incomes driven by social media virality? Rooted, relational practices turn into abstracted, distorted products designed to keep us engaged and consuming.

I played into this myself, too. When I began teaching bomba workshops in 2022, I would make big, lofty claims about how the “rhythm of the drum connects us to the rhythm of nature.” By playing drums together, I said, we could connect to the Earth as our ancestors once did. I remember doing this, specifically, at Rabbit Hole Farms in Newark. At the end of my community workshops, after participants had learned basic rhythms, played, and sang together, one of the farm’s founders would ask me, “Do you need any herbs or food?” She would proceed to give me bags of stinging nettles, cucumbers, and lemon balm to bring home to my wife. After a few years facilitating “healing” drumming workshops in this space, I began to ask myself, “Who really has the medicine here?”

Rabbit Hole Farms was founded by Arelys and Keven, a Newark couple who sought to create a greenspace in the middle of the city for themselves and their community. In 2012, through the city’s “adopt-a-lot” program, they took an empty, garbage-filled lot and began a thirteen year project of turning it into an oasis. Year by year, they added raised beds, mulch, compost, native trees and perennials, and more. It was a long and difficult journey, but it was well worth it. Today, the space is completely transformed. Anyone stopping by is blessed by the space: by the pecan trees, by the pawpaw fruits, by the diverse range of pollinators, by the elderberries, by the bittermelons, by the milkweeds. Visitors could find healing in the site-grown herbal medicines in the small apothecary; in the abundance of herbs, flowers, fruits, and trees; or in the simple joy of sharing time with people there.

To me, Arelys and Keven are true practitioners of healing, not only because of their botanical ability but also because of the relational nature of their practice. In his essay “Kinship with the World” from his book Spirit and Reason, renowned Sioux activist and scholar Vine Deloria Jr. writes,

For the most part Indians do not “deal with” or “love” nature. In the Western European context human experience is separated from the environment. When Indians are told that they “love nature,” they cannot deal with this because nature is not an abstraction to them. 

Indians do not talk about nature as something “out there.” They talk about the immediate environment in which they live. They do not embrace all trees or love all rivers and mountains. What is important is the relationship you have with a particular tree or a particular mountain. (emphasis mine) (p. 223)

(Rabbit Hole Image Credit: IG - @rabbitholefarm)
Arelys's and Keven’s healing practice is not characterized by commerce or abstraction (i.e., “Buy these herbal bundles I arranged from bulk Amazon orders, then say an incantation to Mother Earth”). Instead, their practice is characterized by sustained, dedicated relationship to a specific land. Their practice is anything but escapist; they commit themselves to the growth and care of their land and plants, consciously choosing to face the difficulties that this endeavor brings.

The other aspect of their healing power comes from their relationship not only with the land but with their community. In his book Healing the Mind Through the Power of Story: The Promise of Narrative Psychiatry, Olglala Lakota author and psychiatrist Dr. Lewis Mehl-Madrona debunks the notion of the all-powerful “shaman” and, instead, emphasizes the power of community:

I suspect that the mainstream media miss the importance of community and focus on the idea of the powerful, individual healer as a result of the pervasive individualistic paradigms and the contemporary preferences of mainstream Euro-American culture to find quick fixes and answers outside of ourselves. Hollywood movies about Native people and traditional healers frequently contain scenes of a mysterious “medicine man” or “shaman” shaking his rattle over someone and chanting, after which that person is instantaneously cured. Alternately, they focus on a magic potion which only the healer knows how to concoct from an exotic plant that only grows in a very difficult place to reach. But the most powerful ceremonies I have attended have been with groups who had been doing ceremony together regularly for many years, regardless of who their leader was. Communities are more powerful than individuals -- a consistent lesson from indigenous cultures. (emphasis mine) (p.256)

In the thirteen years of running Rabbit Hole Farms, Arelys and Keven have never portrayed themselves as either special healers nor farming experts. Instead, they have maintained a consistent message that healing comes through community-building and communal learning. Arelys and Kevin didn’t have any expert training or experience in creating an urban garden. They had an inner desire to create deeper relationship with nature in the city, and they learned how to do it alongside their community, little by little over time. This was where true healing came from: no abstractions, no commerce, no experts. Just the sincere and sustained efforts of a community dedicated to the land and each other. Throughout my years working with Arelys and Keven, I became more discerning in my understanding of healing, and I began to seek another path.

This year, I experienced healing in a new way: through communal, sustained relationship building with my people and with the land. This took three main forms for me: facilitating a book club, being a member of the New Jersey Bomba Collective, and planting a garden in my backyard. 

I am an avid reader, and when I had Instagram, I would rant on and on about the books I was reading, often just receiving an occasional like or thumbs-up emoji. When I got off of Instagram, I continued reading, but rarely shared ideas with anyone. So this past February, I decided to start the Decolonizing Our Mind Book Club, and we have met once or twice a month since. For me, this has been the long-awaited alternative to social media comment sections: actual, recurring, in-person conversation about deep social issues. Now, in November, I feel that the group has gotten into a good groove, with 8-10 regular attendees coming each meeting. It’s an opportunity to learn together, question together, and simply gather in an age where societal forces want to keep us apart. Sometimes we go off the rails in our conversations. Sometimes only a handful of people show up, but it’s worth it, regardless.

(Book Club Image Credit: IG @markscribes)

(Image Credit: IG - @aroundthewaymommy)

This year has also been a year of growth for the New Jersey Bomba Collective, as well as for myself. The Collective started informally in 2020, when a handful of us Segunda Quimbamba students wanted to have more consistent bateys to practice and grow together. Our meet-ups were chill and fun as we practiced bomba whenever we had time. In 2023, we became “official” and committed ourselves to make our bateys better. This year, specifically, the Collective has gotten a lot more exposure, and with that has come new issues in communication and organizing. 

At another time, I might have responded to these issues by running away. When I was a child, communication breakdown and toxic dynamics broke up my family, and I was left a gripping fear of conflict. I projected this fear onto all of my relationships, romantic and otherwise. The rhetoric of 2020 Witchy Instagram played into my defense mechanisms perfectly: “Release what no longer serves you.” However, in my marriage, I quickly realized that this mindset was not sustainable. If I always had my finger on the exit button in fear of being hurt, I would never be fully present with my wife to experience the deep, sustained love that I deserved but never saw an example of. So we made a pact. No matter what, we are stuck with each other; instead of running away from each other, we will always work through the issues together. This transformed our marriage and created true, healthy space within our relationship.

Little by little, I have taken this perspective to each other relationship of mine, including those within the New Jersey Bomba Collective. Instead of my previously normal reaction of running from conflict, I chose to face it with my community, grounded in the deep love for each other that undergirded whatever communication issues we may have had. We spoke with each other, expressing our frustrations and concerns while also reaffirming our love for and commitment to one another. Just like in my marriage, we came out stronger for choosing to stay together.

And my garden? A whole big, beautiful mess as well. I planted my tomatoes too close together and produced late bloomers, but I ended up getting around 20 tomatoes. My ajicitos have just set fruit a few weeks ago, after being in the ground for almost six months. My beets produced leaves without bulbs, but my cucumbers gave us our morning juice all throughout the summer. I had one calabaza but seven gourds for shekeres. My uvillas set dozens of late fruit that has still not ripened. My shiittaake mushrooms will take at least another year. And finally, my tobacco produced beautiful leaves that I don’t know how to process.

Abstract philosophies hold no weight in the garden. What do I owe Earth? I owe her a prayer that is more than empty words and escapist idealism. I owe her my hands in the soil. I owe her my mistakes. I owe her a commitment to know her on real terms; I owe her a commitment to know myself on real terms. I need to know that her balance doesn’t always take my selfish desires into account. I need to know all the ways I am a flawed farmer. I owe Earth and myself a true relationship. We also owe this to each other. Because this is how we heal. By trying. By screwing up. By trying again. And by coming together. Over and over and over again. 

And yes, I did grow corn this year. Can I say I know how to? Not yet. But we’re getting there. One seed at a time.

(Garden Image Credits: IG - @la_xime_vega)