The Epistemologies of Ancient and Nonindustrial Cultures.
I was now much more interested in how thinking affects behaviour so I shifted my major to transcultural epistemology, the study of how different cultures know. Part of my learning was concerned with the epistemologies of historical and present-day nonindustrial cultures. One observation that has particular relevance for this book stood out strongly: Among widely diverse nonindustrial cultures the members whose specialty was plant medicines, vegetalistas, described their experiences remarkably similarly irrespective of culture, continent, or time. The vast majority (essentially all instances where I have found first-hand accounts) told interviewers that they did not obtain their knowledge of plant medicines from the exercise of reason or through trial and error. They were uniformly consistent in saying that their personal and cultural knowledge of the medicinal actions of plants came from “nonordinary” experiences, specifically: dreams, visions, direct communications from the plant, or sacred beings. I found this uniformity astonishing. The majority of interviewers were also remarkably uniform, in nearly every case: After being told the source of a practitioner’s knowledge, they would immediately denigrate it. It would be ascribed to superstition, or ignorance, or un-Christian barbarism. A very few researchers approached their work without prejudice and simply reported verbatim what they were told. I found a single instance of a researcher recognizing a pattern, but he did not pursue the implications, merely noted that it was “amazing.”
Nearly all scientists insist that indigenous peoples learned the uses of plants through a lengthy trial-and-error process. There is an immediate problem with this assertion, of course: they were not there to observe it. Their assertion is simply an assumption, a guess, though so widely repeated it has taken on the mantle of fact. But let’s look at how that assertion might play out in the real world.
Yarrow (Achillea millefolium) is a pervasive plant throughout the Northern Hemisphere. Historically, nearly everywhere yarrow grows, it has been used as a hemostatic herb: to stop bleeding, especially bleeding caused by wounds. A great many of its traditional names indicate this property: The ancient Roman name herba militaris (soldier’s grass) and the North American Teton Dakota tribal designation tao-pi pezu’ta (medicine for the wounded) being two. The Latin name itself, Achillea millefolium, means “the thousand-leaved plant of Achilles” – who used it to heal men hurt in battle. Even its common name, yarrow, is old English for “spear well” – to make well from spears.
This knowledge of the use of the plant is assumed by scientists to have occurred through trial and error. From a superficial examination this assertion seems to make sense. Each of us has learned through trial and error: Never cut toward yourself with a sharp knife, for instance. But let’s imagine how this might have occurred with yarrow. Imagine a man a very long time ago in a forest (the first man ever to do this, in fact), and he cuts himself and begins to bleed. The cut is a bad one – lots of blood. He decides to put a plant on the wound. I have often wondered at this; it seems a radical decision. Still, he begins to place plants on the wound. He tries some grass. Nothing. Marsh mallow leaves. Nothing. The bleeding is getting worse so he is moving through the forest with greater speed trying this and that. Finally he grabs some yarrow and places it on the wound (first, of course, bruising it so that the juice of the plant liberally enters the wound). The bleeding stops. Yarrow stops bleeding. He tells everyone in his immediate area and knowledge of this plant medicine enters his cultural lore. By a similar process a member of every other culture on Earth makes a similar determination and yarrow enters their cultural lore as well. As far as this goes it can seem to make sense. But let’s extend this exercise a little – to plants of the Artemisia family.
Throughout the world, in addition to other medicinal uses, artemisias are used to ward off negative influences, bad energy. As an example: Melvin Gilmore quotes a Dakota Indian of North America regarding Artemisia ludoviciana that it serves as a “protection againsts maleficent powers; therefore it was always proper to begin any ceremonial by using Artemisia in order to drive away evil influences.”
So, here we have a man in the forest again, perhaps just walking along minding his own business, and he encounters negative influences, maleficent powers. He is quite afraid (as anyone would be) and begins looking for a plant to help. He holds yarrow up toward the negative influence but it fails to work. Grass, nothing. Marsh mallow, no. Cherry leaves – no effect. Panicking now, he rushes through the forest trying more and more plants until, finally at the last minute, he grabs an Artemisia and holds it up toward the negative influence. The negative influence dissipates. Artemisia ward off negative influences. He shares the information and this use of Artemisia enters his people’s cultural lore. By a similar process it enters the knowledge base of all other cultures on Earth.
For trial and error to be the method by which this plant information was gained (and not visions of dreams or talking plants), it must be assumed that negative influences, maleficent powers, exist. Most scientists will not concede they exist, much less that they can be perceived, still less that a plant can ward them off. Yet throughout the world the vast majority of cultures identified this action of Artemisia uniformly.
