In the moment before the needle pricks the skin, time slows and thickens. All I hear is my blood pumping mercilessly in my ears and the rational, earthbound side of my brain screaming at me to bolt, to jerk my leg or arm or foot away.

But just before instinct robs me of my trust in this foreign method of healing, in this acupuncture, I head the nervous impulses off at the synapse pass. I breathe deeply and swallow the heady smell of sandalwood and orchids, dried rhododendron leaves and ginger root. I remember that pain, if experienced at all, will be temporary, while the release of qi in my tangled, blocked up veins will heal me. Before I can even think about exhaling, the needle is tapped in.

I remember my sister being terrified of pins and sewing needles as a kid. I used to chase her around the house with an unhooked safety pin, giggling as she shrieked. I even pricked myself once to show her that it didn't hurt, despite the fleck of blood that welled up out of my broken skin. She never believed me. Now, as I undergo this voluntary pricking, I find myself on the edge of the same hysteria that threw her into such a frenzy.

The panic subsides with each new needle tap. I am immobilized, a pillow propped under my knees, my eyes fixed on the petals of the flower-lined tapestry pinned to the ceiling above. There is no real pain, just the apprehension of pain. My muscles finally relax, my eyes close. A heat lamp warms my bare feet. A needle at the base of my right thumb soothes my sore throat almost immediately. Another, at the top of my head, shoos away bad dreams and dries up my night sweats. I will lay on my back for 30 minutes, palms open, exposed to the sky, floating between sleep and conscious healing.

The first time I tried acupuncture was at Canyon Ranch in Tucson, Arizona. My three-day stay at this bastion of wellness, known for its celebrity clientele, parsimonious meal portions, and spiritual desert hikes, was a birthday gift from my parents. Apparently they thought I needed rejuvenating. Aside from my dad's report that Billy Zane -- the bad guy in "Titanic" -- was naked in the men's locker room, the highlight of my visit to the ranch was a twilight appointment with a licensed acupuncturist and doctor of oriental medicine. It was not something I had planned or sought out. I envisioned my spa vacation filled with facials, massages, and manicures, punctured with an aerobics class or two, plenty of fresh fruit breaks, and ample pool-side lounging.

But the desert does strange things to a person, and after a morning hike into the cactus-strewn canyons of Arizona, my spirit yearned for attention. I had tried, and liked, yoga in college, and meditation was already a favorite pastime of mine, so I opted for acupuncture. I imagined the clink of Buddhist chimes lulling me into a slight sedation that would thwart any discomfort. Besides, I wanted to soothe the chronic pain I'd had in my lower back for the last two years. Neither physical therapy nor regular visits to the chiropractor seemed to help. I was sure a few needles couldn't hurt.

The idea of acupuncture and any accompanying herbal treatment is to harmonize yin and yang. In Chinese philosophy, these are the opposite traits that characterize a person, like wet and dry, cold and heat, body and mind. Acupuncture does this by balancing the body's elements: moisture, blood, spirit, essence, and qi. Each element correlates to one or more of the five organ networks in the body: kidney, heart, spleen, liver, and lung. For example, blood storage and the flow of qi are associated with the liver. Indications that your qi is blocked might be muscle tension in your neck and shoulders, symptoms connected to the well-being of the liver.

When I arrived for my appointment at the ranch, the acupuncturist explained moisture as the liquid element in the body that protects and lubricates the tissue and blood as the substance that creates bones, nerves, skin, muscles, and organs. Spirit (shen) is defined as the metaphysical expression of an individual; I correlated this to the soul. So far, these were definitions I could relate to my Western ideology of the human being. Essence (jing), I was told, is responsible for the reproductive and regenerative elements of the body. Since the word "essence" is defined as core, or basic, in the English language, it seemed to make sense that the procreative and healing elements of the body would be at its core. But qi, that one threw me for a loop. In Chinese thought, it is the force that gives us the ability to move, think, and feel. It flows through every part of us. The way I make sense of the concept is to think of it as consciousness, the element that directs my actions and thoughts.

The first thing the acupuncturist did was take my pulses. That's right, pulses, plural. She lightly pressed her fingers on the inside of each wrist in three different places. I was sure my heart was racing; I had jogged over to avoid being late. But my heart rate didn't particularly interest her, except that it was strong and healthy. Apparently my kidneys and spleen were weak. That made some sense, she said, because the kidneys are responsible for the health of the lumbar region. The spleen relates to digestion and fatigue. When this region is out of whack, loss of concentration usually follows. That would explain my recent inability to focus and the stress it was causing me. No wonder my parents dragged me to Canyon Ranch. When I was ready, the acupuncturist had me lie on my stomach and take several deep, slow breaths. No Buddhist chimes lulled me. No incense burned. In fact, the room I was in was very much like one of the sterile rooms in my gynecologist's office. I quickly shoved the image of steel stirrups out of my mind and inhaled. Through the open window, the smell of desert sage seeped in, and soon I was swathed in its spice, my eyes closed, drifting.

That's when I felt the first prick. It's not that it hurt really. I was just startled. I felt my back muscles tense all the way through my neck. The acupuncturist asked me to relax, and I did my best. It was like getting your bikini line waxed: After the first rip, you know what to expect and somehow that dulls the pain. A few minutes later, I had eight stainless steel needles sticking out of my lower back and between my shoulder blades. They were strategically placed in areas where qi runs closest to the skin's surface, the theory being that it's easier to alter the flow at these locations. I stayed immobile for about 40 minutes. Soon I was asleep, intoxicated by visions of the desert.

When the needles were removed, I didn't feel any different physically. I'm not sure what I expected -- maybe a miracle. Instead I felt the familiar ache in my lower back and wondered aloud if the treatment did any good at all. The acupuncturist prescribed two herbs, one to strengthen my kidneys, which are located directly under the soreness in my back, and the other to balance my digestive system. She also gave me the name of a colleague back home in San Francisco. Mentally, my head felt clear and I was calm. I walked out into a cool, cloudless night. I felt relieved. The next morning the pain in my back was gone -- completely.

I now see an acupuncturist regularly for ailments ranging from colds to stress to broken bones. I take Chinese herbs and ointments to soothe my coughs, ease muscle pain, and help me sleep. Each visit, my acupuncturist asks me how I am and ushers me into a room with a pink flowered tapestry pinned to the ceiling. Next to the table where I lie, a pair of chimes sits soundlessly on a shelf. Incense burns in the hall outside the door. As the first needle taps my skin, I close my eyes and dream of the Arizona desert.

Last updated January 29, 2009
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