The Memory Palace of Bones:

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The Memory Palace of Bones
 of related interest
Embody the Skeleton
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 THE MEMORY
PALACE OF BONES
Exploring embodiment through
the skeletal system

David Lauterstein, LMT,

and Dr. Jeff Rockwell
Foreword by Gil Hedley
Illustrated by Christy Krames
 First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Handspring Publishing,
an imprint of Jessica Kingsley Publishers
An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
An Hachette UK Company
The right of David Lauterstein and Jeff Rockwell to be identified as the Authors of the Work
has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Copyright © David Lauterstein and Jeff Rockwell 2023
Illustration copyright © Christy Krames 2023
Foreword copyright © Gil Hedley 2023
Permissions to reprint passages from the following books have been granted by the following publishers:
“On a Degas Bronze of a Dancer” from Collected Poems by John Berger,
copyright © 2014 John Berger. Reprinted by permission of Smokestack Books.
“Single form” from MARKINGS by Dag Hammarskjöld, translated by Leif Sjöberg and W. H.
Auden, translation copyright © 1964, copyright renewed 1992 by Penguin Random House
LLC and Faber & Faber Ltd. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf
Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from THE SOUL’S CODE: IN SEARCH OF CHARACTER AND CALLING by
James Hillman, copyright © 1996 James Hillman. Used by permission of Random House,
an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from “Kabir: Ecstatic Poems” by Robert Bly. Copyright © 2004 by
Robert Bly. Reprinted by permission of Beacon Press, Boston.
2 lines from pg. 143 from Times Alone: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado © 1983 by
Antonio Machado. Published by Wesleyan University Press. Used by permission.
“Ode to Ironing.” By Pablo Neruda, from Full Woman. Fleshly Apple. Hot Moon, translated by Stephen
Mitchell. Copyright © 1998 Stephen Mitchell. Reprinted by permission of Stephen Mitchell, translator.
“The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me.” By Delmore Schwartz, from SELECTED POEMS, copyright
© 1959 by Delmore Schwartz. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the
publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is intended to convey inspiration and information to the reader. It is not
intended for medical diagnosis or treatment. The reader should seek appropriate
professional care and attention for any specific healthcare needs.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress
ISBN 978 1 91342 659 0
eISBN 978 1 91342 660 6
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group
Jessica Kingsley Publishers’ policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable
products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing
processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Handspring Publishing
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 Contents

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Foreword by Gil Hedley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Important Note to Readers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Introduction: Welcome to the Memory Palace! . . . . . . . . . 15

Chapter 1: In the Beginning Are the Feet . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Chapter 2: The Song of the Brother and Sister in Your Leg:

Tibia and Fibula . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Chapter 3: A Life in the Groove: Being Patella . . . . . . . . . . 41

Chapter 4: The Alpha and Omega of the Femur . . . . . . . . . 49

Chapter 5: The Pelvis and Its Wings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Chapter 6: The Sacrum and Coccyx: Portal to the Lower and

Higher Ground . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Chapter 7: The Karma of the Lumbar Vertebrae . . . . . . . . . 79

Chapter 8: Thoracic Visions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89

Chapter 9: The Sternum: Blade and Flower . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Chapter 10: The Trimtab of the Xiphoid Process . . . . . . . . 105

Chapter 11: The Ribs: 24 Ways to Say the Heart Is
My Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111

Chapter 12: The Scapula: Wisdom in the Wings . . . . . . . . . 121

Chapter 13: The Clavicles: Keys to the Shoulder Girdles . . . . 131

Chapter 14: The Humerus and Social Engagement . . . . . . . 141

Chapter 15: Forearms with a River Flowing Between Two

Bones: Radius and Ulna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149

Chapter 16: The Light in the Hands and the Carpal Tunnel . . 157

Chapter 17: The Seven Beauties of the Neck: Lower

Cervicals, Axis, and Atlas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

Chapter 18: Mandible and Maxilla: What These Bones

Tell Us . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

Chapter 19: Yoga and the Zygomatic Bone . . . . . . . . . . . . 183

Chapter 20: Visions of the Cranium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189

Chapter 21: The Frontal Bone—Doorway to the Inner and

Outer Worlds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199

Chapter 22: The Sphenoid: Wasp or Butterfly? . . . . . . . . . . 205

Chapter 23: Blessed Are the Soundmakers . . . . . . . . . . . . 211

Chapter 24: Occipital Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225

Subject Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231

Author Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237

 I am always trying to convey something that can’t be
conveyed, to explain something which is inexplicable,
to talk about something I have in my bones, something
which can be expressed only in the bones.

—Franz Kafka
 Acknowledgments

To the memory of my father and mother, with deep appreciation.

To my greatest mentors, Drs. Janet Travell, Henri Gillet, Raymond
Nimmo, and Robert Fulford, with unlimited gratitude. To David
Lauterstein and Peter Ehlers, whose wisdom and work are continu-
ous sources of inspiration. And to Dr. Brigitte Essl, who generously
blesses me with her knowledge, helpfulness, and loving presence.

—Jeff Rockwell

I dedicate this book: to my co-author, Jeff Rockwell, who inspired

this project; to John Berger, brilliant writer and humanitarian; to past
teachers Bob King and Dr. Fritz Smith; to John Conway and faculty,
staff, and students at The Lauterstein-Conway Massage School;
to my son, Jake Lauterstein, and my wife, Julie Lauterstein; and in
memory of her mother, Cherry Thomas Harper.

—David Lauterstein

9
 Foreword

In order to remember, one has to have a thought, an experience, a

connection upon which to base the recollection. David Lauterstein
and Dr. Jeff Rockwell each have accrued decades of such conscious
connection, derived from their professional and personal journeys
exploring their own bodies and working in service of their clients,
patients, and students. Here we have a pair of fellow travelers ideally
prepared to build a “memory palace” of bones.
A “memory palace,” as they share with us, is an inner world,
an inner sanctum, created to bring back to mind a set of ideas, or
meanings, or objects with which one wishes to remain in touch in
the present. Setting their minds upon the bones, they have created a
“memory palace” for us with which to connect, not with something
from our past that is otherwise forgotten, but rather with something
native to us all in this very moment which we might otherwise not
have considered so deeply or felt for so intently.
This collection of connected and continuous crystalline struc-
tures most deep within our bodies affords us a strength, a resilience,
and a certain sense of place and inner knowing that is completely
native to us, an inner expression of life unfolded within us. Yet how
can we come to appreciate these gifts without taking some time
to enter into relationship with them a bit more deeply? Consider
The Memory Palace of Bones a chance to contemplate, explore, and
experience the gifts of your bones for the sheer joy of it, or to deepen
your ability to serve others better for having done so.
Our authors use art, poetry, story, science, personal reflections,

11
 The Memory Palace of Bones

and embodiment exercises together to treat the great gathering of

bones within us with respect, appreciation, and a sense of wonder.
“Every bone bears us a message,” we are told, and these two angels
of the bones have set out to help us hear those messages from them
all. This is not a book to be simply gobbled like so much information
candy. Lauterstein and Rockwell have, rather, created an opportunity
for the reader to savor their encounter with their bones, to drop in,
and to build a lasting relationship with this “memory palace” within
us. Taking time to listen to the messages borne to us, we step into a
connection with ourselves that we might otherwise take for granted
or miss altogether. Stop and feel your bones, and let their voices
ring out.
“Bones are as alive as your heart,” we are asked to consider. And
what blood would there be spinning through the 60,000 miles of
vessels of our whole hearts if not that which is brought to life from
deep within our bones? This is not a book about the skeleton. Skeletos
means “dried.” The dry bones are quite removed from the experience
of bones and bodies. A skeleton, over there, is a rattling thing, an
abstraction apart from us. If that is the mirror we look into to enter
into relationship with our bones, that relationship will be deeply
short-changed. Lauterstein and Rockwell invite us into relationship
but not with something dead and over there. The relationship to
which they call us is with our own life within us, pulsing, watery,
green, resilient, musical, and true.
This book is also full of intellectual curiosity and satisfaction
for the mind. The authors have soaked in the wealth of offerings
from a host of brilliant teachers. They carry forward the intellectual
and clinical legacies of a Who’s Who of luminaries from the fields
of manual therapies, including Ida Rolf, Bucky Fuller, Fritz Smith,
Emily Conrad, Andrew Taylor Still, Daniel David Palmer, and Wil-
liam Sutherland, to name a few. Their “memory palace” is built not
only from their own experiences but from their lifelong engagement
with several lineages of thought and practice. These traditions of
practice, each with its own sophisticated engagement with the bones,
afford an even greater leverage with which to dig into one’s own
relationship with these marvels living within us all. We don’t have

12
 Foreword

to wait for a bone to break before we get to know it. We can take our
authors’ lead and benefit from their rich experience with their own
teachers. We can enter into relationship not only with our living
bones but also with the traditions that love them still. Welcome to
your tour of The Memory Palace of Bones: in this hall of mirrors, you
will only see yourself more clearly. Enjoy!
Warmly,

Gil Hedley, Ph.D.

13
 Important Note to Readers

The Memory Palace is a place to marvel at the life within and around
us. One naturally pauses with wonder when contemplating a moun-
tain, a heart, a beautiful poem, a remarkable person. Accordingly,
please read this book itself as a Memory Palace. Read each section
slowly once or twice and pause between the exploration and embodi-
ment of each bone. We’d recommend reading perhaps just one or two
chapters at a time. This book is not meant to be read as if walking
quickly through a museum, temple, or palace without pausing. Please
slow down, savor, and feel the resonances in your own body, mind,
and spirit though your and our reflections upon each bone.

14
 INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the
Memory Palace!

Why The Memory Palace of Bones? How can understanding the title
of this book help you make the best use of what you read? Here’s
the story of how and why we came up with, and were inspired by,
this title.
David’s first book was on the anatomy, kinesiology, and roles of
muscles in our lives. Putting the Soul Back in the Body: A Manual of
Imagination Anatomy for Massage Therapists was published in 1984.
In early 2020 Jeff told David he wanted to co-write a similar book,
but focused on the bones.
As we began collaborating in our writing, the notion of “memory
palaces” became more and more intriguing and persistent.
The practice of creating memory palaces was first recorded around
the time of Cicero. Before printing, learning was transmitted through
the oral tradition, which required considerable skill in remembering
important conversations, events, stories, songs, and sacred texts. So,
naturally, methods to enhance memory were invented.
One of the fundamental techniques was to create an imaginary
structure, called a “memory palace,” in one’s mind. This could be
based on a palace one had actually visited or that one simply imag-
ined. The interior of this palace would be constructed with many
rooms, called “loci,” each decorated with scenes and objects, designed
to trigger certain memories. It could be a dramatic scene in an ante-
chamber to recall the details of a case going before a high court.
 The Memory Palace of Bones

The more dramatic and detailed the scene, the more memorable
would be the memories triggered. “The classical sources seem to be
describing inner techniques which depend on visual impressions of
almost incredible intensity” (Yates 1966, p.4). Remarkable feats of
memory were recorded using this method. “The art of memory is like
an inner writing…depending on inner gymnastics, invisible labors of
concentration…” (Yates 1966, p.16).
Over time, the concept of the memory palace evolved. St. Augus-
tine explicitly wrote about his challenges searching for and not quite
finding God everywhere within his memory. In medieval times,
churches began incorporating paintings and frescoes designed to
evoke memories, worship, and righteous behavior—the “corporeal
similitudes of subtle and spiritual intentions” (Yates 1966, p.76). In
the 14th century, Dante created one of the greatest memory palaces
in literature through his Divine Comedy, depicting travels through the
various levels of hell, purgatory, and heaven. In the 16th century, we
find the first explicit attempts to create an actual memory palace. Giu-
lio Camillo, an Italian philosopher of that time, claimed to have made a
small building that a person would enter and be instantly flooded with
memories and knowledge of all times. The theory and practice of the
art of memory then played a role in the writings of the 16th-century
Italian philosopher and astronomer Giordano Bruno, who wrote of
memory as the art “by which we may become joined to the soul of the
world” (quoted in Yates 1966, p.259). All this and more is explored in
great detail in Frances Yates’s masterpiece of alternative intellectual
history, The Art of Memory.
In the 20th century, the idea of constructed places triggering
memory and inner knowing was embodied in the writings and
architecture of Charles Moore. Moore was deeply affected by the
idea that all structures, whether natural or human-made, had the
capacity to evoke memory and knowledge. His books Body, Mem-
ory and Architecture (Bloomer and Moore 1977) and Chambers for a
Memory Palace (Lyndon and Moore 1994) elaborate on this notion.
Jeff and I were intrigued and inspired by this notion of memory
palaces. As we explored our own bodies, our memories, and our clinical
experiences, we wondered: Could the body itself be a memory palace?

16
 Welcome to the Memory Palace!

After all, within us live all our memories, all our learning, all our lives.
Don’t we walk through this memory palace every time we lay our
hands on the human body? And if so, what memories—ancient or
recent—are carried within and reflected in our bones? When we say
“I just know it in my bones,” is that merely a figure of speech? What
might our bones tell us—of ancient lives on the plain, of the evolution
from walking on all fours to two-legged locomotion, about the role
bones play in the balancing of human structure and energy?
So welcome to the memory palace! We hope you enjoy the explo-
ration, and that the messages and memories of the bones will speak
to you and deeply support your wisdom, your memories, your lives,
and your health.

—DL

When I was a child, my family moved to farm country and I spent

days roaming through the woods and open fields. I often found rab-
bit or squirrel skulls, the ribcage of a deer, even the occasional bird
skeleton. Fascinated, I took them home to study, later burying them
at the side of our house to give them a “proper” funeral. I never found
bones or skulls sinister; they were, instead, remarkable pieces of art.
In addition to these sojourns in woods and fields, I attended
Catholic school, where I was taught that our bodies were the temples
of God. At the same time, however, I was taught that the body was
sinful. These contradictory teachings tormented and disembodied
me for years and eventually drew me to bodywork and the human
potential movement of the 1970s.
Throughout 2019, I recall wishing and hoping that 2020 was
going to be better, kinder, gentler on our nervous systems than
recent years; 20/20, perfect vision, I told my friends.
And then, just like that, it wasn’t. COVID-19 arrived in the United
States.
In California’s Bay Area, where I reside, March 17 marked the first
day of a state-wide shelter-in-place shutdown. Along with everything
else, work came to a screeching halt.
Fortunately, being a chiropractic physician and osteopath, I

17
 The Memory Palace of Bones

was considered an “essential” worker. But for two weeks, patients

understandably were afraid to leave their homes, let alone come
for a hands-on treatment. I wondered what my work might look
like—if anything—in a year. I heard about people offering remote or
energetic bodywork. I was skeptical but signed up for an eight-week
course on long-distance osteopathy. If the shutdown lasted as long as
some were afraid it would, perhaps I could offer my services in this
manner. The course was well presented by a credible instructor, but
I never felt inspired or confident enough to try it on a paying client.
However, I received a gift: the assessments and techniques focused
on the visualization of bones and skeletal anatomy in extreme detail.
Lo and behold, I fell in love, once again, with bones.
My love for bones, along with a budding interest in spiritual prac-
tices and nature mysticism, led me to pursue careers in chiropractic
and later in osteopathy. Somewhere along the line, I read a wonderful
article that David wrote on the principles of manual therapy. This
inspired me to read his book, Putting the Soul Back into the Body. It
was equal parts poetry and science; it was aspirational philosophy
plus origins and insertions. I liked his poetic and phenomenological
approach to muscular anatomy and included it in the chiropractic
courses I was teaching at the time. And I took some of his classes with
him. We became friends, bonding over our mutual love for manual
therapy, music, poetry, and, of course, bones.
After my online course ended, I knew I wanted to write a book
on bones—not a scholarly textbook, but something akin to a poem.
And I knew I wanted to write it with David. Remember when MTV
first appeared in the early 1980s, and then MTV-Unplugged? They
played stripped-down versions of Nirvana, 10,000 Maniacs, Eric
Clapton—back to the bones of the music. Consider this book “Bones
Unplugged,” written by two body-philosophers in love with science,
poetry, and the deep sanctity of the human body. Go deep, friends;
your bones are ready to welcome you.

—JR

18
 CHAPTER 1

In the Beginning
Are the Feet

19
 The Memory Palace of Bones

To plant a foot firmly on earth—that is the ultimate achievement,

and a far later stage of growth than anything begun in your head.
We grow down, and we need a long life to get on our feet.

—James Hillman (2017, pp.42–43)

One of the great mysteries of the body is how the feet, though con-
stituting only 3 percent of the body’s weight, support 97 percent of
that weight. Not only do they balance our weight in standing but,
through the complex and dynamic living interactions of the bones,
ligaments, tendons, and muscles, they allow us to walk, to run, to
jump, and to dance.
To connect with the feet, to our souls and soles, let’s start by
dancing. The joy that we embody as our feet rhythmically strike
the body of the earth is the essence of our earliest celebrations, our
ceremonies, even our communications.
Various kinds of foot re-soundings upon the earth play a role in
all cultures—Native American stomp dance, flamenco dance from
Spain, Bharatanatyam from Asia, and Masai jumping from Africa, to
mention a very few.
Of course, many animals use their feet in mating and in commu-
nication. Elephants use foot-stomping and vocal rumblings as part
of seismic communication, sending vibrations underground to other
elephants far below our level of audible sound; distant elephants
“hear” those signals with their highly sensitive feet. It is, therefore,
no exaggeration to think of the foot as a kind of eardrum and the
body of the earth as a transmitting medium.
The foot is first of all a sense organ, later acquiring a motor func-
tion. In “civilization,” constantly shoed, we have limited our ability
to dance and certainly to listen with our feet! It is time to hear what
our soles and souls have to tell us.
As we explore the feet, let’s always remember that bones are
alive—nourished by blood, connected through nerves, and floating,
as do all the body’s parts, in the 60 percent ocean water that we are.
They shrink or grow according to the vicissitudes of movement, age,

20
 Feet

or physiological state. The bones “listen” to how we use or misuse

them, and they talk back!
The variety of the communications and celebrations issuing from
and through the feet depends on their miraculous ability to support
the entire body’s weight through arches. In architecture, an arch
is a curved opening in a structure designed to distribute weight.
Arches are used in large buildings because they can support a very
large mass.
Arches are essentially domes—adorning the tops of churches,
mosques, and synagogues. We can imagine these living domes
as adorning each of the diaphragmatic structures of the human
body—pelvic, respiratory, thoracic, palate, and skull. This organic
arrangement of anatomical domes begins with the feet.
The foot has three arches: medial longitudinal, lateral longitu-
dinal, and transverse. The arches provide the foot with the stiffness
it needs to act as a lever, transmitting the forces generated by the
leg muscles as they push against the ground. At the same time, the
arches allow for sufficient flexibility to function like springs, storing
and then releasing mechanical energy.
The keystones of the foot’s transverse arch are three bones known
as the medial, intermediate, and lateral cuneiforms. Cuneiform
comes from the Latin for wedge. The earliest form of written com-
munications, traced back to the Sumerians in the fourth millennium
bce, utilized cuneiform, or wedge-shaped characters.
So, what the feet, and the cuneiforms especially, have to tell us
is “written,” is shared, in the same shapes as the first written script.
Imagine the bones of our feet pressing into the ground, into the clay
from which we arise, just as the cuneiform characters were initially
pressed into moist clay tablets in the first forms of writing.
Each cuneiform is like a little upside-down pyramid with its
tip pointing downward. With their bottoms narrower than the
tops, they form an archway—a portal in the midfoot—giving us
the skeletal archetype for the foot’s architecture, especially the
transverse arch.
The cuneiforms are preceded, almost like passengers on a ship,
by the aptly named navicular, from the Latin navis, or boat. The

21
 The Memory Palace of Bones

navicular, with its strongly concave proximal surface, articulates

with and distributes force through the talus, through the cunei-
forms, to the first through third metatarsals and phalanges. Together
these comprise the medial longitudinal arch, vital for its role in
support, movement, flexibility, and springiness. Laterally, we have
the l­ateral longitudinal arch, created by the calcaneus, the cuboid,
and the fourth and fifth metatarsals. The longitudinal arches act as
pillars for the transverse arch that runs diagonally across the tarso-­
metatarsal joints.
The metatarsals are shaped like little femurs—mighty little
twigs—and are considered “long bones.”
The small bones of the toes are phalanges, derived from the
Latin phalanx, meaning “a number of
persons banded together in a common
Fulcrum is defined as (1) the
point on which a lever rests cause.” The toes are at our frontier, the
or is supported, and on which most anterior bones in the body, cen-
it pivots; (2) a thing that plays turions at the forefront of our lives. We
a pivotal or essential role in an
can also see each phalange as a precious
activity, event, or situation.
In this book we use the term jewel, often adorned with a toe ring or a
“fulcrum” in both senses of the beautifully painted nail, reminding us of
word. When we touch with their transcendence beyond mere utility.
fulcrums in bodywork, we are
As John Berger writes, “Jewels are by defi-
creating a resting point, a piv-
ot, a calm experience around nition small but in them is a luminosity
which the client responds. This which offers a message about the infinite”
is a structural and energetic (Berger and Christie 1999, p.70).
input that gives the client the
The feet themselves are fulcrums
opportunity to re-orient. They
can orient to that physical part which contribute vastly to the balance
of themselves and possibly to and health of our body, mind, and spirit.
emotions, thoughts, or beliefs The bones of the foot are further
to which that part is connect-
buoyed by the ligaments and muscles
ed. The fulcrum implies we are
not using a technique from surrounding them. These act like bow-
“outside-in”; the fulcrum gives strings, enhancing the natural arches
us a balancing point, an op- formed by the bones. The whole foot is
portunity, unconsciously and/
a “tensegrity” structure in which the soft
or consciously, to let go from
“inside-out.” members (muscles and connective tissue)
are in communication with the nervous

22
 Feet

system and together create a geodesic dome that underlies and sup-
ports our every move.
So let’s honor and acknowledge the complex and profound roles
of the feet in our lives. Then let’s go about celebrating our miraculous
feet, adding more appreciation, joyful steps, and dances to our lives.

—DL

The feet, like all parts of the body, speak for themselves, if we have
“ears” with which to listen. Some folks in our field teach that we need
to be more embodied in our belly or in our pelvis, with which I agree.
But try our approach: start with the feet, our faithful servants that
keep us planted on Earth.
D. H. Lawrence loved the body, especially the feet. He wrote:

Give me the moon at my feet

Put my feet upon the crescent, like a Lord!
O let my ankles be bathed in moonlight,
That I may go sun and moon-shod,
Cool and bright-footed
Towards my goal.

(Lawrence 1930, p.56)

It is sad that feet are so ignored—and often maligned—in our society.

Even from a purely anatomical view, the feet are a universe unto
themselves: the hindfoot, the midfoot, and the forefoot, a micro-
cosm of the shaman’s upper, middle, and lower worlds. According
to tradition, there is a world of help and healing above us, a world
of unconditional love and guidance below us, and a world of ancient
wisdom within us. These three worlds are part of one universal
energy, just as the three parts of the feet make up one structure
that is part of the larger structure of the human body. As I walk,
rolling from heel-strike to foot plant to toe-off, I acknowledge the
three energetic worlds of the ancestors, remembering that it is only
through the feet that I can have this experience.

23
 The Memory Palace of Bones

My grandmother used to say, “When your feet hurt, your whole

body hurts.” Of course—they support everything above them. She
also told me that in Italy, men found a woman’s feet particularly
attractive and would whistle at her feet as she walked by.
Perhaps one of the reasons we disparage the feet is because
they represent our contact with Mother Earth, which our culture
dishonors. In non-Global North regions, where people are more in
touch—literally and figuratively—with the Earth, they commonly go
barefoot in order to feel her energy. The feet show our awareness of
being incarnated on this planet.
In India, the feet are considered conduits of divine grace, and
to touch them confers blessings. At the temple of Bodhgaya, the
large stone footprints of the Buddha greet pilgrims as they arrive.
The story is told of how Buddha, after his birth, took seven steps
in each direction, leaving footprints that later were identified by a
wandering saint as belonging to a future world teacher. Today, we
speak of student–mentor relationships as ones in which we seek “to
follow or walk in their footsteps.”
But it is not just the feet of the holy or the wise that are sig-
nificant. Think of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, thereby
announcing a transformation of values for a new age. It is a typical
custom of hospitality in countries where roads are dusty, and travel-
ers wear sandals or no shoes at all, to offer water for the washing of
one’s own feet, but special guests may have this cleansing performed
for them, historically by women. In performing his own version of
such a “womanly” task, Jesus reversed the “manly” expectations of
the Roman empire. His religion of love was the exact psychological
counterpart to the Roman worship of power. It’s sad to see how
enthralled today’s leaders are by heartless dominion over others. It’s
almost as if Jesus never lived, as if the Sermon on the Mount was
never delivered.
I appreciate the practical artistry of all the foot bones, but I have
a particular fondness for the talus. Because it articulates with so
many other bones, it is largely covered by sparkling hyaline cartilage,
a beautiful crystal anchoring the temple of the body.
The talus is remarkable in other ways as well. In my chiropractic

24
 Feet

training, the talus is considered the keystone of the ankle: as goes the
talus, so go the ankle and foot. We were also taught that the ankle,
influenced by the talus, accounts for 80 percent of knee pain and a
significant amount of low back pain.
Unlike most bones, the talus has no muscle attachments. Its
position, atop the calcaneus and nestled between the distal ends of
the tibia and fibula, is quite a “biotensegral” feat.
I love to walk barefoot. When I was in high school and a compet-
itive long-distance runner, I even enjoyed running barefoot (inspired
by the late Ethiopian Olympic marathoner Abebe Bikila, who won
the 1960 Olympic marathon by racing down the streets of Rome
without running shoes).
I feel a greater sense of freedom when moving about without
shoes, the independence that is the soulmate of support or stability.
Going barefoot wakes up the small intrinsic muscles of the feet, those
same muscles that suffer from the confines of the caskets—I mean
shoes—that we seem to live in.
I wonder how many podiatrists collaborate with manual thera-
pists. There are certain groups of muscles that go virtually ignored,
yet beg for acknowledgment: the muscles of the tongue or the pelvic
floor; and the intrinsic muscles of the feet, including the small but
mighty muscles of our metatarsals and phalanges.
The iconoclastic jazz master Sun Ra recorded an album entitled
Space is the Place. Nowhere is that more apparent in my own body
than in the feet, especially the metatarsals and toes. Sometimes when
I walk, I explore shifting my weight from medial to lateral arch and
back again, until I find the weight of my body pleasantly distributed
over both arches. Other times, I will stop and wiggle my toes, trying
to feel the origin of the movement at the base of the metatarsals. In
both cases, I like to finish these explorations by feeling energy flow
from my feet up through the top of my head. In doing so, I connect
with my core self, from bottom to top.
Scientist James Oschman considers the Earth to be “one gigantic
anti-inflammatory, sleep booster, and energizer, all wrapped up in
one” (Oschman 2016, p.301). I propose that by freeing up our toes
and taking them to the earth, we activate an important electrical

25
 The Memory Palace of Bones

exchange between the energy of the ground and our bodies. The
toes are more like ten antennas than ten little piggies going to the
market, and they draw the Earth’s energy into the larger connective
tissue system, which can move it to wherever it’s needed.
The late podiatrist Dr. William Rossi wrote in 1993, “The sole of
the foot and toes is richly covered with approximately 1,300 sensory
nerve endings per square inch” (Rossi 1993, p.39). Through manual
and movement therapy, along with interoceptive awareness exercises,
we can take full advantage of our connection with our world—with
Life—and know what it means to be alive like never before.
To explore this, let’s visit two bones in the feet: the navicular
and the cuboid. The navicular bone is like a little boat that allows
us to float elegantly on land; it also, as a central part of the foot’s
inner arch, lifts us skyward. And the cuboid, the sturdy cube on the
outside of the foot, helps us ground ourselves, keeping us and our
lives from toppling over, all the while allowing us to reach heaven
on Earth with each step.
The cuboid is cube-like: hence its name. It is a symbol of stabil-
ity and permanence. Its counterpart, the navicular, is a symbol of
that which glides on water. It even remains fluid-like longer than
any other bone in the foot, being the last to ossify. The navicular
is hidden in the cave of the medial arch and helps to give spring to
our steps. The cuboid, along with the base of its neighboring fifth
metatarsal, sticks out from the outside of the foot, almost like a
training wheel on a bike.
These bones, these faithful servants, inspired me to write this
poem:

Try explaining to a Martian

How we walk
Or how we swallow.
Do you think
We really don’t need to know?

How we walk
Is not a riddle

26
 Feet

But our great love,

Or lack of it,
For our
Lives.

—JR

Each time my feet touched the earth I knew my mother was there with
me. I knew this body was not mine but a living continuation of my
mother and my father and my grandparents and great-grandparents.
Of all my ancestors.
Those feet that I saw as “my” feet were actually “our” feet.
Together, my mother and I were leaving footprints in the damp soil.
…the idea that I had lost my mother no longer existed. All I had
to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or
the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with
me, available at any time.

(Hanh 2003, p.5)

EMBODIMENT—FEET

The Chinese poet/philosopher Lao Tse wrote, “The journey of a

thousand miles begins with a single step.” Actually, that’s not quite
true. The journey begins by standing there at the starting point, like
a fulcrum on the earth.
First, stand up and feel the way the weight of your whole body is
being balanced subtly and constantly by your feet. Then bring your
awareness into the bony living members of the feet. They all work
so well together that you may not feel all the separate bones—just
visualize them as best you can and remember that bones are as alive
as your heart!
Next, bring your awareness into the talus under the lower leg
and the calcaneus/heel bone below that. Moving forward from the
talus, visualize/feel in turn the navicular and the three cuneiforms,

27
 The Memory Palace of Bones

leading to the inner three metatarsals and then to the big toe, and
the second and the third toes. Shifting your awareness laterally, feel
the calcaneus, leading to the fourth and fifth metatarsals, the fourth
toe, and the little toe.
Once you have extended appreciation and a deeper awareness to
these essential parts of yourself, slowly take a few steps forward and
back. Feel that you have 26 bones in each foot that cascade down
to the earth as you step. The “foot” is an abstraction. Just as all our
words in the English language are made from 26 letters, so our every
step is made with 26 bones.

EMBODIMENT—FEET AND ANKLES

The joint between the tibia and talus is called the ankle or mortice
joint. Although typically considered a
The feet are the body’s foun-
hinge joint, it is more accurately a gliding
dation, and they are also distin- joint, where the tibia glides forward and
guished by having within them back on the talus.
what we term in Zero Balancing The joint between the talus and cal-
“foundation joints.” Unlike free-
ly movable joints, such as the
caneus is called the subtalar joint and is a
shoulder, elbow, and hip, foun- hinge joint, allowing for flexion and exten-
dation joints have a very limited sion. What many do not realize is that there
range of motion; but because is an extra, posterior semi-foundation joint
of that very stability, they are
better at transmitting force. A
here, permitting only a small amount of
small misalignment in the foot, opening and closing. This motion, as is
which has foundation joints true with all foundation joints, is critical.
between all the tarsal bones, Joints that favor stability over movement
can throw the entire body off
balance. The good news is that
must have that movement present, or
even small re-balancings in the large muscles that span the joint (in this
foot can introduce healthier case, the Achilles tendon and hamstrings)
energy flow and greater ease will contract in an often-futile attempt to
through the whole person.
mobilize it.
Do you have a tight Achilles tendon or
tight hamstrings? This exercise might be just what you need.
Stand and slowly bend forward at the waist to touch your toes.

28
 Feet

Notice where tightness on either side stops your movement. Sit down
and, crossing one leg over the other, grasp the calcaneus in one hand
and the bone directly above it—the talus—in the other. Hold the
talus still while pulling the calcaneus downward to encourage a small
amount of movement between the two bones. Take out the slack and
hold for five seconds. Pause for a few seconds, allowing the nervous
system to “catch up” with what you just did. Repeat two more times.
Note that you are doing this on one side only. Stand up and try to
touch your toes again. Often, it will now be considerably easier to
reach your toes. Walk around for a minute or so; notice the difference
in the two feet and the changes that are now present in the legs and
pelvis. You can then repeat this process on the other foot.

29
 CHAPTER 2

The Song of the Brother

and Sister in Your Leg
TIBIA AND FIBULA

31
 The Memory Palace of Bones

Brian Doyle, in his book Credo, wrote, “I grow utterly absorbed, as I

age, by two things: love, thorough or insufficient, and grace under
duress. Only those two” (Doyle 1997, p.57).
That seems to me about right. As we face what scientists call a
“meta-systems crisis”—common folks building survival shelters and
rich folks planning to colonize Mars, and all of them excited at the
prospect of extinction—the only thing that makes any sense to me,
or appeals to me, is love: love for each other and audacious love for
the body of Mother Earth. And that leads me to “grace under duress.”
I have just returned from a hiking trip in the Escalante-Grand
Staircase National Monument in southern Utah. Out of shape, I nev-
ertheless dedicated two weeks of my time to do this. Why? Because
I am in love with this place on Earth.
The first hike was not pleasant; my muscles fatigued and cramped
early on. But as my muscles failed me, I tapped into something
deeper, more reliable: my bones. I tried to meet the trail not with
quivering calf muscles but with the long and noble bones of the lower
legs—ground meeting ground.
The tibias—the second-largest bones in the body—helped me
most but the more delicate fibulae were particularly helpful as I nav-
igated the sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky terrain. Anatomists
believe the fibula does not carry any significant weight of the body.
However, positioned on the outside of the lower leg, the fibulae are
analogous to training wheels on a bicycle—similar to the cuboids and
fifth metatarsals of the feet—steadying the novice rider.
Subsequent hikes were easier, and I have my bones to thank.
Unlike most of us, they are completely forgiving: even when we break
them, they heal stronger than ever. On that trip, they were my grace
under duress.
The tibia is connected to the fibula by the interosseous membrane,
forming a fibrous joint called a syndesmosis. It allows little movement
but helps both bones to absorb ground forces and mechanical stresses.
The word fibula in Latin means “clasp” or “brooch” and is used
for the bone in question because it resembles a clasp, much like a
modern safety pin. The adjective “peroneal” is Greek for the same
thing. Without this safety pin, the fibula would be hard pressed to

32
 Tibia and Fibula

hold things together well enough to allow even the easiest stroll. I
find working with this membrane—the bone that is not a bone—to
be very helpful in relieving leg pain, lymphatic congestion, and some-
times even restless legs.
I also enjoy paying attention to the head of the fibula. It has a
highly irregular surface, with a pointed eminence or styloid process
that gives rise to the tendon of the biceps femoris, as well as to the
fibular collateral ligament of the knee joint.
The tibia is named for the Latin word for flute. While the flute
is not exactly the boldest of musical instruments, the tibia itself is
strong enough to support the weight of the entire body.
While you might think of bones as flat or gently rounded, they are
populated with ridges and tubercles, fossae and foramina. The tibia is
no different. At its top, the tibia’s superior articular surface presents
two facets—like the faces or facets of a diamond. The oval medial
facet is concave from side to side. The lateral facet, nearly circular, is
concave from side to side, and slightly convex posteriorly. They are
soulmates with the condyles of the femur and support the menisci of
the knee. While we may not all “wear diamonds on the soles of our
shoes,” we are richly endowed with diamonds on the bones above
our feet; we are jewels adorned with jewels!
The tibia is a goldmine of muscle attachments, and any manual
therapist worth their salt has learned to spend a lot of time there.
Here is a partial menu of the muscles that attach on this bone: the
quadriceps, sartorius, gracilis, the medial hamstrings, popliteus,
soleus, and, of course, the tibialis muscles.
In Judaism, the tibia (or shank bone) of a goat is used in the Pass­
over Seder plate. Each of the six items arranged on the plate has special
significance to the retelling of the story of Passover—the exodus from
Egypt—which is the focus of this ritual meal. It is special, as it is the
only meat on the Seder plate, symbolizing the Passover sacrifice, or
Pascal lamb. It represents the sacrifice of a lamb whose blood was
painted on the doorway of enslaved Israelites’ houses so that the grace
of God would pass over that house during any plague.
There is another type of grace that my hiking trip reminded me
of. G.R.A.C.E. is a process developed by Zen roshi Joan Halifax to

33
 The Memory Palace of Bones

help healthcare providers working in stressful situations (Halifax

2012, p.4). It is also a mnemonic that can serve us all with our own
challenges. I’ll demonstrate here:

• G—gathering attention (lying down after that long hike, “My

legs hurt like hell”)
• R—recalling intention (“May I help relieve suffering on this
planet”)
• A—attunement to self and other (when I bring my attention
deeper than the pain, I “touch” bone medicine, a steady peace
that can’t easily be disturbed; from here I can be with my pain
in solidarity with all who suffer. “May all beings be free from
suffering”)
• C—consider what will serve (prayer, meditation, helping
someone else, offering bodywork sessions to prisoners and
the homeless in the Bay Area)
• E—engagement (when I get back to California, I will undertake
three projects to help my community, including endangered
land in my county).

As fate would have it, I came across the skeletal remains of a deer
on that hike. Among the enormous red rocks, pictographs, and a
waterfall, I became possessed by the strength and beauty of those
bones—their unadorned and shameless presence. While I stood
silent as other hikers rushed by, the bones seemed to ask, “Is anybody
but me really here?”

—JR

The story is told in many cultures of the singing bone. One variation
is the Brothers Grimm tale of two brothers who set out to kill a wild
boar. The first who did would earn the reward offered by the King—to
marry his daughter. The younger brother found and killed the boar,
but the jealous older brother struck and killed him on a bridge they
were crossing on their way home. The older brother then went to
the King with the boar and received the daughter’s hand in marriage.

34
 Tibia and Fibula

Many years thereafter, a shepherd was walking over the bridge

and saw a little snow-white bone lying in the sand below. Thinking
that it would make a good mouthpiece, he picked it up and carved
out of it a mouthpiece for his horn. When he blew into it for the
first time, to his great astonishment the bone began to sing by itself:

Oh, my dear shepherd,

You are blowing on my little bone.
My brother killed me,
And buried me beneath the bridge.

“What a wonderful horn,” said the shepherd. “It sings by itself. I

must take it to the King.” When he brought it before the King, the
horn again began to sing its song. The King understood it well and
had the earth beneath the bridge dug up. The whole skeleton of the
murdered man came to light and the wicked brother could not deny
the deed. He was sewn into a sack and drowned alive. The murdered
man’s bones were laid to rest in a beautiful grave in the churchyard.
Many of the bones in human and animal bodies have been used
in music. The ribcage was no doubt the first xylophone. The use of
bones to strike skins constituted the first drums. The hollowed-out
long bones of animals and humans, as in the Grimms’ legend, could
be used as wind instruments. So every bone in us has, in its own way,
its own song, its music. The composer Gustav Mahler based an early
work, Das klagende Lied, on the legend of the singing bone.
This brings us to the discussion of the tibia and the fibula, the
sister and brother of the lower leg.
The tibia is the second-strongest and largest bone in the body,
next to the femur. In its center is the medullary cavity that produces
and stores marrow. After death, the marrow decomposes and a hol-
low triangular tube remains, like a pyramidal tower, that can act as
a wind instrument.
The etymological origin of the word “tibia” points us to this use.
The tibia was an ancient Greek wind instrument. Archaeological finds
and surviving iconography indicate it was double-reeded, like the
modern oboe, but with a larger mouthpiece, like the Armenian duduk.

35
 The Memory Palace of Bones

In traditional Western music, the “tibia” would correspond most

closely to the beautifully named “oboe d’amore,” the oboe of love!
The oboe d’amore was invented in the 18th century and Bach, Tele-
mann, and others employed it in their concertos.
The other lower leg bone is the more delicate fibula. Too narrow to
be a wind instrument, it looks very much like a violin bow! It is com-
monly harvested to reconstruct the mandible, itself integral to speech
and song, bringing a kind of musical connection of these two bones.
The fibula’s proximal head acts as the insertion for the biceps femo-
ris, the lateral-most hamstring. It is the origin for the fibularis longus
muscle (also known as peroneus) that travels to the bottom of the foot
and forms the deepest tendon in the sole, ultimately inserting into the
medial cuneiform and first metatarsal. Also attaching to the fibula are
muscles that extend the toes, as well as muscles from the lower leg’s
deep posterior compartment that insert into the sole of the foot.
The fibula and tibia, like the arm’s radius and ulna, are connected
through an extensive interosseous membrane that stabilizes their
association while allowing a bit of flexibility between them. At its
distal end, the fibula, tibia, and talus form the ankle joint.
The tibia owes some of its shape and strength to its role in sup-
porting the weight of the whole upper body and absorbing from
below many of the stresses of the foot striking the ground when
we walk. More than we think, our bodymind shapes our bones in
response to the uses for which we need them.
I read about a boy who was born with
Like clouds, every bone has a only a fibula, and no tibia. Since the fibula
silver lining. This is the trans-
is not a weight-bearing bone, his parents
lucent, silvery, dense, irregular
connective tissue called perios- were told that he would never walk. How-
teum. Basically the skin of your ever, in few years, the boy was walking and
bones, the periosteum envelops running about freely. The parents took
them completely, except at the
him back to the doctor, who, astonished,
joint surfaces.
The periosteum is really X-rayed the lower leg. The boy now had a
two living layers inside you. The tibia, but no fibula; the body had thickened
outer fibrous layer is connective and reshaped the fibula because the stress
tissue, or fascia. Like fascia else-
of walking required a thicker, stronger
where in the body, it contains
bone. What an extraordinary example of

36
 Tibia and Fibula
function determining form. Life, even of
the bones, is what we make it!
Because we wear shoes, we lack the
versatility and shock absorption that
nature has bestowed with 26 bones
in each foot. As below, so above: the
non-flexible foot will convey its stresses
to the next bone up. Thus, the tibia too
often absorbs and reflects more than its
share of stress, as if there is too much
pressure within it.
Each bone, with its unique position
and role in our lives, has its own story
to tell. From the tibia and fibula we gain
valuable information on how a person
relates to their life and the earth they
walk upon with body, emotion, mind, and
spirit—how they walk their talk.
This beautiful brother and sister, the
tibia and the fibula, the singing bone and
the bow, together give us both strength
and delicacy and set a tone for our lives.
They do so, usually, without calling much
attention to themselves.
May these words, thoughts, and
feelings help us regard and touch the
tibia and fibula with a greater sense of
respect, reverence, and compassion. Walt
Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric”
(Whitman 2007, p.72). May we sing the
tibia and fibula. May the melodies and
harmonies, the duet arising as songs of
tibia and fibula, be ones which inspire us
deeply along our journey.
—DL
37
living cells—fibroblasts—that
produce fibrous tissue, irregu-
larly woven strands of collagen
that give strength and flexibility
to this outer covering of every
bone. Yet deeper, we discover
the cambium layer, from the
Latin cambiare, which means
“to change.” This cambium is
osteogenic: it helps our bones
grow and repair through cells
called osteoblasts.
The periosteum also con-
veys blood to the bones. The
medullary cavity inside bones
is so alive with circulation that
people receiving transfusions
can, if necessary, be fed directly
through the inside of the bone.
Periosteum contains ex-
tremely sensitive nerve endings,
so when we bruise it (a “contu-
sion”), the pain is distinct and
easily located. Bones themselves
do not usually contain pain-sen-
sitive nerves, so it is the perios-
teum’s job to provide us with
this valuable intelligence.
In Zero Balancing we use
the term “bone gold” to de-
scribe a place where we feel an
unusual thickness in bone and
its periosteum. Just as releasing
tension from the neuromuscu-
lar system gives us more energy
for life, so the release of bone
gold awakens the incredible in-
ner resource that is our skeletal
system and its miraculous skin,
the periosteum.
Even gold, it turns out, has a
silver lining—your periosteum,
this deep, living treasure inside
of you!
 The Memory Palace of Bones

EMBODIMENT—LOWER LEG

The tibia and fibula are encircled by the crural fascia. Whereas the
foot has 26 bones through which to distribute the weight of the
whole body, the lower leg has just the tibia, since the fibula is barely
weight-bearing. So the tibia absorbs way more than its fair share of
pressure, compression, and stress, and limits the energy flow through
the bone. That radiates out into the surrounding fascia and other
structures—the fibula, the interosseous membrane, the lower leg
muscles, and the nerves and vessels associated with them.
One of the best ways to relieve this pressure is to loosen the crural
fascia, especially on the broad, flat surface of the medial border of
the tibial shaft. The crural fascia here is very close to the surface of
the bone, so when the lower leg holds too much tension, that fascia
becomes like a tight binding. The tibia becomes like a flute swathed
in plastic wrap with no holes, no breathing room!
To begin this exercise, take a few steps forward and back, noting
how your lower legs feel. Now place one leg up on a stool or chair.
Take your opposite hand and help the crural fascia slide more freely
over the bony surface of the tibia, its periosteum, the crural fascia,
and the skin. Use your thumb, fingers, or heel of your hand to press
into the flat surface and engage the fascia. Make little semi-circles
and side-to-side movements, or whatever your intuition suggests or
what feels good to shift that fascia. Do this in a series, starting just
below the knee; then disengage and re-engage an inch or two lower,
again coaxing the fascia to glide more freely over the tibial surface.
Work to free the crural fascia in five to seven places, ending just
above the ankle.
Before you do the other leg, take a short walk. Notice how dif-
ferent the two legs now feel. Perhaps you feel one can breathe, or
has more energy flowing through it, or is more alive. Then repeat the
work to the crural fascia of the second leg. Take another walk and
savor the experience. Now the “flute” of your lower leg has more
room for air, more room for breath, more room for joyful support as
you move through your life. The flute of the tibia can play a beautiful
melody in our lives!

38
 Tibia and Fibula

If you are working on someone else, the advantage is that with

the receiver lying down, they may feel the release of tension in the
legs spreading even more globally throughout their whole bodymind.
Use both hands simultaneously on both lower legs, with the sides of
your thumbs or the heels of your hands.

39
 CHAPTER 3

A Life in the Groove

BEING PATELLA

41
 The Memory Palace of Bones

Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field.

—Miguel de Unamuno (1993, p.234)

Every bone bears us a message, like a message or a boat in a bot-

tle. These messages, the boats, and the surrounding seas are both
individual and ancient. The patella is no exception. Floating in the
quadriceps tendon, engaged by every movement of thigh and hip, it
is the largest of the sesamoid bones in the body—or second-largest,
depending on whether one considers the scapula to be a sesamoid
bone. Sesamoid comes from sesamun, Arabic for sesame seed. So here
we have a message, a boat, and a seed.
The precise message of the patella depends on the individual, but
in general it speaks to us of protection—a deeper stability within and
around the knee, the largest and most complex joint of the body.
The knee is a synovial joint with components of fluid, cartilage,
bone, tendon, and ligament. Think of it as at least two joints—the
patellofemoral and the tibiofemoral. Within the knee, floating in
synovial fluid, are the shock-absorbing menisci (similar to the discs
between our vertebrae) and the cruciate ligaments. These make an
“X,” sharing the word origin for cross and crux, as in the crux of the
matter. Bordered by the lateral and medial collateral ligaments, and
posteriorly by the popliteus muscle, it is a miraculous architecture
that gives the knee both its strength and its potential for injury.
The large movements here are primarily flexion and extension,
although with the knee flexed, a small degree of lateral and medial
rotation can occur.
In knee extension and flexion the patella’s role is to slide in the
trochlear groove of the lower anterior femur. At our birth, the patella
is entirely cartilage, which may make crawling easier for the infant. It
takes quite some time to ossify completely, becoming entirely bone
around age five.
The patella has above it the suprapatellar bursa, which reduces
the friction when the kneecap slides. Associated with it is a lit-
tle muscle, the articularis genus, which cleverly coordinates the
up-and-down glide of the patella with the bursa’s similar movement

42
 Patella

to prevent catching the synovial membrane between the patella

and femur.
The patella is enveloped by the quadriceps tendon that inserts
into the tibial tuberosity. This lowest portion of the quadriceps ten-
don is often called a ligament, since it runs from one bone to another.
Underlying the metaphor of a boat-in-a-bottle is the very word
“patella,” which comes from the Latin meaning “a shallow dish or
vessel.” Among its messages, then, is conveyed the knowledge that all
bones are floating bones, vessels with water inside and around them.
(Bones themselves are one-third water.) The patella floats in front
of the knee, further bathed and cushioned inside by synovial fluid.

Thinkers, listen, tell me what you know of that is not inside the
soul?
Take a pitcher full of water and set it down in the water—
Now it has water inside and water outside.
We mustn’t give it a name,
Lest silly people start talking again about the body and the soul.

(Kabir 2004, p.5)

Seed bone, sesamoid—like a seed “syllable.”

We can see each bone of the body as a seed of movement, life, and
consciousness. Just as parts of our speech give us an understandable
grammar, bones and joints are parts of our anatomy that give us
movement, or a kinesthetic grammar.
In Asian languages there are seed syllables, known as bija. These
are considered to be sound vibrations, said to give rise to all things
including our karma. The best known is the sacred incantation om.
What if we considered each bone as a kind of seed contributing
ultimately to the living garland, the field, of the skeletal system? In
fact, our living bones do grow and blossom into their adult shape
over time. An infant is born with 300 bones (many still cartilaginous),
whereas an adult with cartilages ossified will have 206.
Consider that each bone is a seed syllable, a mantra, in the non-ver-
bal communication among our bones, contributing ultimately to

43
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 PAINTING SARONGS.

Peddlers bring to one’s doorway fine Bantam basketry and bales

of the native cotton cloth, or battek, patterned in curious designs that
have been in use from time out of mind. These native art fabrics are
sold at the passers also, and one soon recognizes the conventional
designs, and distinguishes the qualities and merits of these hand-
patterned cottons that constitute the native dress. The sarong, or
skirt, worn by men and women alike, is a strip of cotton two yards
long and one yard deep, which is drawn tightly around the hips, the
fullness gathered in front, and by an adroit twist made so firm that a
belt is not necessary to native wearers. The sarong has always one
formal panel design, which is worn at the front or side, and the rest
of the surface is covered with the intricate ornaments in which native
fancy runs riot. There are geometrical and line combinations, in
which appear the swastika and the curious latticings of central Asia;
others are as bold and natural as anything Japanese; and in others
still, the palm-leaves and quaint animal forms of India and Persia
attest the rival art influences that have swept over these refined,
adaptive, assimilative people. One favorite serpentine pattern
running in diagonal lines does not need explanation in this land of
gigantic worms and writhing crawlers; nor that other pattern where
centipedes and insect forms cover the ground; nor that where the
fronds of cocoa-palm wave, and the strange shapes of mangos,
jacks, and breadfruit are interwoven. The deer and tapir, and the
“hunting-scene” patterns are reserved for native royalty’s exclusive
wear. In village and wayside cottages up-country we afterward
watched men and women painting these cloths, tracing a first outline
in a rich brown waxy dye, which is the foundation and dominant color
in all these batteks. The parts which are to be left white are covered
with wax, and the cloth is dipped in or brushed over with the dye.
This resist, or mordant, must be applied for each color, and the wax
afterwards steamed out in hot water, so that a sarong goes through
many processes and handlings, and is often the work of weeks. The
dyes are applied hot through a little tin funnel of an implement
tapering down to a thin point, which is used like a painter’s brush,
but will give the fine line- and dot-work of a pen-and-ink drawing. The
sarong’s value depends upon the fineness of the drawing, the
elaborateness of the design, and the number of colors employed;
and beginning as low as one dollar, these brilliant cottons, or hand-
painted calico sarongs, increase in price to even twenty or thirty
dollars. The Dutch ladies vie with one another in their sarongs as
much as native women, and their dishabille dress of the early hours
has not always economy to recommend it. The battek also appears
in the slandang, or long shoulder-scarf, which used to match the
sarong and complete the native costume when passed under the
arms and crossed at the back, thus covering the body from the
armpits to the waist. It is still worn knotted over the mother’s
shoulder as a sling or hammock for a child; but Dutch fashion has
imposed the same narrow, tight-sleeved kabaia, the baju, or jacket,
that Dutch women wear with the sarong. The kam kapala, a square
handkerchief tied around men’s heads as a variant of the turban, is
of the same figured battek, and, with the slandang, often exhibits
charming color combinations and intricate Persian designs. When
one conquers his prejudices and associated ideas enough to pay
seemingly fancy prices for these examples of free-hand calico
printing, the taste grows, and he soon shares the native longing for a
sarong of every standard and novel design.
The native silversmiths hammer out good designs in silver relief
for betel- and tobacco-boxes, and exhibit great taste and invention in
belt- and jacket-clasps, and in heavy knobs of hairpins and ear-rings,
that are often made of gold and incrusted over with gems for richer
folk.
There are no historic spots nor show-places of native creation in
Batavia; no kratons, or aloon-aloons, as their palaces and courtyards
are called; and only a sentimental interest for a virtual exile pining in
his own country is attached to the villa of Raden Saleh. This son of
the regent of Samarang was educated in Europe, and lived there for
twenty-three years, developing decided talents as an artist, and
enjoying the friendship of many men of rank and genius on the
Continent, among the latter being Eugène Sue, who is said to have
taken Raden Saleh as model for the Eastern Prince in “The
Wandering Jew.” In Java he found himself sadly isolated from his
own people by his European tastes and habits; and he had little in
common with the coarse, rapacious mynheers whose sole thoughts
were of crops and gulden. “Coffee and sugar, sugar and coffee, are
all that is talked here. It is a dreary atmosphere for an artist,” said
Raden Saleh to D’Almeida, who visited him at Batavia sixty odd
years ago. He has left a monument of his taste in this charming villa,
in a park whose land is now a vegetable-patch, its shady pleasance
a beer-garden and exposition-ground, and the sign “Tu Huur” (“To
Hire”) hung from the royal entrance. The exposition of arts and
industries in these grounds in 1893 was a great event in Java, the
governor-general Van der Wyk opening and closing the fair by
electric signal, and the natives making a particularly interesting
display of their products and crafts.
 V
TO THE HILLS

One’s most earnest desire, in the scorch of Batavian noondays and

stifling Batavian nights, is to seek refuge in “the hills”—in the dark-
green groves and forests of the Blue Mountains, that are ranged with
such admirable effect as background when one steams in from the
Java Sea. At Buitenzorg, only forty miles away and seven hundred
and fifty feet above the sea, heat-worn people find refuge in an
entirely different climate, an atmosphere of bracing clearness
tempered to moderate summer’s warmth. Buitenzorg (“without
care”), the Dutch Sans Souci, has been a general refuge and
sanitarium for Europeans, the real seat of government, and the
home of the governor-general for more than a century. It is the pride
and show-place of Java, the great center of its social life, leisure
interests, and attractions. The higher officials and many Batavian
merchants and bankers have homes at Buitenzorg, and residents
from other parts of the island make it their place of recreation and
goal of holiday trips.
Undressed Batavia was just rousing from its afternoon nap, and
the hotel court was surrounded with barefoot guests in battek
pajamas and scant sarongs, a sockless, collarless, unblushing
company, that yawned and stared as we drove away, rejoicing to
leave this Sans Gêne for Sans Souci. The Weltevreden Station, on
the vast Koenig’s Plein, a spacious, stone-floored building, whose
airy halls and waiting- and refreshment-rooms are repeated on
almost as splendid scale at all the large towns of the island, was
enlivened with groups of military officers, whose heavy broadcloth
uniforms, trailing sabers, and clanking spurs transported us back
from the tropics to some chilly European railway-station, and
presented the extreme contrast of colonial life. The train that came
panting from Tandjon Priok was made up of first-, second-, and third-
class cars, all built on the American plan, in that they were long cars
and not carriages, and we entered through doors at the end
platforms. The first-class cars swung on easy springs; there were
modern car-windows in tight frames, also window-frames of wire
netting; while thick wooden venetians outside of all, and a double
roof, protected as much as possible from the sun’s heat. The deep
arm-chair seats were upholstered with thick leather cushions, the
walls were set with blue-and-white tiles repeating Mauve’s and
Mesdag’s pictures, and adjustable tables, overhead racks, and a
dressing-room furnished all the railroad comforts possible. The
railway service of Netherlands India is a vast improvement on, and
its cars are in striking contrast to, the loose-windowed, springless,
dusty, hard-benched carriages in which first-class passengers are
jolted across British India. The second-class cars in Java rest on
springs also, but more passengers are put in a compartment, and
the fittings are simpler; while the open third-class cars, where native
passengers are crowded together, have a continuous window along
each side, and the benches are often without backs. The fares
average 2.2 United States cents a kilometer (about five eighths of a
mile) for first class, 1.6 cents second class, and 6 mills third class.
The first-class fare from Batavia to Sourabaya, at the east end of the
island, is but 50 gulden ($20) for the 940-kilometer journey,
accomplished in two days’ train-travel of twelve and fourteen hours
each, so that the former heavy expense (over a dollar a mile for
post-horses, after one had bought or rented a traveling-carriage) and
the delays of travel in Java are done away with.
The railways have been built by both the government and private
corporations, connecting and working together, the first line dating
from 1875. The continuous railway line across the island was
completed and opened with official ceremonies in November, 1894.
The gap of one hundred miles or more across the “terra ingrata,” the
low-lying swamp and fever regions either side of Tjilatjap, had
existed for years after the track was completed to the east and west
of it. Dutch engineers built and manage the road, but the staff, the
working force of the line, are natives, or Chinese of the more or less
mixed but educated class filling the middle ground between
Europeans and natives, between the upper and lower ranks.
Wonderful skill was shown in leading the road over the mountains,
and in building a firm track and bridges through the reeking swamps,
where no white man could labor, even if he could live. The trains do
not run at night, which would be a great advantage in a hot country,
for the reason that the train crews are composed entirely of natives
(since such work is considered beneath the grade of any European),
and the cautious Dutch will not trust native engineers after dark.
Through trains start from either end of the line and from the half-way
stations at five and six o’clock each morning, and run until the short
twilight and pitch-darkness that so quickly succeed the unchanging
six-o’clock tropical sunset. These early morning starts, and the eight-
and nine-o’clock dinner of the Java hotels, make travel most
wearisome. One may buy fruit at every station platform, and always
tea, coffee, chocolate, wine and schnapps, bread and biscuits at the
station buffets. At the larger stations there are dining-rooms, or a
service of lunch-baskets, in which the Gargantuan riz tavel, or
luncheon, is served hot in one’s compartment as the train moves on.
The hour-and-a-half’s ride from Batavia to Buitenzorg gave us an
epitome of tropical landscapes as the train ran between a double
panorama of beauty. The soil was a deep, intense red, as if the heat
of the sun and the internal fires of this volcanic belt had warmed the
fruitful earth to this glowing color, which contrasted so strongly with
the complemental green of grain and the groves of palms and cacao-
trees. The level rice-fields were being plowed, worked, flooded,
planted, weeded, and harvested side by side, the several crops of
the year going on continuously, with seemingly no regard to
seasons. Nude little boys, astride of smooth gray water-buffaloes,
posed statuesquely while those leisurely animals browsed afield; and
no pastoral pictures of Java remain clearer in memory than those of
patient little brown children sitting half days and whole days on
buffalo-back, to brush flies and guide the stupid-looking creatures to
greener and more luscious bits of herbage. Many stories are told of
the affection the water-ox often manifests for his boy keeper, killing
tigers and snakes in his defense, and performing prodigies of valor
and intelligence; but one doubts the tales the more he sees of this
hideous beast of Asia. Men and women were wading knee-deep in
paddy-field muck, transplanting the green rice-shoots from the seed-
beds, and picturesque harvest groups posed in tableaux, as the train
shrieked by. Children rolled at play before the gabled baskets of
houses clustered in toy villages beneath the inevitable cocoa-palms
and bananas, the combination of those two useful trees being the
certain sign of a kampong, or village, when the braided-bamboo
houses are invisible.
 RICE-FIELDS.

At Depok there was a halt to pass the down-train, and the natives
of this one Christian village and mission-station, the headquarters of
evangelical work in Java, flocked to the platform with a prize
horticultural display of all the fruits of the season for sale. The record
of mission work in Java is a short one, as, after casting out the
Portuguese Jesuit missionaries, the Dutch forbade any others to
enter, and Spanish rule in Holland had perhaps taught them not to
try to impose a strange religion on a people. During Sir Stamford
Raffles’s rule, English evangelists began work among the natives,
but were summarily interrupted and obliged to withdraw when Java
was returned to Holland. All missionaries were strictly excluded until
the humanitarian agitation in Europe, which resulted in the formal
abolition of slavery and the gradual abandonment of the culture
system, led the government to do a little for the Christianization and
education of the people. The government supports twenty-nine
Protestant pastors and ten Roman Catholic priests, primarily for the
spiritual benefit of the European residents, and their spheres are
exactly defined—proselytizing and mutual rivalries being forbidden.
Missionaries from other countries are not allowed to settle and work
among the people, and whatever may be said against this on higher
moral grounds, the colonial government has escaped endless friction
with the consuls and governments of other countries. The authorities
have been quite willing to let the natives enjoy their mild
Mohammedanism, and our Moslem servant spoke indifferently of
mission efforts at Depok, with no scorn, no contempt, and apparently
no hostility to the European faith.
Until recently, no steps were taken to educate the Javanese, and
previous to 1864 they were not allowed to study the Dutch language.
All colonial officers are obliged to learn Low Malay, that being the
recognized language of administration and justice, instead of the
many Javanese and Sundanese dialects, with their two forms of
polite and common speech. These officials receive promotion and
preferment as they make progress in the spoken and written
language. Low Malay is the most readily acquired of all languages,
as there are no harsh gutturals or difficult consonants, and the
construction is very simple. Children who learn the soft, musical
Malay first have difficulty with the harsh Dutch sounds, while the
Dutch who learn Malay after their youth never pronounce it as well or
as easily as they pronounce French. The few Javanese, even those
of highest rank, who acquired the Dutch language and attempted to
use it in conversation with officials, used to be bruskly answered in
Malay, an implication that the superior language was reserved for
Europeans only. This helped the conquerors to keep the distinctions
sharply drawn between them and their subject people, and while
they could always understand what the natives were saying, the
Dutch were free to talk together without reserve in the presence of
servants or princes. Dutch is now taught in the schools for natives
maintained by the colonial government, 201 primary schools having
been opened in 1887, with an attendance of 39,707 pupils. The
higher schools at Batavia have been opened to the sons of native
officials and such rich Javanese as can afford them, and
conservatives lament the “spoiling” of the natives with all that the
government now does for them. They complain that the Javanese
are becoming too “independent” since schoolmasters, independent
planters, and tourists came, just as the old-style foreign residents of
India, the Straits, China, and Japan bemoan the progressive
tendencies and upheavals of this era of Asiatic awakening and
enlightenment; and tourist travel is always harped upon as the most
offending and corrupting cause of the changes in the native spirit.
Once above the general level of low-lying rice-lands, cacao-
plantations succeeded one another for miles beyond Depok; the
small trees hung full of fat pods just ripening into reddish brown and
crimson. The air was noticeably cooler in the hills, and as the
shadows lengthened the near green mountains began to tower in
shapes of lazuli mist, and a sky of soft, surpassing splendor made
ready for its sunset pageant. When we left the train we were whirled
through the twilight of great avenues of trees to the hotel, and given
rooms whose veranda overhung a strangely rustling, shadowy
abyss, where we could just discern a dark silver line of river leading
to the pale-yellow west, with the mountain mass of Salak cut in
gigantic purple silhouette.
 The ordinary bedroom of a Java hotel, with latticed doors and
windows, contains one or two beds, each seven feet square, hung
with starched muslin curtains that effectually exclude the air, as well
as lizards or winged things. The bedding, as at Singapore, consists
of a hard mattress with a sheet drawn over it, a pair of hard pillows,
and a long bolster laid down the middle as a cooling or dividing line.
Blankets or other coverings are unneeded and unknown, but it takes
one a little time to become acclimated to that order in the penetrating
dampness of the dewy and reeking hours before dawn. If one makes
protest enough, a thin blanket will be brought, but so camphorated
and mildew-scented as to be insupportable. Pillows are not stuffed
with feathers, but with the cooler, dry, elastic down of the straight-
armed cotton-tree, which one sees growing everywhere along the
highways, its rigid, right-angled branches inviting their use as the
regulation telegraph-pole. The floors are made of a smooth, hard
cement, which harbors no insects, and can be kept clean and cool.
Pieces of coarse ratan matting are the only floor-coverings used, and
give an agreeable contrast to the dirty felts, dhurries, and carpets,
the patches of wool and cotton and matting, spread over the earth or
wooden floors of the unspeakable hotels of British India. And yet the
Javanese hotels are disappointing to those who know the solid
comforts and immaculate order of certain favorite hostelries of The
Hague and Amsterdam. Everything is done to secure a free
circulation of air, as a room that is closed for a day gets a steamy,
mildewed atmosphere, and if closed for three days blooms with
green mold over every inch of its walls and floors. The section of
portico outside each room at Buitenzorg was decently screened off
to serve as a private sitting-room for each guest or family in the
hours of startling dishabille; and as soon as the sun went down a big
hanging-lamp assembled an entomological congress. Every hotel
provides as a night-lamp for the bedroom a tumbler with an inch of
cocoanut-oil, and a tiny tin and cork arrangement for floating a wick
on its surface. For the twelve hours of pitch-darkness this little
lightning-bug contrivance burns steadily, emitting a delicious nutty
fragrance, and allowing one to watch the unpleasant shadows of the
lizards running over the walls and bed-curtains, and to look for the
larger, poisonous brown gecko, whose unpleasant voice calling
“Becky! Becky! Becky!” in measured gasps, six times, over and over
again, is the actual, material nightmare of the tropics.
British tourists, unmindful of the offending of their own India in
more vital matters, berate and scorn the tiny water-pitcher and basin
of the Java hotels, brought from the continent of Europe unchanged;
and rage at the custom of guests in Java hotels emptying their
basins out of doors or windows on tropical shrubbery or courtyard
pavings at will. There are swimming-pools at some hotels and in
many private houses, but the usual bath-room of the land offers the
traveler a barrel and a dipper. One is expected to ladle the water out
and dash it over him in broken doses, and as the swimming-pool is a
rinsing-tub for the many, the individual is besought not to use soap.
Naturally the British tourist’s invectives are deep and loud and long,
and he will not believe that the dipper-bath is more cooling than to
soak and soap and scour in a comfortable tub of his own. He will not
be silenced or comforted in this tubless tropical land, which, if it had
only remained under British rule, might be—would be—etc. All
suffering tourists agree with him, however, that the worst laundering
in the world befalls one’s linen in Java, the cloth-destroying, button-
exterminating dhobie man of Ceylon and India being a careful and
conscientious artist beside the clothes-pounder of Java. In making
the great circle of the earth westward one leaves the last of laundry
luxury at Singapore, and continues to suffer until, in the sub-stratum
of French civilization in Egypt, he finds the blanchisseuse.
The order of living is the same at the up-country hotels as at
Batavia, and the charges are the same everywhere in Java,
averaging about three dollars gold each day, everything save wine
included; and at Buitenzorg corkage was charged on the bottle of
filtered water which a dyspeptic tourist manufactured with a patent
apparatus he carried with him. Landlords do not recognize nor deal
with fractions of days, if they can help it, in charging one for board on
this “American plan”; but when that reckless royal tourist, the King of
Siam, makes battle over his Java hotel bills, lesser travelers may
well take courage and follow his example. The King of Siam has
erected commemorative columns crowned with white marble
elephants, as souvenirs of his visits to Singapore and Batavia, and
after the king’s financial victory over Buitenzorg and Garoet hotels,
the tourist sees the white elephant as a symbol of victory more
personally and immediately significant than the lion on the Waterloo
column. It has been said that “no invalid nor dyspeptic should enter
the portals of a Java hotel,” and this cannot be insisted upon too
strongly, to deter any such sufferers from braving the sunrise
breakfasts and bad coffee, the heavy riz tavel, and the long-delayed
dinner-hour, solely for the sake of tropical scenery and vegetation,
and a study of Dutch colonial life.
 VI
A DUTCH SANS SOUCI

At daylight we saw that our portico looked full upon the front of
Mount Salak, green to the very summit with plantations and primeval
forests. Deep down below us lay a valley of Eden, where thousands
of palm-trees were in constant motion, their branches bending,
swaying, and fluttering as softly as ostrich-plumes to the eye, but
with a strange, harsh, metallic rustle and clash, different from the
whispers and sighs and cooing sounds of temperate foliage. As
stronger winds threshed the heavy leaves, the level of the valley
rippled and tossed in green billows like a barley-field. There was a
basket village on the river-bank, where tropic life went on in as plain
pantomime as in any stage presentation. At sunrise the people came
out of their fragile toy houses, stretched their arms to the sky and
yawned, took a swim in the river, and then gathered in the dewy
shade to eat their morning curry and rice from their plantain-leaf
plates. Then the baskets and cooking-utensils were held in the swift-
flowing stream,—such a fastidious, ideal, adorable sort of dish-
washing!—and the little community turned to its daily vocations. The
men went away to work, or sat hammering and hewing with
implements strangely Japanese, and held in each instance in the
Japanese way. The women pounded and switched clothing to and
fro in the stream, and spread it out in white and brilliant-colored
mosaics on the bank to dry. They plaited baskets and painted
sarongs, and the happy brown children, in nature’s dress, rolled at
play under the cocoanut-trees, or splashed like young frogs in and
out of the stream.
 MOUNT SALAK, FROM THE RESIDENT’S GARDEN, BUITENZORG.

While this went on below, and we watched the dark indigo mass of
Salak turning from purple and azure to sunlit greens in the light of
early day, the breakfast of the country was brought to our porch: cold
toast, cold meats, eggs, fruit, tea or the very worst coffee in all the
world—something that even the American railway restaurant and
frontier hotel would spurn with scorn. Java coffee, in Java, comes to
one in a stoppered glass bottle or cruet, a dark-brown fluid that might
as well be walnut catsup, old port, or New Orleans molasses. This
double extract of coffee, made by cold filtration, is diluted with hot
water and hot milk to a muddy, gray-brown, lukewarm drink, that is
uniformly bad in every hotel and public place of refreshment that a
tourist encounters on the island. In private houses, where the fine
Arabian berry is toasted and powdered, and the extract made fresh
each day, the morning draught is quite another fluid, and worthy the
cachet the name of Java gives to coffee in far countries.
 Buitenzorg, the Bogor of the natives, who will not call it by its
newer name, is one of the enchanted spots where days can slip by
in dateless delight; one forgets the calendar and the flight of time,
and hardly remembers the heavy, sickening heat of Batavia stewing
away on the plains below. It is the Versailles of the island, the seat of
the governor-general’s court, and the social life of the colony, a
resort for officials and the leisure class, and for invalids and the
delicate, who find strength in the clear, fresh air of the hills, the cool
nights, and the serenely tempered days, each with its reviving
shower the year round. Buitenzorg is the Simla of Netherlands India,
but it awaits its Kipling to record its social life in clear-cut,
instantaneous pictures. There are strange pictures for the Kipling to
sketch, too, since the sarong and the native jacket are as much the
regular morning dress for ladies at the cool, breezy hill-station as in
sweltering Batavia, a fact rather disproving the lowland argument
that the heat demands such extraordinary concessions in costume.
But as that “Bengal Civilian” who wrote “De Zieke Reiziger; or,
Rambles in Java in 1852,” and commented so freely upon Dutch
costume, cuisine, and Sabbath-keeping, succeeded, Mr. Money said,
in shutting every door to the English traveler for years afterward, and
added extra annoyances to the toelatings-kaart system, budding and
alien Kiplings may take warning.
The famous Botanical Garden at Buitenzorg is the great show-
place, the paradise and pride of the island. The Dutch are
acknowledgedly the best horticulturists of Europe, and with the heat
of a tropical sun, a daily shower, and nearly a century’s well-directed
efforts, they have made Buitenzorg’s garden first of its kind in the
world, despite the rival efforts of the French at Saigon, and of the
British at Singapore, Ceylon, Calcutta, and Jamaica. The governor-
general’s palace, greatly enlarged from the first villa of 1744, is in the
midst of the ninety-acre inclosure reached from the main gate, near
the hotel and the passer, by what is undoubtedly the finest avenue of
trees in the world. These graceful kanari-trees, arching one hundred
feet overhead in a great green cathedral aisle, have tall, straight
trunks covered with stag-horn ferns, bird’s-nest ferns, ratans,
creeping palms, blooming orchids, and every kind of parasite and
air-plant the climate allows; and there is a fairy lake of lotus and
Victoria regia beside it, with pandanus and red-stemmed Banka
palms crowded in a great sheaf or bouquet on a tiny islet. When one
rides through this green avenue in the dewy freshness of the early
morning, it seems as though nature and the tropics could do no
more, until he has penetrated the tunnels of waringen-trees, the
open avenues of royal palms, the great plantation of a thousand
palms, the grove of tree-fern, and the frangipani thicket, and has
reached the knoll commanding a view of the double summit of
Gedeh and Pangerango, vaporous blue volcanic heights, from one
peak of which a faint streamer of smoke perpetually floats. There is a
broad lawn at the front of the palace, shaded with great waringen-,
sausage-, and candle-trees, and trees whose branches are hidden in
a mantle of vivid-leafed bougainvillea vines, with deer wandering and
grouping themselves in as correct park pictures as if under branches
of elm or oak, or beside the conventional ivied trunks of the North.
It is a tropical experience to reverse an umbrella and in a few
minutes fill it with golden-hearted white frangipani blossoms, or to
find nutmegs lying as thick as acorns on the ground, and break their
green outer shell and see the fine coral branches of mace
enveloping the dark kernel. It is a delight, too, to see mangosteens
and rambutans growing, to find bread, sausages, and candles
hanging in plenty from benevolent trees, and other fruits and strange
flowers springing from a tree’s trunk instead of from its branches.
There are thick groves and regular avenues of the waringen, a
species of Ficus, and related to the banian- and the rubber-tree, a
whole family whose roots crawl above the ground, drop from the
branches and generally comport themselves in unconventional ways.
Bamboos grow in clumps and thickets, ranging from the fine,
feathery-leafed canes, that are really only large grasses, up to the
noble giants from Burma, whose stems are more nearly trunks easily
soaring to a hundred feet in air, and spreading there a solid canopy
of graceful foliage.
The creepers run from tree to tree, and writhe over the ground like
gray serpents; ratans and climbing palms one hundred feet in length
are common, while uncommon ones stretch to five hundred feet.
There is one creeper with a blossom like a magnified white violet,
and with all a wood-violet’s fragrance; but with only Dutch and
botanical names on the labels, one wanders ignorantly and
protestingly in this paradise of strange things. The rarer orchids are
grown in matted sheds in the shade of tall trees; and although we
saw them at the end of the dry season, and few plants were in
bloom, there was still an attractive orchid-show.
But the strangest, most conspicuous bloom in that choice corner
was a great butterfly flower of a pitcher-plant (a nepenthes), whose
pale-green petals were veined with velvety maroon, and half
concealed the pelican pouch of a pitcher filled with water. It was an
evil-looking, ill-smelling, sticky thing, and its unusual size and striking
colors made it haunt one longest of all vegetable marvels. There
were other more attractive butterflies fluttering on pliant stems,
strange little woolly white orchids, like edelweiss transplanted, and
scores of delicate Java and Borneo orchids, not so well known as
the Venezuelan and Central American orchids commonly grown in
American hothouses, and so impossible to acclimate in Java.
Lady Raffles died while Sir Stamford was governor of Java, and
was buried in the section of the palace park that was afterward (in
1817) set apart as a botanical garden, and the care of the little Greek
temple over her grave near the kanari avenue was provided for in a
special clause in the treaty of cession. The bust of Theismann, who
founded the garden and added so much to botanical knowledge by
his studies in Java and Borneo, stands in an oval pleasance called
the rose-garden; and there one may take heart and boast of the
temperate zone, since that rare exotic, the rose, is but a spindling
bush, and its blossoming less than scanty at Buitenzorg, when one
remembers California’s, and more especially Tacoma’s, perennial
prodigalities in showers of roses. In 1895 Professor Lotsy of Johns
Hopkins University, Baltimore, was called to assist the learned
curator, Dr. Treub, in the management of this famous Hortus
Bogoriensis, which provides laboratory and working-space for, and
invites foreign botanists freely to avail themselves of, this unique
opportunity of study. Over one hundred native gardeners tend and
care for this great botanic museum of more than nine thousand living
specimens, all working under the direction of a white head-gardener.
The Tjiliwong River separates the botanic garden from a culture-
garden of forty acres, where seventy more gardeners look to the
economic plants—the various cinchonas, sugar-canes, rubber, tea,
coffee, gums, spices, hemp, and other growths, whose introduction
to the colony has so benefited the planters. Experiments in
acclimatization are carried on in the culture-garden, and at the
experimental garden at Tjibodas, high up on the slopes of Salak,
where the governor-general has a third palace, and there is a
government hospital and sanatorium.
Theismann’s famous museum of living twig- and leaf-insects was
abandoned some years ago, the curator deciding to keep his garden
strictly to botanical lines. One no longer has the pleasure of seeing
there those curious and most extraordinary freaks of nature—the
fresh green or dry and dead-looking twigs that suddenly turn their
heads or bend their long angular legs and move away; or leaves, as
delusive in their way, that detach themselves from a tree-branch and
fly away. These insects bearing so astonishing a resemblance to
their environment may be purchased now and then from Chinese
gardeners; but otherwise, if one asks where they can be found or
seen, there comes the usual answer, “In Borneo or Celebes,”—
always on the farther, remoter islands,—tropic wonders taking wing
like the leaf-insects when one reaches their reputed haunts.
All Java is in a way as finished as little Holland itself, the whole
island cultivated from edge to edge like a tulip-garden, and
connected throughout its length with post-roads smooth and perfect
as park drives, all arched with waringen-, kanari-, tamarind-, or teak-
trees. The rank and tangled jungle is invisible, save by long journeys;
and great snakes, wild tigers, and rhinoceroses are almost unknown
now. One must go to Borneo and the farther islands to see them,
too. All the valleys, plains, and hillsides are planted in formal rows,
hedged, terraced, banked, drained, and carefully weeded as a
flower-bed. The drives are of endless beauty, whichever way one
turns from Buitenzorg, and we made triumphal progresses through
the kanari- and waringen-lined streets in an enormous “milord.” The
equipage measured all of twenty feet from the tip of the pole to the
footman’s perch behind, and with a cracking whip and at a rattling
gait we dashed through shady roads, past Dutch barracks and
hospitals, over picturesque bridges, and through villages where the
native children jumped and clapped their hands with glee as the
great Juggernaut vehicle rolled by. We visited the grave of Raden
Saleh, a lonely little pavilion or temple in a tangle of shrubbery that
was once a lovely garden shaded by tall cocoa-palms; and we drove
to Batoe Toelis, “the place of the written stone,” and in the little
thatched basket of a temple saw the sacred stone inscribed in
ancient Kawi characters, the original classic language of the
Javanese. In another basket shrine were shown the veritable
footprints of Buddha, with no explanation as to how and when he
rested on the island, nor yet how he happened to have such long,
distinctively Malay toes. Near these temples is the villa where the
poor African prince of Ashantee was so long detained in exile—an
African chief whose European education had turned his mind to
geology and natural sciences, and who led the life of a quiet student
here until, by the exchange from Dutch to British ownership of
Ashantee, a way was opened for him to return and die in his own
country. There is a magnificent view from the Ashantee villa out over
a great green plain and a valley of palms to the peaks of Gedeh and
Pangerango, and to their volcanic neighbor, Salak, silent for two
hundred years. Peasants, trooping along the valley roads far below,
made use of a picturesque bamboo bridge that is accounted one of
the famous sights of the neighborhood, and seemed but processions
of ants crossing a spider’s web. All the suburban roads are so many
botanical exhibitions approaching that in the great garden, and one’s
interest is claimed at every yard and turn.
 FRANGIPANI AND SAUSAGE-TREE.

It takes a little time for the temperate mind to accept the palm-tree
as a common, natural, and inevitable object in every outlook and
landscape; to realize that the joyous, living thing with restless,
perpetually threshing foliage is the same correct, symmetrical,
motionless feather-duster on end that one knows in the still life of
hothouses and drawing-rooms at home; to realize that it grows in the
ground, and not in a pot or tub to be brought indoors for the winter
season. The arches of gigantic kanari-trees growing over by-lanes
and village paths, although intended for triumphal avenues and
palace driveways, overpower one with the mad extravagance, the
reckless waste, and the splendid luxury of nature. One cannot
accept these things at first as utilities, just as it shocks one to have a
servant black his shoes with bruised hibiscus flowers or mangosteen
rind, or remove rust from kris- or knife-blades with pineapple-juice,
thrusting a blade through and through the body of the pine. The