Dixie Cup of Rain

     Rain came after the full moon, keeping us inside.  Maybe that's why Nepali believe it bad luck to travel on certain lunar days.  I didn't tell him this.  I let him book the cabin he was so set on, despite its sparse availability.  Had we followed superstition, we'd have traveled on that rainy day, spent the subsequent in  sun and forest.  But we drove down with the full moon, rain in tow.  A steady drizzle from dawn to dusk.  

    I geared up for our hike with a poncho; him with water, snacks, sage, a fully-charged battery and probably a backup.  The forest rangers and their orange cones halted our muddy Subaru tracks.  "Trails closed 'til tomorrow," they grunted from trucks, exhaust vanishing into cold fog.  Law enforcement, along with the elements, nudged us back inside.  Inward. To a landscape presenting more challenges than treacherous, icy trails and all day downpours.  Or so I'd believed, based on my initial approach two years prior, alone and unprepared.

  

    This time, I had a companion, honed skills of breathwork and meditation, and also science on my side.  The scale assured 2.17 grams, fitting for February 17, the last day of Aquarius season.  I looked at the enormous, single shroom held to my heart; listened for its secret song at my ear; called upon spirit keepers of the 4 directions; drew sacred Reiki symbols; settled on the journey's intention. 

    Cheers.  Chew.  Chew. Chew.

    We spoke briefly.  I went to the bathroom, noting the paradox of my haste, rushing to wait on my yoga mat for the psilocybin's effects.

    Surrender, I reminded with a final glance at my widening pupils in the mirror.  

    5 minutes had passed on the wall clock.  

    How will we get through the next 5 hours? 

    Music.  This time, not with Gregorian chants reminiscent of an austere, Catholic upbringing, but rather ragas and sitars, years of yoga songs on shuffle.  I closed my eyes and stretched, seeing Alex Grey-esq patterns beginning to texturize my inner vision. 

    "Oh mushrooms, thank you for your teachings," my partner grinned, rising from a child's pose for water.  

    Thank you.  The mantra from Kambo.  For whatever thought, image, effect, emotion would arise.  Awed by his humility, I prayed, Thank you: for your presence, guidance, teachings. 

Alex Grey Art

    A black, galaxy human figure emerged from my third eye, extending a hand, the gesture dissolving my last ounce of agency.  There was no decision, no choice.  Like it or not, I was going along.  But... there was no "I" to buckle up.  Rather, what was left, my essence, expressed a resounding YES.

    And so, how can I describe an experience for which "I" was not fully present? 

    Alas, as a writer and psychonaut, I'm self-condemned to distilling it into cumbersome language, infinite combinations of 26 letters that can never capture this Supreme Reality.  

    There were rainbow, geometric designs morphing to the music.  Black text on white page simply cannot convey the colorful magic.  The mushrooms acted like a prism, dissecting the music into various instruments, rhythms, and lyrical subtext.  My body sought solace in a seated forward fold, head in my hands.   "Complete ego surrender," Smeagol later diagnosed.  The blanket around my shoulders melted into layers of love and support--from friends, family, the yoga and psychedelic community for holding space for these experiences, psychoeducation preparation, and integrative discussions.  

    With "I", the Inner Critic nowhere to be found, there was an inundation of gratitude and love for my Self; for my partner his work to express This Energy.  Prior conversations with friends and mentors echoed, this time intuition cranked to highlight soft points I'd ignored for something louder, me-centric.  

    Without words or pictures, the medicine showed me energetically how to live this Love in my interactions, big or small.  It leaked through laughter and tears, combining in ecstasy and expressed in soft moans, assuring my partner's silent inquiry that all was well.  The words that could be vocalized were "Thank you" and "I love you", 2 of the 4 phrases that could encompass all human expression, according to my Mexican shaman. 

    When my body surfaced for water, secret shapes and colors emerged from white walls.  The communication between trees was beyond comprehension.  I returned to the only place that made sense--the endless interior that I'd once feared, moist hands over my eyes, thumbs massaging temples.

    After an exquisite mantra, we simultaneously felt vocal, voting to listen to the rain orchestra, the symphony of a distant, running fridge, and share some insights.  The clock had sped hours ahead in what felt like a mere moment, expanded into infinity.  My attempt to express that gratitude and Love was like using Dixie cups to catch the ocean.  

    Even now, how do I share stories of this epic party (in the metaphor of Duncan Trussel) that I attended, that's still happening?  My party favors were sagacious gems about my self and Self, about behaviors, habits, words, and actions I can take to reflect that Love in my daily grind.  It's my attempt here.  To educate through anecdotal experience.  To see magic in the mundane as I take an aimless walk. To develop a practice of gratitude while falling asleep and waking up.  To express that humanitarian Love to my not-yet-friends.  By sharing a small gift, a kind word, digging deep for that last ounce of patience with my mother when I'm in a rush.  

    The medicine meets you where you are, illuminating the work you've done and what you have left to do.

    This is my work here.  A Dixie cup of experience, doused onto a few pages.  

    My unsolicited advice is to go within, to explore this Supreme Reality that we are too often shut off to, whether through psychedelics or meditation.  Hopefully both. 

    The Rain brought me inside.  Like salt, "I" dissolved with illusory control, unfurling in the opportunity to behold all that there is.