Journey Beyond
March 6, 2021
Dear Hunter,
I'm sitting on a teak bench in front of the Great House, overlooking the valley shrouded in lavender mist. Where do I start with describing this journey with psilocybin, this team of human angels, these brave and grieving parents? As our guides prepared the journey room, we gathered outside in a cleared space behind the garden. After opening the circle with a prayer to the four directions, we were invited to create an earth mandala together, gathering seed pods, shells, flowers, and sticks. We silently placed them around a huge flowerpot that served as the centerpiece. I felt at home in this quiet collaboration, noticing my body sensations more deeply each time I left the mandala to gather more materials . . . nutmeg, dried yellow flowers, furled leaves larger than an outstretched hand.
Once complete, we each shared a word representing how we felt in that moment. My word was “inspired,” though other words, like quiet, grateful, and trusting, also came. Then we were asked to stay silent as we spent the next two hours alone preparing. We were invited to sit quietly, walk, swim, and pray. It was two long hours, and I felt anticipation building in my bones. I walked barefoot on the soft, moist grass to ground myself. I danced in the pool, savoring the sun, the flow of water around my limbs, the play of light reflecting the sky and foliage.
At eleven a.m., we gathered in the yoga shala, which juts out from a hill such that we were at eye level with the top of the palm trees. We were shown to our mats and given an eye mask and water. After placing photos of our children on the altar, we were handed a ceramic plate with honey, fresh psilocybin mushrooms, and cacao beans. We called in the four directions and took a private moment to name our intention, then we dipped the mushrooms in the honey and slowly chewed. They tasted different from the dried ones I remember from my twenties—they were earthy, bland, and slightly salty. Once everyone finished, we lay down, put on the eye mask, and allowed the music to softly coax us into inner realms.
Your strongest message was that we are poets. Together, we are messengers, and our energies will blend through word and water. You told me we would be known nationally and internationally, but I should not worry about that; it is of no concern now. You were so clear and had so much to say that I can’t begin to write it down. This is our calling together. We will heal ourselves and others through poetry.
You were with me the entire journey—sitting with me, wrapping me up, apologizing, and telling me how grateful you are for how I loved you, what I introduced you to, and how I prepared you for where you are now. I experienced small battles with my ego throughout the journey. I would be deeply in my experience, then pop out and worry about how others perceived me. I was surprised by cellular memories of wanting to be good, accepted, and living up to people's standards. I think this comes from Mom's lineage. I went through a long piece about my grandfather’s grief from losing his first wife and two babies. Although I tapped into Grandma's pain, it was his that I had to release and heal from our ancestral line. He apologized for the way his undigested grief damaged my mom. She could never replace the two dead babies, take the pain away, or be enough to remove the fear of losing another child. Her heart had no place to land. She was cherished and distanced at the same time. When her brother was born, she was sidelined, further pushing her from connection, sensitivity, and emotion. She learned to reside in her head, in the safe recesses of cognition, where longing for love was far removed, where reflection was limited to academic achievement.
I wailed so deeply and was cared for tenderly as I descended into the dark pool of sorrow. My guide comforted me at one point, taking my hand when I reached for her, showing me that I was safe, loved, and held. There were moments when I needed water or a cold cloth, and I struggled to ask, form the words, and allow myself to need help. Yet when I found a way, there was immediate support. You showed me how to ground my energy by putting my hand in water and stroking my body with the cool liquid. At one point, I slowly poured water on my head and allowed it to drip down my face. It was delicious.
I don't know when John came to sit with me, but I know he was beside me for hours. His huge hands, long, trunk-like legs, and presence helped me stay with my process. He felt safe from the moment I met him despite having little connection before the journey. I clung to his leg, finding comfort in this huge, tender man, knowing that this, too, was your love—this was the type of man you were becoming. I also felt Dad's presence in his arms, even flashed on all the men I've loved. I miss you and your masculine energy.
I noticed throughout the journey my tendency to jump ahead—to think of people this work would serve. I was obsessed about how the other parents in the group lost their children. The suicides haunt me, and I'm uncertain why. One of these boys had everything going for him at seventeen, yet in a moment of despair induced by alcohol and who knows what else, he formed a noose, hung the rope from his garage ceiling, and kicked away the chair, leaving his parents to find his cold, swaying body. These scenes stir me to the core. Why do they grip me more than Toni finding you unresponsive in your room, trying to do CPR, desperately calling me, 911, family, and her rabbi? How do I release these imaginings of other people's traumas?
In the middle of the journey, I asked what was blocking my ability to access clairvoyance. I heard: You are holding yourself back from all that you are. You care too much about what people think. You must move from the source, the authentic voice of poetry, dance, music, and art. The more you blend with Hunter, the more poetry and song will move through you, and the clearer your vision will be. No need to rush—this will come. A teacher will come. You are quite not ready yet. Then, a bit later I heard: We've cleared the way; the veil is lifted. I’m still afraid to take up space—to move how my body longs to move and sing as I've longed to sing. I’m confused between wanting to be seen, loved, and reflected and daring to share my soul with the world. However, I know that authenticity heals. It invites others to be vulnerable and builds walkways between heart and soul.
As I journeyed, you showed me over and over how generous I am—little scenes crossing my mind like the things I do for Amy and Aspen, the ways I put everything aside to help you when you needed me, and sharing my resources, skills, and money with friends. You showed me this to illustrate that some part of me still believes what a participant in a workshop said to me over thirty years ago: “You are a taker,” this man twice my age said. I was a very tender twenty-three-year-old, and this comment bit into my soul. You wanted me to let go of that wound. I am not a taker. I am a human longing to belong, to be seen, to find my voice. It was as if you took my face in your hands and made me look into your eyes so I could see the woman and mother you see. With so much love, you looked at me, held my gaze, and begged me to know the truth.
You told me I can be fully embodied and comfortable in my skin, expressing exactly what needs to be said. I can dance my journey with grief, sing from my soul, and write poetry that heals, unfolds, and speaks directly to the heart. I can make my remaining years on this planet a sacred offering, and to do that, I must quiet my ego and release the fear of being one hundred percent myself, as big and bold and quiet and confident and vulnerable as I am. You said that, and I’m grateful. Several others in the group said you also visited them during the journey. That was really special.
I’m honored you showed up so beautifully for all of us,
Mama
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