Many have their first experiences with the psychedelics in group ceremonies, often presided over by a shaman – a facilitator steeped in the use of these medicines. One October weekend, I was invited to join just such a ceremony held in the desert with facilitators from a community of therapists from San Francisco engaged in the shamanic path of healing. While the sun held sway during the day when I arrived, it was a full moon that laid claim to the cold desert night. In the evening they exchanged positions, like silent sentinels, with the sunset falling in the western sky and moonrise directly to the east. We were, in fact, a large group, though mostly strangers to each other and yet all connected by the idea of better understanding ourselves, our lives, and our existence in human form. For myself, the communal ceremony is a nice way to restore something sacred to a life rendered rather individualistic, tidy and commonplace – given the great abundance of food, shelter, and entertainment available to us at beckon call.
I knew that despite what I had learned from my previous experiences there was still much to be known, and the feeling that I was missing something followed me ever closely during slow car trip down. I felt that my coming to the desert would help me know myself deeper, remember the sacred within, and regain my voice – that call of the wild, which had been long muted by the lack of emotional support I suffered within the family and the years of schooling with others far more unconscious than thou. The truth is, I felt that I had lost that innermost primal voice – that which expresses both the pain and joy of being a human. Whatever comes up, I thought, let that pain be your path to joy. Yet, what would my voice even sound like, I pondered? Sitting alone the next morning in the midst of a long meditative period, I posed that question to myself in prose and received answer in return:
The desert came to find my voice, quieted years ago
What song does your soul sing, my child?
“Oh, I know not – for the conformity, complacency, and spiritual desolation of manhood are but poor ransom for the joys of early youth”
With no respite from this oft frightening world – and far apart from the pastoral vistas of my previous incarnation – my voice had become silent, my song hidden
“Yet, perhaps it lies there – hidden deep within, bidding dormancy ‘till some spring ushers forth what you have lost or long forgotten,” it said.
“Perhaps it’s a glorious voice – strong and sweet, lacking in fear, and hopeful for oneness?”
“Perhaps it’s the roar of man, as he scatters the dust from his primate awareness and bellows his earthly presence?”
I feel that the universe longs for that voice
The universe needs it to be heard
“Never mind the time passed,” it told me
“Never mind the reign of silence”
“Forget that which you did or did not do, because you had lost your voice”
“It’s time to awaken and sing the song – scatter your narratives to the wind and rocks”
“Behold the warrior you are”
“Behold – you are nothing, you are everything”
Yet as I drove on, unknowing what I’d experience and despite having had a mild case of the flu a few days earlier, I furthered south hoping to discover something sacred – something yet unrevealed that would invigorate my soul, justify my search for the unknown, and lead me to a more equanimous state of awareness and existence. I wanted that adrenaline-like rush of feeling like every day is an open-ended vacation in some place exotic, warm and exciting – like the palpable feel of being free in a foreign city with time on your hands, places to see, and friends to meet. Like being twenty-something once again and strolling the teeming streets of the West village in the hot New York City summer – young, beautiful, and open to all possibilities. Like canoeing a cold deep-water lake in Algonquin park on an early summer morning – the cool water dripping off the paddle onto bared arms and the morning sun reflecting in the black waters. Like being held tightly in the arms of someone that once rocked your world and who you loved so deeply back. That every day we live should evoke such memories!
So it was in the dark and cold of the desert on that first evening, the journey inward began. Although not entirely recovered from illness I forced my body to be well enough, for the retreat was to include powerful back-to-back journeys, with deep meditations and revealing insights squeezed in between. After a brief get-together to wish ourselves a successful journey and to say a-ho (thank you, amen or so be it) to the four directions, I lay down in my sleeping bag and tried to stay warm, in spite of the cold and lingering remnants of fever. The MDMA I had taken came on mildly and I slipped into a nice, but not particularly eventful, trip. What came up were thoughts of the different women who decorate my daily life – a triumvirate needed to provide a delicate balance of companionship and family, friendship, and spiritual guidance. Yet I wondered why do I need three to do the job of one, when together they barely make a whole. And I realized that this isn’t right action and that I did not need to depend on them, but rather that I should provide these missing things to myself directly. I wondered from where this deep-seated need for female affection and emotional support arises? However, perhaps due to my lingering exhaustion from sickness and the long drive down, no conclusion was reached – only a fitful sleep in the cold stillness of the desert.
