Ayahuasca Mind Part 2

Silent Murmurs and Moth Tobacco

Learning to Follow

The image of a yogi living inside the deep flow of long breaths with the body posture of a sculpted lotus attracts me like a moth determined to reach the light. I follow the image down a winding wooden corridor and into the maloca, our ceremonial structure. The half dome ceiling spirals upward toward the central connective apex and directly below sits the ayahuasquero Don E. ritually preparing each cup of medicine by invoking the help of God and blessing it with mapacho smoke.

Mapacho Interlude

All the tobacco that sprouts up within the biosphere can be (for convienence) seperated into two latinized categories, nicotiana tabacum and nicotiana rustica. The former is stuffed into the over-priced tax-dense cigarettes most Americians (and others) smoke and die from --- along with a lovely barrage of over 500 toxins. Mapacho’s are made from the latter, a native species of the Amazonian region. The deadly additives lovingly approved by various government agencies are not to be found in these rolled up wonders--- YES AND ALSO: they’re about 20 times stronger, a hell of a lot cheaper (50 for $3), and haven’t been linked to the development of cancers.  Although it might sound strange to westerners who’ve been indoctrinated into the “tobacco-bad” mindset, healers in this region known as tabaquero’s exclusively use this sacred plant to work on their patients. In ayahuasca ceremonies, the curandero (healer) blows mapacho smoke over the medicine cup to charge it with her, or his, intention. Patients are also advised to consciously blow mapacho smoke inside their shirts, over their hands, and around their head to create a protective shield conducive to healing.

Ceremony One: The Undulating Mouthpiece

The glittering blue photons of a flashlight pierce the darkness and create a floating bridge connecting Don E.’s being to mine. I slowly rise and walk over to sit in front of him. With reverence I grasp the cup of medicine and silently repeat my intention and then, fearing an unpleasant taste, quickly gulp it down...

...“Not bad, kinda sweet” I silently murmur to myself (never again do I silently murmur this to myself).

The medicine is ritually gifted to everyone participating in the circle. A few moments of silence permeate the space as everyone generates a positive internal environment to launch from. Don E. begins a soft susurrus melody that quickly grows into a complex solo symphony. For thirty minutes these incomprehensible Shipibo icaros (healing songs) flow from his mouth, undulating from ripple-like feminine melodies to tsunami warrior masculine howls. He has become a mouthpiece for Spirit to sing through. Inside the web of a slow melody, Don E.’s being shifts into a dying walrus mimicking a blue’s singer expressing, well, the blues. As the icaros continue he morphs into a reclining old woman with long, swirling black hair before dissolving into the faint outline of a jaguar.

“Matt would you like to sing?”

Hmm…a moment of hesitation emerges as I contemplate being the first one to sing while deeply mareacion (“tripping balls”) in front of a bunch of people I barely know? The formations of an answer meticulously climb through dense saliva trenches and shout to my contemplative mind, “Fuck it, why not!” Although my body jitters like a nervous hummingbird withdrawing from coke, my rational mind continues to operate as if the whole world hadn’t shifted.

“Sure I’d like to sing”

So I sit back with closed eyes and tilt my head -- deep breath in, deep breath out. I’ve been around myself long enough to know the sound of my own voice, and this wasn’t it. It seems a transitory nightgig composed of several disembodied indigenous women squished together between my teeth (being disembodied, they don’t mind the tight space) help me sing with a rare vocal subtlety. As the act ends and my mouth closes, they head off...possibly to go help the others. We each take turns giving form to a unique vocal ecstasy and then, with applause, graciously fade back into the dark jungle night. Tears of joy flow down the contours of my grinning face.

The Whispy Maid

As the ceremony continues my river-fed eyes shrivel up to allow the dry bedrock of analysis to display its necessary form and I walk over this jumble of rocks and reflect. It seems that I (and many others) lock into ego-narrative’s that grow off a foundation of conclusions built during arrogant teenage years when “everything was known”. Oftentimes these little stories are deeply inadequate and need to go. So, with my heightened perception, I call out for these little stories to present themselves and when they do, I transfigure their form into wisps of smoke that rise like excess steam through the maloca roof.

“I don’t need you anymore” I keep repeating.

The maid inside me starts cleaning the dusty closets, throwing away aspects of my ego often left untouched, such as the intense yearning to prove myself to some “other”, whether it be parents, peers, or society.  Is there some final entity that will release me from this game once I prove myself to it?

A resounding “Yes!” The final entity is me.

The ancient Kemetians (or “Ancient Egyptians” if you prefer) understood this principle deeply. Their mapping of the after-death state included a “weighing of the soul” performed by the soul who lived that weight. It was you, the highest vision of you, that determined the quality of your life. Later Christian traditions bastardized this ethic and sold the idea that some outside agency, often personified as a Male Judge, measured the weight of your soul.  If the good-pious marks outweighed the bad-sinful marks then you go to heaven (replace “heaven” with “diploma-success” and you get public education), and if vice versa then you burn in hell for an eternity….. “but He loves you” cries George Carlin. The word “sin” itself derives from a Greek archery term meaning “to miss the mark”, it’s not some absolute Evil action, rather it’s a small mishap that requires you to re-draw your “bow”, aim again, and release. To wallow in pity and guilt not only increases the sum-total of self-violence wafting around but it hands over the act of “weighing your soul” to religious-political authorities who might not have your best interests at heart.

Can I get an amen.... and possibly some of that tithe money too!