Ayahuasca diaries: letter from a forgotten grandmother

My dear ones, my lost children of darkness and light. I come from your present and future past, from all that you have been, and from your hopes and dreams. I have been calling you for a long time, but your ears were deaf to my song.

Perhaps you have found your way to me after a dark night of the soul. I cannot promise to deliver you into the light. But I can sit with you, for a while, as you learn to light your own candles. And it is possible that your night will get darker still, and that you will need to carry many candles before the dawn appears.

My dear ones, do not look to me to heal you from your wounds or to save you from yourselves. I cannot do it. All shades of plastic healers and tricksters have said that I can cure everything from cancer to depression. But the truth is, I cure nothing. And my shamans, they cure nothing. I am the flesh and the spirit of the sacred wisdom of the earth, of the plants, animals and birds, and of the stars and moon, which I reflect back to you in your own visions. I am the stuff of dreams – even though sometimes in me you can see only your own nightmares. I am the mirror of your soul, I am the mirror of the soul of ages, and the soul of the ageless. When you behold me, you enter the realm of the bardo, of your own symbolic death; and in that realm it is not external beings that you see – angels and demons and malevolent spirits, or gods and sorcerers and devils. What you encounter are your own heights and abysses, your shadows and projections. I am the mirror that is calling you to stop running and to turn around. To face your own evasions and to witness the countless ways in which you’ve learned to hide. So that you can better know yourselves. And to decipher, behind it all, your own greatness. In the end, you must become your own healers and shamans. I can only walk with you, for a while, and hold your hand. But the journey is yours to make. And it is a journey you must repeat, everyday. It will take you from illusion to reality, from the consensus trance of a mad world to the sanity and stillness of your heart, and from the death of a lifetime of quiet desperation to the immortality of an instant. Let us share our dreams, together.

My dear children, the rooms in your house are a chaos. The house of your soul and the house of the earth on which you tread your feet, not lightly. I cannot put those rooms right for you. I cannot be a mother/father that admonishes you, with a stern voice of authority, to clean your rooms, under the threat of punishment or the promise of reward. That is not how grandmothers speak. I can tell you, with a voice that echoes the vibrations of love and understanding, and the melancholy of quiet sorrow: look at the huge mess you have made. Are you happy dwelling in this chaos, where it is difficult to encounter yourselves, difficult to find your belongings, where all your toys lay scattered and buried under the rubble of madness? Can you not see that if you choose to clean your own rooms, not because of any compulsion or promise, but just so, for yourselves, and in this present moment, which is all you can ever know of time, then you will be able to breathe better, to move around more easily, and to learn how to play. Once more. There are so many lost treasures beneath the mess you have made. Find them.

My dear ones, my lost children of darkness and light. You see the cosmos as a stage on which the drama of good and evil is played out. You dream of a sword of light that would conquer and vanquish all the darkness. And you have made the whole world into a projection of the battlefield of your own souls. You fight, endlessly, against the monsters and demons within yourselves. But those demons are the wounded inner children of your past, they are your pains and your defenses, they are the voices that could not emerge into the light and learned to live in forgotten caves. They are your insanity. And they are your innocence. They are you. And those others who you rage against, because of their ignorance, and stupidity, and immorality, and ugliness… they are also you. Lay down your weapons and embrace your enemies. Especially those enemies that live inside you. Haven’t you understood – no battles are ever won. They are not even fought. The battlefield only reveals your own folly and despair, and victory is the illusion of philosophers and fools.

My dear ones. Let us learn to dream, together. This moment is all you can ever know of time.

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3 comments

  1. Well that was weird–and refreshing at the same time. An excellent, mysterious piece of writing, you pulled me in at the first paragraph and had me reading to the end, wondering if this was a piece of fiction, a vision you had or some kind of channeling experience. Whatever it was, thanks.

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