for my dad

I built an alter for my father tonight
I prayed for mercy on his shattered soul
little pieces of him everywhere
still crying from the traumatic separation.

I lit an incense cone and inhaled the sweet smoke
and it reminded me of the time he took me to the Paisley Peacock
we bought sticks that smelled like sandalwood
and vinyl bumper stickers with political statements that I halfway understood
he was so proud of his liberal daughter
that he was so sure was a closet lesbian


I burned a candle for his tortured mind
that was just recently diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
and it reminded me of the Christmas program in first grade
The first time I ever sang a solo
I was nervous about carrying an open flame to the front of the church
so sure it would burn me, no matter how many times the preacher told me it was safe
until my father the firefighter promised that he would be there to help

I set some crystals under the full moon for him
I let them charge under the yellow light and remembered the time he picked me up from work
he took the long way home
he slowed the car down and pulled out a joint
and we smoked weed together for the first time, driving down dark country roads
yellow headlights bouncing between black trees
before I moved out of state
before I cut him out of my life completely

I  knelt at the alter and sent out a prayer into the unknown
It reminded me of this past October
when I was recovering from a depression-ladled summer
when I wrote seven drafts of a letter
then gave the eighth to my grandmother, to give to my father
if she ever saw him again
if he was even still alive

I went back to my life
I was stretched thin and beginning to tear
it was the Christmas I was making minimum wage
struggling to find balance and healing in the desert
unsure of how I was going to feed my daughter after I paid the rent
when a card came in the mail, a response to the letter my grandmother had handed him
at the shelter where he was staying after spending years on the street
My father, who didn't even have his own home, bought us groceries that winter

I built an alter for myself that night
I set the intention to break the habits I had created from my relationship with my father
which carried over to every man I have ever held
I burned candles and incense and bathed my crystals in the moonlight
I acknowledged the same blood that runs through the two of us
I apologized
I forgave

and I thanked him for all he had passed on to me

Mama Ayahuasca

Mama Ayahuasca shows me why I have so many stories.  They're not all happy or sad or funny or even interesting stories, but I have a lot of them.  She explains to me that I am not defined by them.  That I have no control over the bad things that I've seen or been through and to just let these demons go to cast their shadows elsewhere.

She transmits to me what it feels like to be loved in the most pure sense and also to know that I am capable of sharing that feeling with others.  She shows me where to find that love when I feel like I don't have enough of my own to give. 

It's like having a conversation with myself, but faster and not in my own voice.  As soon as I think of something to ask, the response is right there.  The space between question and answer is tightened so closely that sometimes I'm not sure which happened first.  These words aren't like they are in our world.  They have mass and shape, they're tangible things.  And this is how I speak to Mama Ayahuasca.

I feel truly alone under the medicine.  It's just me and Her.  Except I am her, at least for the time being, and it is hard to wrap my brain around that.  I try and absorb as much of this world as I can.  Remember this, I tell myself, you're gonna want to explain this on paper and work this out later.  And then these words take over my brain, ingredients in this psychadelic soup that's moving through my body from my stomach to my head.  It's all I can see.

Except I can't see.  I'm blindfolded and still in my sleeping bag.  There are no visuals for me, at least there haven't been yet.  I ask Ayahuasca why I don't experience the beautiful fractals and lights that so many other people had described in their ceremonies.  And she tells me why.

Everything is connected.

She pulls the ocean from my guts and throws me onto dry land where I discover that the gut blob of depression, anxiety, and shame is gone.  I have to learn to live again without it.  (I'm still learning.  It is a process.)  I have this empty void where the blob used to be and suddenly I feel very delicate.  I am so happy and full of gratitude, but I worry that the gut blob will suddenly reappear at any second, that this was all just wishful thinking.

So Aya calls me back three weeks later, this time for Insight.  She showed me in my first ceremony what my purpose on Earth is.  Now she shows me my work.  The hard part.  The things I must suffer through in order to fulfill my potential.  She pulls a writhing black ball of  centipedes and spiders from my chest and clears a direct path to my heart, and from there she proceeds to break it.  I want to think about something else, and She gently pulls my chin back to face the things that I will have to accept about my life.   She tells me to look to Sagan.  To look at the stars.  I woke up from this ceremony not delicate at all.  I feel stronger and more grounded. 



*       *       *       *       *       *

There are so many stories, so many things in my everyday life now, that I need to write out and process.  Some of them, they are so bizarre, I couldn't make them up if I wanted to.  I am finally down to working just one job, and I apologize if it seems like  I've been blowing you off or avoiding you.  It's not the case.  I've been trying to find balance, and I am really hoping that I've created a little bit for now.   I am returning to Ceremony next month, and I am already nervous and excited.