Where one ends, another begins. Why don’t we talk about it? Death is as natural as birth. Losing a parent at a young age forced me to deal with it sooner. Too young to comprehend, I looked for her face in the crowd. Listened for her high heels hitting the pavement. Hope met disappointment every time I turned the corner.
Which reminds me. I went on my very first Ayahuasca last month. “Are you seeking enlightenment?” “Are you looking for answers?” “OMG! Don’t you drink frog poison?” “Are you sure it’s safe? I hear you could die?”
My answer: no and I don’t know.
I went because a new friend asked me. Every relationship requires time together. I didn’t want to add to the list of regret of not doing something because of fear or excuse of not enough time or money. I liked her and wanted to spend time getting to know her. The best way is through shared experiences.
What happens on day one? We enter the kitchen to get our first cup of tea. As he pours each a glass, he hands out a small lanyard to place around our necks. What is it? “It’s your seat belt. A lifebuoy”.
We walk back to the large room, where the fourteen of us had previously laid out our yoga mat, sleeping bag/blanket. On it we park our bodies, placing a bucket, water and toilet paper to either side of our bodies. We cover our eyes. Armando (shaman…?) talks too fast. It feels as if he’s speaking Spanish. I must pay close attention to get 60% of his jet-engine speech pattern.
“You may feel like you are dying. Your body may feel like a rock. If you are tired, lay down on your side so you don’t choke and die. It’ll be okay.”
He sings in Spanish. Then chants with the use of repetitive syllables. Others join in. Male voice to my left. To my right, a familiar voice of my friend’s. Afraid, I maintain my silence. Like a child, I grow curious. I want to try. This could be fun! And like a child, I take baby steps. With whispers, barely audible, I start. I don’t know these sounds but they’re simple enough to mimic. Like a child, I stand up on my own two feet. I hear my own voice and not those next to me. I feel myself coming to life, lifting myself with the sounds escaping my mouth. I flutter my small vocal cords, and I fly on my own.
Then it’s time to drink the second round of tea. Aided by her phone’s flashlight, a lady hands out a small cup. I drink its bitter liquid twice, served in a small cup.
I feel myself falling.
I can no longer sit. I lay on my side. Shaking, I feel as if I’m drunk. My body hardens. I am scared. Wait! Didn’t Armando say this could happen? I feel as if I am dead. My body feels like a boulder. My fist like a set of pebbles. Move your body, I yell at myself. I clench and open my fist like a child. The chant continues. I am too weak to join in. Then I grab for my bucket, my new best friend. A black plastic bucket used to collect what my body rejects. I hold it close to my chest and savor the bitterness in my mouth.
Tears escape. Pain and suffering of another human enters my body. I’m surprised to find the owner. The person I had resented all my life. For never being there. Not being good enough. A phantom.
Yet, all I feel is sympathy. Seeing him for who he is. A child in a man’s body.
Not knowing how to be a parent because he had none. Not knowing how to care for a child because he had never been taken care of. Not knowing how to stand up, because no one had stood up for him. Not knowing how to fight, because no one had fought for him. Not knowing how to be there, because no one had been there for him.
Acknowledging what I had known all along… He had done the best that he could. At best, he didn’t abandon us, the way his parents had. We had parents. We had food in our stomachs. Shelter above our heads. Things we took for granted. Things he never had. He grew up hungry, penniless, and homeless. He had learned to savor every meal. Three meals a day defined his happiness. He who lives for another day has no concept of money. Money is a means to serve another meal. Money cannot be saved. Why would he put it away towards a future that may never come?
Too old and too weak to cry, I cry on his behalf. My tears are not my own, but his. Symbol of his sorrow and suffering that had wiped the past to make room for a better future for his children.
Like a shutter of a camera lens, my father disappears out of frame.
Another man enters. In the dark, I grab a notebook and pen to capture the words pouring out of my heart. I am not sure if the words are legible or it’s being written on the page. It doesn’t matter, I say to myself. I must capture the words that may escape me after this moment. It’s too precious to let go without a fight. I laugh out loud to myself, acknowledging the age difference. I had been waiting for someone who had not been born yet. Who had not learned to walk yet. My body glows and it is filled with warmth, feeling his love. I am grateful and appreciative of all that he is. And all that he isn’t. I thank him for loving me. I thank him for giving me the nickname, the sound that is the basis of the chant this evening. I feel as if everyone is singing my name. As if to celebrate and love me, as a community.
Despite these powerful thoughts, my body rebels against the wretched tea. I transform into a small bird with wounded wings. I am completely broken. I lay motionless. Too small to ask for help. Too weak to make a sound. Yet, the world re-enters unasked, and like a hurricane. With it, familiar voices to the left and right of me breathes life back into my small body. I feel the power of other voices gently caressing my body. In a spiral, their strong lift carries me upwards once again. Thousands of birds in blue and green with soft feather rise in the pale blue sky. I open my mouth. A squeak. And it grows powerful each repetition, and I sing along. I join their flight, my wings mended and repaired by those around me. I feel as if everyone here belongs to the same tribe. I feel loved.
Birds disappear, and I find myself in a forest. I am no longer a bird. Grounded, I am full of water and fruit. Small animals drink and eat from fountain of life, painted silver and reflective of the bright light shining from the above. When I am empty of all that I can give, I fill myself with more. I am the fountain. Giver of life. Some take. Some steal. I give, and giving is the source of my happiness.
I get up feeling empty and free. I enter the kitchen to devour hearty chicken soup. What did I learn aside from what I mentioned already? I now know how I’d like to die. A weekend together with family and friends to celebrate me and one another. I want them to laugh and sing as I grow weak in my body. I want their songs to carry me out of this life as I take my last breath of air to fill myself full of life. I want their songs to carry one another that will be left behind. Before my heart beats its last song, I will open my eyes wide to smile and say thanks. I will only exist as a faint memory. Maybe a story. And there will be a cry. A sign of life.
Death does not scare me. It encourages me to live without regrets and with compassion. I remind myself of Mary Oliver’s poem”
“…When it’s over, I want to say: all my life, I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder, if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world”
