And then... I died

Journeying with Ayahuasca

“It is often said you must go through the darkest night in order to get to the infinite light. That is because what we call darkness is really the blockage of light. You must go past these walls.” 

-Michael Singer, the Untethered Soul 

February 2024, Colombia

I brace my hands against the cool stone, vomit violently into a bucket, and realize I am turning into a bear. Energy blisters through my body and my back hunches and swells, rippling with feral strength. I gnash my jaw and twist my head from side to side, growling and shuddering.

Another spasm seizes me, yanking foul fluid from my body and leaving me limp and slack jawed over the bucket. Through cracked eyes, I peek at my hands. Surprisingly, they still appear to be human. I take a shaky sip of water and it runs over my ragged throat like a drought-stricken river. My gaze finds the fire; orange-rimmed flames rise and lick at the edges of darkness, where they dispel into sparks and then vanish.

Done vomiting, I drag myself to my mattress. Intuitively, my chest folds over my knees and my forehead surrenders to gravity.

My body dissolves, leaving only consciousness. 

—

I was perhaps five when I conceptualized death for the first time. I don’t remember the trigger, but I do remember that the existential overwhelm of a forever and forever and forever of nothingness swallowed my mind like a sea monster, plunging me into a roiling, hissing belly of fear. 

I slept on the floor of my parent’s bedroom for weeks, paralyzed by the terror that someone was going to break into our house and murder me. I insisted that my bed was uncomfortable, and my parents kindly didn’t point out that my bed was probably more comfortable than their wooden floor. 

This fear revisited me in my adulthood for the first time during COVID, when destabilization, isolation and anxiety manifested for me in a visceral and irrational fear of earthquakes and tsunamis. I spent several months in Seattle willing the ground not to shake, tortured by the vision of a yawning crack in the earth and a cataclysmic wave. And then, the nothingness. 

That was even before I had cancer, before I was forced to contemplate not just the theoretical fragility of life, but the lived fragility of my body. 

But as I moved further into remission, cancer started to take on the dim, haunted quality of a bad dream. I wasn’t afraid to quit my job, eschew stability and travel. I was frothing to cast myself into precarity, to sail beyond familiar horizons.

And for a while, I was on a high: reveling in the freedom, the novelty, the unencumbered inability to follow my intuitive compass.

Then, while in Colombia, I learned that a peer of mine had had a lymphoma recurrence, and fear recolonized my body like a flesh-eating bacteria; it was hot and frantic, alighting in my lymph nodes and searing up through my neck tendons, where it locked into my jaw. At night it jolted me awake in a sweaty stink, and during the day it came for me in idle moments, seizing my throat in an unassailable fist. 

The fear had always been there, it was just waiting for a trigger. It grew and festered in the knowledge that I had skipped my final, two-year scan to travel, deciding it was better to live boldly than to sit around twiddling my thumbs and awaiting a scan. But my peer had had her recurrence just after year two. As I sat far away from home and healthcare on a farm in rural Colombia, I couldn’t help but feel that I’d been reckless. 

Intellectually, I knew that her situation had nothing to do with me, that it was useless to ruminate about an unlikely future and taint the present with an illusory shadow. But the fear clung to me like an army of ticks - each time I ripped one out, I found a new one lodged beneath my skin, its maw greedy at my vein.

Shortly thereafter, at a hostel on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, I met a guy fresh off an Ayahuasca retreat. He was wide-eyed and contemplative, imbued with wonder and tenderness and a sense of healing. 

I thought, “I’ll have what he’s having.” 

Ayahuasca (or yage, as it is called in Colombia), is a powerful plant medicine made from the ayahuasca vine and a DMT shrub. The indigenous peoples of the Amazon have used ayahuasca for centuries as part of their spiritual and healing practices, and they regard ayahuasca as the Mother or Grandmother spirit of all plant medicines. DMT is the psychoactive element that renders ayahuasca an “illegal drug” in the United States, a classification that is considered highly derogatory by the indigenous communities that use it.

In recent decades, tourists and spirit seekers have flocked to South America to experience the medicine for themselves, and ceremonial spaces have begun to emerge across the world. Due to its illegal status, research is nascent, but science is beginning to confirm the unrivaled curative power of ayahuasca for issues ranging from addiction to depression to PTSD. 

I hadn’t come to South America intending to do ayahuasca. Though I was curious, I was wary of the colonial shadow of ayahuasca tourism, and I wasn’t sure if there was an “unshadowed” way to partake. Plus, I’d heard about fake shamans performing sham ceremonies or even assaulting retreat attendees, and I didn’t want to be taken advantage of.

(I’ve come to believe that while ayahuasca tourism has been accompanied by the rise of unscrupulous practitioners seeking to exploit the medicine for profit, there are also retreat centers that uplift indigenous communities and indigenous practitioners who wish to share the healing powers of ayahuasca. As with most things, it’s complicated.)

After finding out about the retreat, I thought of nothing else for a week. I felt called in a way, beckoned by a dogged force.

Coming up against the cold, sharp edges of the Western medical system and finding something wanting had sparked my interest in more holistic forms of medicine. Our Western system, though scientifically rigorous and technologically prolific (and undeniably lifesaving), was too siloed, too myopic, too quick to write a prescription or whip out a scalpel. If health were a run-down garden, Western medicine was a harried gardener hacking weeds and heaping on fertilizer, but never testing the soil or considering relationships between plants, never asking if perhaps the entire garden needed to be managed differently.

I had read a lot of Gabor Mate - renowned Canadian physician, expert on trauma healing, and author of several books on holistic approaches to health. Since doing ayahuasca himself in 2008, he has used it to treat addiction, mental-health challenges, and chronic disease, to great success.

Mate says,

“As a Western-trained doctor, I have long been aware of modern medicine’s limitations in handling chronic conditions of mind and body. For all our astonishing achievements, there are a host of ailments whose ravages we physicians can at best alleviate. In our narrow pursuit of cure, we fail to comprehend the essence of healing. So set are we in our approach that we even ignore the latest findings of our own science. Thus we tend to see people’s illnesses as isolated, accidental and unfortunate events rather than as the outcomes of lives lived in a psychological and social context; as the body’s expressions of experiences, beliefs and lifelong patterns of relating to self and to the world.

Such a holistic understanding informs many aboriginal wisdom teachings. Like all plant-based indigenous practices around the world, the use of ayahuasca arises from a tradition where mind and body are seen as inseparable, in sickness and in health.”

I signed up for the retreat.

—

Preparation for the ceremonies requires cleansing certain foods and substances from your system and meditating upon an intention: what you want to heal or receive answers about. 

My intention was to confront my crippling anxiety around illness, which was ultimately just a fear of suffering and death.

The retreat was located a couple of hours outside of Medellin, not in a remote jungle exactly but still amidst verdant, forested hills and plenty of insects. There were 25 or so of us, a few returning customers and many first-timers. All with a story to tell, all with something to heal. 

The ceremonies took place at sundown, in a verandah surrounded by lush vegetation and crickets. A fire crackled on the brick patio outside the roofed area, a circle of plastic lounge chairs surrounding it. Each “patient” was equipped with a mattress, a pillow, a blanket and a stick of palo santo to burn before the ceremony.

Traditionally, Taitas (or shamans) must have seven to ten years of experience in order to perform the yage ceremony. Our ceremony was performed by a Taita named Fernando from the Inga tribe of the Colombian amazon, along with his apprentice Luis. Fernando began training for his role when he was seven, drinking the medicine three times a week for ten years. Part of the training is learning the icaros, or spirit songs, which are performed during the ceremonies to invoke benevolent plant and animal spirits.

To prepare, Fernando and his assistants cleansed the energy of the ceremonial space with smoke that unfurled from a pan of burning copal, engulfing each of us in turn with a thick, earthy incense. 

When it was time to serve the medicine, Fernando blessed it with a fast-paced, nasal chant that seemed to be a combination of Spanish and indigenous words. I caught “limpiar” (clean)” and “cuerpecito” (body).

One by one, we went up to receive our first cup. 

When it was my turn, Fernando regarded me through the dim light, poured the quantity of medicine he saw fit (filled to the brim) and whistled a prayer over the thick, molasses-like substance. I took it like a shot of cheap tequila, pausing with the little cup upside down to let the last drops slide onto my tongue. I had been warned about the revolting taste, but the first cup actually tasted pleasant - a bit like an earthy molasses. Every subsequent cup would taste like ocean detritus.

With vomit bucket in hand (“purging” is a common effect of ayahuasca, which may involve diarrheaing, laughing, crying, or yawning, but vomiting is most common), I headed back to my mattress to wait. 

For brevity’s sake, I will spare you the details of the four ceremonies and cut to the meat of two. (Mostly, the rest is dancing ecstatically or having a stomach ache).

So. In the second ceremony, I had transformed into a bear and dissolved into my mattress. Dissolving, as it turned out, was utter bliss. What a relief to not have a body! 

A moment later, I was flying, my consciousness in the body of an eagle above a dramatic canyon. Lifted by the current of drums, guitar, flutes and voices, I soared up into the clouds and then dove down to the surface of a rollicking river, where I flew fast and low above the current. Maniacal laughter poured from my mouth, an irrepressible torrent of joy.

Flying was even better than I had imagined. 

I became a wolf licking her pups, a fish flitting through reefs, a giraffe striding across open plains. I was lava, I was wind, I was the entire grand canyon. I was in the San Juan Islands, burrowing down into the rocky, shelled beaches as a contented clam, then gamboling through slippery kelp as a sea otter. I was overcome with love for the Pacific Northwest, for my home, my community, for the cool salty air and the silk bathrobe sun. 

Every so often, I became aware of my body on the mattress and felt a twinge of annoyance. Someone get rid of this body! I would shift, relax into the ground and then whoosh, dissolve back into the vision with a sense of ecstatic relief.

This and other pleasant autobiographical visions played out for some time, and then, while watching myself tend to an island garden, a single ominous thought blazed through my mind and I fell like Icarus out of the sky: What if I get cancer again. 

Darkness ensnared me, and I spent the rest of the ceremony watching my repeated death. I grew weak and bald and then died in a hospital bed and dissolved into the ground, where I found a moment of relief. Then the fear would renew its assault, wresting me back into the cycle.

They tell you not to turn away from the medicine, to simply surrender. So I surrendered again, and again, but could find no peace, and when the medicine released me I felt shaken and queasy.

I felt like Mama Aya was saying: look how inherently joyful the universe is; look how your fear destroys that joy. But how to release the fear?

The next night, I felt wary. I was exhausted from the trials of the previous night and I didn’t know if I could handle more cancer death visions. What did Mama Aya have in store?

Somewhat reluctantly, I went up to receive my first cup.

Slowly, the fear crept, paralyzing me in a anxious malaise. The cancer spiral. When I went for my second cup I asked wearily for just “un poco,” a little bit. Fernando poured me a single drop, which slid down my throat like motor oil.  

In the end, the quantity didn’t seem to matter.

Energy began to pool in my stomach. It intensified like a burning star, like nuclear fusion was taking place in my core, threatening to overwhelm by body with its cosmic power. I started to shake, attempting to release the energy, to restore my body to some kind of tolerable equilibrium. I stood and began to dance, shaking and throwing my limbs in an untamable mania.

Then, the nausea.

Slumped over my vomit bucket, I entered into a physical hell that I later imagined was not unlike the fate of the Greek god Ixion, condemned by Zeus to spin chained to a wheel of fire for all of eternity.

Maggots were crawling out of my pores, my hair was falling out into my hands, I was burning, every atom in my body vibrating at a different frequency. Is this what a star feels like when it dies? When atoms lose all sense of cohesion and begin to cleave from the body, spewing out into cosmic clouds? Would I, to, burn up the fuel at my core and explode in a supernova of stardust?

It was the first time that I wanted to die, the first time I thought “death would be better than this.” I could smash my head against the wall, I thought wildly.

But another voice in my mind instructed me calmly, just endure, you got this. It will end eventually. I started yelling “Om”, using the vibration to give my body a sense of coherence.

The shamanic music, previously joyful, now felt deranged. The flute was tearing through the sails of my spirit, the drums shaking my body’s hull with unrelenting violence. I heard my voice panting “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t” and I started to keel forward onto the stone, losing consciousness. 

Vice Taita Luis came to stand before me and began a prayer, while a facilitator put his hand on my shoulder and helped me slow my breath. I turned to look at him, and his clear blue eyes were like those of an old cowboy calming a wild mustang. Luis sprayed a soothing incense on my face and began to massage my arms and my hands, which hyperventilation had frozen into claws. 

As he did so, I could feel darkness leaking out of my body. Could feel illness, fear, everything impure being squeezed out of me like juice from a lemon. It was as if I had crawled out of a pit of viscous tar and lay panting on the bank while muck dissolved magically from every nook of my body, leaving me naked and holy. As Luis carried out what felt like an exorcism, I heard myself moaning involuntarily “it’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone,” and shuddering into my new body with profound, spent, relief. 

They carried me to the grass, where I lay down and looked up at Luis, whose face was framed by the stars. 

I realized I was dying. 

“Am I going to die?” I whispered. Luis and the facilitator exchanged a look. “It’s going to be ok, we’re here with you,” they reassured me. Oh god they didn’t say I wasn’t dying, that must mean I’m dying! I thought in panic. 

“I don’t want to die!” I spluttered, while a muted, incredulous voice in the back of my mind protested, This can’t be it! I didn’t come here to die! I didn’t even tell my parents I was coming here! Shit! They are really just going to let me die! And they don’t even seem worried!

I locked eyes with Luis, and his face began to grow and glow against the dark velvet quilt of pinprick lights. As he grew, he also receded, and I seemed to follow him upward. Whoa, Luis is God! My mind commented vaguely.

“It’s ok to die, you have died many times before,” Luis assured me in a deep, graveled Spanish, smiling and nodding, beckoning. 

Holy shit, this is actually happening, I thought. The evidence was incontrovertible.

Suddenly, in the space of a breath, sound and movement in the universe seemed to cease, leaving every particle still. The stars winked with joyous benevolence and I understood that Luis was right, I had died many times before. Death was nothing to be afraid of! It would be beautiful, blissful, even. It would be like nuzzling into a universal hug. 

Oh! I thought, surprised, Should I die? That could be really nice.

Suspended between two worlds, I considered. I didn't not want to die anymore, and it was actually sounding pretty tempting. But there were people I loved! They would probably be sad if I died, and they wouldn’t know to be happy for me. I didn’t feel done with this life yet.

“I still want to live”, I whispered. 

The physical world sharpened and I felt myself lying on the grass. I looked up at the facilitator, agape.

“Mark, I’m not going to die!” I breathed. He smiled and nodded. “How does it feel?” 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuucking amazing” I croaked, as a profound euphoria washed through my body like heavy rains soaking a parched desert. The feeling was so pure, so potent, that the possibility of having an anxious or fearful thought again felt absurd, impossible. It was a thousand times better than orgasm, better than love, better than any drug I had taken or could imagine taking, a feeling I didn’t know could be felt.

Taita Fernando came over and crouched down, regarding me kindly.

“Your time has not come yet,” he assured me, “you have many things to do.”

Language felt fluid, and I kept slipping back into English as we talked, only realizing he couldn’t understand me when he cocked his head quizzically.

“The ego is the one that fears,” he said, “and fear is like a disease in the body. Now, your ego has died.”

He continued, “In your life you must walk without fear, must walk with your eyes open, without a blindfold.” 

I looked at his wide, joyous face, his lucid, obsidian eyes that I knew roved in realms I couldn’t fathom. 

“I’m not afraid anymore,” I murmured, dumbfounded. “I’m not afraid of anything. I can do anything I want!”

Out of nowhere, a manic hysteria gripped me and I lurched forward in a fit of anger.

“You son of a bitch! You almost killed me!” I yelled at him first in English and then in Spanish, laughing and throwing some playful punches into his white tunic. This was wildly inappropriate in hindsight, but he took it in stride. (At the ceremony the next day he would look at me and burst into laughter, “Me mató!” he imitated, his eyes twinkling, You killed me!) 

“Make sure she doesn’t take off running into the hills,” Fernando told Mark, chuckling.

“I am a runner,” I mumbled, nodding, thinking back to my college tendency to run through campus after a couple of nighttime weekend drinks. 

Fernando left, and I turned to Mark. 

“Do I go home now?”

The words surprised me as they spilled from my mouth. I was struck with the thought that my travels were done. I had done all that I was meant to do here. It was time to go home. Could I catch a flight tonight?

Mark advised me to just sit on the grassy hill for a while, and I agreed that that made sense for the moment.

The rest of the night passed in a mind-shattered state of rhapsody, where revelations dropped into my mind like downloads. I stared at the sky and muttered to myself over and over “that was fuuuuucking crazy, I almost DIED!!! But I didn’t die! But I kind of did die? And it would have been totally fine if I had died! But I’m ALIVE!” Life was too exquisite to comprehend, as was death.

I dragged my mattress onto the patio and marveled at the stars until sunrise. I saw shooting star after shooting star, and I could think of nothing to wish for.

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I hadn’t actually almost died, that my perishing would have been a huge liability for the retreat and very traumatizing for the other attendees, not to mention that ayahuasca itself has never killed anyone, but it felt so real that it didn’t matter. In my mind I had died, and maybe a part of me did.

— 

Even though I felt like I was supposed to go home, I already had plans to visit my Peace Corps host family in Paraguay and then to go to Costa Rica for a wedding. Home could wait. 

I took a night bus and then a red-eye to Paraguay and didn’t sleep for two days. Despite the sleep deprivation, I arrived in Asuncion in a state of near-manic energy and lucid joy. When a delightful taxi driver asked for my number, instead of giving in to avoid the awkwardness, I told him that despite very much enjoying our conversation, I was not going to give him my number as I was likely never going to see him again or have any reason to contact him, and I would rather simply enjoy the connection of a moment. I stepped out of the taxi, beaming.

I stopped to marvel at the texture of leaves and soliloquized about the “Kingdom Within Us,” the Loving Source Energy that we could touch if we just transcended the ego. I was qualitatively the child of Alan Watts and Marianne Williamson with ADHD and a cocaine addiction. My body was vibrating, my mind whirring, my senses turned up to eleven. I felt so open, so sensitive, that other people’s energies passed into me like water.

Lying in a hammock beneath swaying tree canopies, I contemplated a mural of a young jaguar’s face; it peered up into a forest of cartoonish flowers and vines, its eyes reflecting the galaxies above it. That’s me, I thought, replete with cosmic wonder.

But even as I journaled furiously and sent rapturous voice messages and felt like I ran on winged feet, I felt something lurking. A prowling disquiet, a rising fog. A low-pitched murmur, sounding from the shadows.