A beautiful puma, sleeping in a cage - she’s injured, hence the cage. Such a treat to be so close.

But first, Night Four.

All right, so, we’re fresh on the heels of meeting Jesus, going ape-shit in an Everything’s OK Fiesta, and finding the most incredible sense of power and peace.
I felt omnipotent. Accepting of anything that could be tossed my way, but certain I would be unaffected.
You know, sometimes I just don’t learn a damn thing.

Night Four promised to be a different animal all together even before the festivities began — we had a guest Shaman. The lodge owner, my heroic Howard, had his first Ayahuasca ceremony with this gentleman decades ago. That sounded special. The new fellow was a quiet soul, warm and smiling. I liked him. I *love worship adore revere* the one I’ve been privileged enough to work with, but that doesn’t mean I’m not open to a change of pace. Ahem.

Our new friend didn’t practice the same type of ceremonial rituals — those magnificent blessings I had become so accustomed too. No, he just dove right in. No busy work, just drinkin’ – and he brought his own brew. I know I’m sounding like a broken record by now, by holy shit, this stuff just gets more and more rank with every consumption.

I drank my medicine. I sat down with resolve, resiliency – everything that would indicate a beautiful outpouring.
The lights went out, and they came to me immediately. Immediately, you see. No warning or chance to get comfy.
They were faceless silhouettes. Slow moving, hissing, mischievous. They pranced before me, shoving their faces into my line of sight, trying to make me falter. At first, I found them humorous.
Unshakable, I was. I believe in contracts – invisible ones. I believe that nothing can hurt me unless I allow it to. That wasn’t going to happen.
Then the cloaks came. The demon bastards had layers of fabric to cover me in. It felt soft, a little suffocating, but not overly threatening. This I could handle. Bury me in see-through silk. I can hang.

I’m guessing it was about fifteen minutes before the purging started. By this time, the Shaman had kicked into his own style of Icaros – our healing, guiding songs, sung in Quecha, and there to steer the flow and tone of our energies. He also had a strange stringed instrument, rather like a bow, that emitted the softest, most soothing sound.

I didn’t like either. But I could tolerate it, for a spell.

Mind you, I had already been through six ceremonies this year. This was the fourth of this journey, but I had been here before, and I held a sense of bravado and strength. I had already gone to hell. My hell – self-inflicted and wrenching. But I was fine now – better for it – so I had no fear.
I also knew what purging sounded like. I’m not talking a gentle *blech* that results in plip-plop flow, I’m talking primal outbursts, gut wrenching screams, and hours-long retching that can pierce your ears. So when, on this night, the circle erupted into primitive sounding releases and painful, guttural explosions, I did not falter. I didn’t join them, either. I just sat there, silent, eyes plastered open, watching the faceless hell children cover me in darkness.

A man I call The Receiver, seated three people down, caught my attention with his noises. Receiver is someone I know very well; he and I shared the last journey together as well. Every ceremony I’ve known, he has been there – and man can he purge. He’s also a highly sensitive (in a spiritual sense) soul who has experienced loads of contact with the unseen world. He has shared some harrowing stories, as well as many magical healing moments too. I heard his purges kick in good and hard and thought “Yeah. I remember that.”
But this was . . .different.
He, and some of the other men in the room, started going full throttle. Roaring, throwing up, belching, crying, screaming – everything everything.
Receiver – he was losing control. I could hear it. It’s all I was aware of.

About an hour or so into this cacophonous symphony, Receiver. . .received. I heard a strange, wildly reckless sound from him, and then came his voice – loud and desperate. He was screaming – at the TOP of his lungs – for help. From us. From his deceased mother. ANYone.
Then he would snap into a different voice and speak in tongues – a language none of us understood.
Attendants rushed around him in comfort, and the rest of us toiled on with our journeys. But Receiver was too far in. He kept talking and yelling, intermittently, looking for assistance. I thought maybe he was possessed. And as I thought this. . .
He bolted out of us chair and emitted the most horrifying, down-deep eruption imaginable. The demons had got to him. This was my greatest fear.

Howard rose to attend to Receiver, and they escorted him out of the temple. Yet I could still hear. They were yelling at something – Leave our friend alone.
I started to cry.
I started to really see the bastards in the room now – dark as it was. The purging just kept going. In a way that made me think it may never end. But still – still, I was OK. I could do this. I could handle shouldering this horrendous energy for a spell, if that’s what I had to do. If that’s what would help Receiver come back to us.

About three hours in, I felt like perhaps we were nearing the end. The medicine had lessened her hold on me, and I was glad for it. I kept waiting for the Shaman to announce the ending. I thought at one point he was ready to do so.
And then, Jesus, it snapped me farther in. Like a light switch, I was flipped. Pushed back into hell.
It felt like the beginning again. I was a part of a demonic Groundhog Day joke. I had to go through the
whole
bloody
nightmare
yet. . .again.

I lost my sense of safety in those moments, too. I knew I wouldn’t be physically harmed, but I thought perhaps I would break in half too. My head, that is. Sanity was at stake. in the most sincere of ways, I thought I might lose myself.

I refused to let the tears flow – that would be a sign of caving. I wanted to run out of that room as fast as my legs could take me, but I was Remembering. Jesus came to me the night before not in honor of my past suffering, but as a symbol of the future. This was suddenly blindingly clear. I knew this was my role – to channel the negative forces, take them into my core, and spit it all back out with love.
My voice told me this – if just one person in this room is finding their bliss, it’s my job to sit here and take this nightmarish shit. I’m always so afraid of being self-absorbed, selfish beyond recognition. This was my chance to Give.

Every minute was a lifetime. I can’t emphasize that enough. I hurt from head to toe – physically, mentally, and especially in my heart. I couldn’t get warm yet I knew I was burning up. The evilness kept dancing in front of me – eyes opened, eyes closed – it didn’t matter.
Seven hours and then some, I took this. Amidst the screams and the purging and the buzzing and the hissing. I took it all in. Mine to process. Mine to carry.

And then it was over.
Quietly, they dismissed us.
I bolted for the room. Receiver followed, to talk to me. He had broken his foot. He had gone to hell. He was sorry for hurting us.

But none of this was his doing. What I understood in those moments – what is crystal clear now – is that I sat in a room with a showdown. Good versus evil, in the truest sense. A microcosm for what happens in the world, every single day.
Well, the good guys won. We always do. But where the night before gave me the clearest sense of light and beauty I’ve ever known, this night shattered my naiveté. The darkness is just as prevalent.
But it’s not nearly as powerful. That’s the beautiful thing. And, well, it can’t fucking touch me.

There were a handful of us that had the kind of experience I am describing. But there were a few who had the best nights of their lives.
When I heard their stories the next day, I cried my eyes out in gratefulness. I knew I helped create that. There can be no greater gift – to me, that is. I would take a million more nights like that if it meant heaven to the masses. And I was immediately ready for my next and final cup.