Cafe Hitch-hike

2022-08-08

Another expression of love in its many forms, followed by rains

The aya ceremony was considerably different than most of the ones I attended. A head of an Amazon indigenous tribe presided over it and sang icaros (like a prayer/ lullaby during a plant medicine ceremony). A trio took turns playing music throughout the evening and also took the plant medicine. It was a fairly intimate ceremony, with most of the females on one side of the moloka (the round, covered hut) and the males on the other side (with one female and male on each side, almost like the yin and the yang). It wasn’t planned, it was where people picked their spots.

I sat towards the middle of the female side. I was next to 2 women from the islands who were very experienced with the medicine and we came armed with crystals, agua de flor, and rose water. I noticed the makeup of males to females as we sat down to begin the ceremony, and later found out half were in their first or second ceremony, and the rest of us were more experienced.

I really was called to the medicine. I thought there was something else I needed to heal, but the biggest takeaway is sometimes healing takes place by helping others heal. As it turned out, the women and I definitely got a chance to work with medicine a bit for ourselves, but most of the time was helping the less experienced ones work through the ceremony. Whenever I heard someone cry out or moan in pain, I (and perhaps they) prayed for the person and sent energy to move that pain in whatever way was possible. We were far into the ceremony when I noticed this. The interesting thing about this dynamic was even some of the male first-timers willingly held space for the females.

One interesting thing a lot of people said (women and men alike) was they got images of male and female roles and their sacred exchanges. I certainly did in my own journey.

I talked to one perplexed guy, a first timer, before the ceremony. He told me his whole life fell apart over the course of 6 weeks. He looked into my eyes with some uncertainty, but I felt a firmness leave mine.

“You’re going through a dark night of the soul and of life,” I said calmly, and perhaps the sharpness came to assure him I knew exactly what he was talking about. He asked me why I was there, and I told him it was for healing earlier life and for some insight on my life direction. He asked me what aya was like, and I said it was like a dream where you’re working with a tough, maybe scary but caring coach. He really wasn’t sure what I meant, but was worried he’d freak out or others would. I told him the group would hold it together; I didn’t realize how true that would turn out to be. I also told him if he felt he was about to fall apart, the best he could do was walk through it. If he felt lost, I told him to concentrate on his breath and breathing. I meant ‘walk though’ in his mind while he laid in the aya stupor, but he was later pacing like crazy 3/4s of the way through. I guess he took my advice.

I’m not sure if it helped because I didn’t talk to him when it was over, but I was surprised all of that came out of me. I saw him looking considerably more calm and talking to the other men when the ceremony closed.

The last of my intentions stated was to work with the energy to heal others. Although my main focus was on myself, the medicine managed to emphasize the last part, which is something I’ve noticed it does with me. This time, the medicine allowed me to literally work with it. It wasn’t to heal but learn a bit about how it worked and how its energy could be gently guided. I learned what the visuals were that we often see at the beginning, and how I could move them at certain points (along with other visions).

The biggest takeaway, which started during my last ceremony 2 years ago: I needed to surrender and let it guide me. I really couldn’t work with it until I relaxed and eased into it; in the last ceremony, the medicine told me it wanted me to soften into it and trust it. Now I see why because I was able to work more with it, though the aya was still the boss. The question I had after ceremony was, ‘gee, now how can I get into this state of ease and surrender at home during regular prayer and meditation without taking ayahuasca?’

Well, parts of the journey were a little scary, but I was able to accept that it was a part of it rather than get completely freaked out by it. Isn’t that life, though, taking the good with the bad?

The medicine continued to be a little tough on the body but not nearly as bad as all my previous ceremonies. I didn’t purge until late in the ceremony, I guess after she said the main lessons had ended, I purged conclusively. It didn’t feel like a heavy energy from myself or what I held. It felt more like it was the energy I sensed and perhaps channelled from around the moloka. I also wasn’t completely wiped out. I was surprised how much my energy felt normal, then rested, then was normal, then rested again. I actually felt ok the next day.

The beautiful parts of the journey were when it rained. We were in an agricultural community, and at a point in the ceremony, I smelled rain and thought I heard it. I stood up and looked out the moloka. No, no rain, but I could had sworn I sensed it. Within a minute, the sky opened up and a peacefully steady rain came down. A few of the women went to the entrance to watch it, and some of us stood in it with so much joy. It stopped about 15 minutes later. A bit later, as the chief closed the ceremony, I sensed the rain again. He paused in his prayer and then it rained a bit harder. Everyone laughed and smiled, this time the men joined in. The chief had a good laugh and smile with us; he expressed a playful dignity at different times during the second half of the ceremony.

I’d say it was quite an amazing ceremony because of everyone who was there, and for the chief. I asked him in a discussion the night before if he was concerned about aya being misused or overharvested (which it now is). He said the plants in the rainforest have many uses that have yet to be discovered. He said the world needs them, and that the rainforest was the biggest university and library of knowledge and memory in the world. I felt assured (and perhaps more comfortable in the ceremony) that he also invited others to learn more about it.

It was a beautiful journey for sure, in its own way, and was another expression of love in its many forms. There’s more I can and probably will say about it, and this is the first time I’ve been able to write about that part of my experience.

downwind | upstream