Sweet spots
My wife does psychedelic plant medicine all the time. At this stage in her spiritual journey, she spends about as much time blurping out in the astral realms as she does in the three-dimensional experience I share with most other humans. Some of our friends in the plant medicine community dial it up a few notches and only touch down to Terra Firma long enough to do the ca$h money dance and plan out the next launch into the cosmos.
My family members and old lawyer buddies think I’m edgy, but I’m the square of this starry squad.
Make no mistake, I’m a psychedelic plant medicine enthusiast. What I like most is that internal spiritual chaos tends to play out in ceremonies that would otherwise play out in real life. I have enough data from my Dark Night and other supernatural experiences to believe that it’s way healthier for that sort of stuff to happen within the safe container of ceremony instead of out in these streetz where it’s more likely to cause harm and destruction. Just watch the news, read a paper, or stroll down Lake Street in Minneapolis and you’ll see what I mean.
Even though I see the many spiritual and biological benefits of plant medicine, I still hate on my wife for doing it all the time. I’m super sensitive to this stuff and don’t do it much, so this part of her life frequently takes her away from me, including on many weekends. She also connects with certain people whom I admire during ceremonies at galactic light language levels that I don’t understand, and I get frustrated and jealous about that.
The other night, I was home by myself and feeling mega annoyed that my wife was serving as a guardian at an ayahuasca ceremony and cleaning up strangers’ puke and touching their feet instead of kickin it at the crib with me.
Then I took in my surroundings—a replay of an obscure college football game between West South Central Louisiana A&M and Northeast Idaho Tech-Rexburg that I was not watching played on the TV, Garden of Eatin’ blue corn chip crumbles were scattered everywhere on the couch and surrounding environs, and a half-smoked joint dangled precariously on the edge of our Savers’ Special gently-used coffee table—and I knew my wife was exactly where she needed to be.
It hit me that I was a three-dimensional chauvinist. I thought I was better than my wife and our plant medicine community friends because they’re always “in the clouds.”
Being in the clouds, raising vibrations, and moving energy is way better than being on some bs. Some days, most of the stuff I do in the “real world” is destructive, and some days I’m just on some bs. I’m only human.
My wife and new friends are pushing me to the bleeding edge of my plant medicine comfort zone. I’m in good hands between my wife and spiritual guides,* who seem intent on raising my vibrations and forging me into a multidimensional rainbow light warrior. Even if my progress stalls out, I can do plenty of other stuff in this dimension that’s healthy and a good fit for me.
Each of us is a unique expression of God with a unique vibrational signature that drives our engagement with the world. We’re all different and beautiful in our special way. The key is finding, developing, and nurturing our personal sweet spots.
* I call my spiritual guides “shamans” behind their backs, as they don’t love it when people call them that. This is one of the reasons why they’re my shamans. They prefer words like “facilitator” or “human.” One might go with “curandero,” and another, whom I believe has partially integrated technology into his slice of consciousness, might prefer “person.”