How Ayahuasca Taught Me to Die
My friend invited me to an ayahuasca ceremony. He’d had the psychotropic brew several times, and I, well… I’d read about it. As a student of shamanism and a spirituality nerd, I was intrigued and a little frightened when I signed up.
Ayahuasca has a long and storied history as a sacred Amazonian medicine. It has also become something of an exotic novelty, what I’ve heard called “spiritual tourism.” People eager to have a mystical experience travel to the jungle (or some unqualified hipster’s living room) to partake, with varied effects. Some lives are changed for the better, some illnesses are healed, and some unwitting gringos are taken for a ride by charlatans. A topic of conferences, documentaries, and scientific studies, ayahuasca and its active ingredient, DMT (N,N-dimethyltryptomine), are ancient mysteries at the heart of cutting edge science.
Thirty of us gathered at a studio in the country, lights dimmed, mats and small buckets at the perimeter of a large open room. I knew that purging by vomit, bowel movements, or sobbing was a common part of ayahuasca adventures. So it’s with some trepidation that I took my seat — and my bucket — in the circle. The ceremony leader said prayers, portioned out our cups, and called us one by one to drink, urging us to remember our intention for being there. My vague intention was to be a little happier. As I took my cup…
