The mushrooms offer us a portal to a plane we once frequented but were then forbade. Having now recovered the key marks an evolution in the consciousness of our species.
Rolling onto my back on the hardwood floor of my apartment, as the partner I’ve just begun seeing stands over me, smiling,
“I just don’t understand how come you’re not a part of me!” I wail, as another wave of the mushrooms washes over me, and he bursts into laughter because, yes, this declaration, this is the essence of our existence, and what the mushrooms have to teach us.
Or remind us of rather. That we are each one of us connected; all made from the same stuff, coming from the same sea of origin, destined to return to the same cosmic river of eternal energy after removing the robes of the day for the last time.
I squat outside my cabin in the woods, on the shores of the Canadian Shield atop delicate green moss, taking a pee, and I spy a birch tree in the clearing.
The light from the setting sun glistens off its pearly white papery bark, and as my heart opens to this divine sight, my vision suddenly takes on new animation faster than the shutter of film, lifting the curtain to the ever-present mysteries behind the veil.
I can’t take my eyes off this tree as it dances in the sunlight and reveals to me its character; she is alive and she loves me. I don’t want to take my eyes off of her, for fear this might end, but a warm embrace envelops me as I notice every single plant, tree and bush surrounding me has taken on this same liveliness. And without a face, arms or lips, they smile, embrace, and touch me, as if to say you are never alone, we are here with you, and you have earned our recognition by acknowledging us in your heart.
You’re changed now, older somehow, the glistening sheen of golden trees or the audible buzz of the sun’s love dancing within the cells of animation.
Soft tears roll down my cheeks as I return to my cabin. Golden hour. The sun streams into the boathouse glistening off the calm blue water. I lay atop my blankets peering out the window as the electric green of a hemlock tree melodically moves in the wind and continues on loving me.
The prospect of legal psilocybin, to me, means that we are asking to commune with these plant spirits once again. That we are symbolically declaring our willingness to participate with these ancient teachers by means of an invitation to listen, to heal, and to ask for assistance. It means the retrieval of a lost treasure map, and embarking upon a quest into the “invisible landscapes” that exists at all times around each one of us.
Denying nature signals a denial of ourselves, and when we deny ourselves we close our hearts. Standing to reason that we can get back in touch with ourselves, our free will and unconditional love, by reconnecting with these plants with reverence and clear intent.
The mushrooms offer us a portal to a plane we once frequented but were then forbade. Having now recovered the key marks an evolution in the consciousness of our species.
