Jamaica – An Internal Travelogue

 

Jamaica – An Internal Travelogue

For the past 30+ years of my life I’ve dealt with chronic fatigue and pain. In 1990 I was diagnosed as having fibromyalgia, a name given to a collection of symptoms in the body. During the first 5 or 6 years after diagnosis I could easily ignore the pain and fatigue. Then my ailments escalated, and I was soon experiencing depression, insomnia and the lessening of my ability to concentrate. I was easily distracted. Luckily, I had understanding bosses at my job as a civil engineer who let me have flexible hours and leaves of absence. During my working years, I quit my job twice so I could work at my own one-person consulting business. I could work from home, set my own hours and take breaks whenever necessary. In this way I was able to work until retirement at 65 in 2012. During my 30 plus years of dealing with my health I tried many treatments, both with medical doctors and with alternative health practitioners. Most of them helped a little. But none provided the help I needed to live the kind of life I wanted. In the early 2020, reading Michael Pollan’s book “How to Change Your Mind”, I learned about the help with my problems that psychoactive plants could provide. Having been a cannabis smoker since my 20s, I was very interested.

In January of 2023 I listened to Tara Brach, psychologist and meditation teacher, interview Dr. Roland Griffiths of Johns Hopkins University, concerning his work with his and other medical people’s treatment of patients with problems like mine using psilocybin. My wife, Mary Ann, agreed with me that this was something worthwhile pursuing. A little research online led me to MycoMeditations, a psilocybin-assisted therapy retreat center in Jamaica.

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In July 2024, the plane I’m on glides across Montego Bay and is soon on the tarmac. I'm on my way to a seven-day retreat on the southwestern part of the island nation of Jamaica. The retreat people are at the airport to greet me and several others for a van ride to the MycoMeditation center at Treasure Beach, Jamaica. The ride took almost three hours through beautiful countryside but also through one of the most economically impoverished countries I have ever been to. But here in Jamaica the impoverished seemed to wear their poverty differently than at my home, in the Appalachian part of Ohio. The Jamaican people in the countryside and the towns seem more relaxed. To me it seems like they're carrying lighter loads. Maybe it's because in Jamaica many people are poor, whereas in America, the poor are a smaller part of the population and It’s easier for them to think of themselves as someone who must carry a heavy burden – the burden of feeling “less-than”. America is such a materialistic country that if you don't have the money, you can't possibly be a first-class citizen.

At the center, I meet the group. There are ten participants and six guides for our retreat. We have a dinner that evening with all of us learning a little something about each other. Our first dose of psilocybin will be the next morning. It will be a week of intense introspection assisted by psilocybin mushrooms. The schedule for the week calls for three days of psilocybin, with each dose day followed by a day of integration of what we experienced.

This week my intention is to look at my fears. There is fear in me from the Catholic stuff, but also a fear of authority and law enforcement; I also want to get rid of my imbedded thinking that only political leaders and teachers know and do what's best. Unlearning life’s untruths and escaping the cultural programming became my main goal in life 6 or 7 years ago. I hope it will remain my goal for the foreseeable future. I want to meet death as unencumbered with false ideas as possible.

The next morning, after breakfast, we find out much more about each other. We gather in a circle in a large room, where we learn about the other participant’s internal problems. We have plenty of problems - depression, anxiety, the oppression of being gay in a straight society, of being overweight in a world that tells you to be slim. Problems dealing with infidelity and rebuilding trust and with sexual obsession. Problems stemming from absent fathers and sex abuse in the family. And my specialty – problems stemming from believing at the age of 7 or 8 that God would send me to hell eternity for not being able to stop playing with my little wiennie. Hell - the place where you would suffer for eternity, not just from the pain of the flames but also because you couldn’t see your family or God. Since learning about hell back then, I can’t think of a worse thing to happen to me.

People talk frankly about their problems. All the participants here seem to sense that we are in a safe place. I certainly sense it. Having been in counseling and therapy groups before, I was used to seeing participants hold back about the problems they were having. This group seems different. We had all come a long way and all of us seem serious about delving into ourselves and finding some answers. It is a good feeling for me to see this.

The six guides who are with us for our week of therapy undoubtedly help to build the feeling of safety. They are mostly young, in their late 20s or 30s. They all seem, non-judgmental, and wanting to help us participants during this week.

This trusting of our guides became apparent after we all have our turn talking about ourselves and our woes. The guides give recommendations on how much psilocybin to take. Each participant takes the guide’s recommendation, a sign of trust. Before we take our doses, we meditate as a group. It helps me to center myself and prepare for what comes next. The guides also recommend that we put on a heavy eye mask and noise-cancelling headphones and listen to ethereal music. This will help us to tune out our environment and tune into our minds.

During the group session that morning I spoke about my “issues”. I came to Jamaica for some solution to a decades-long health problem - pain and fatigue, with depression, anxiety and insomnia. Now, after taking my silybin dose of four grams, I wait for their effects to happen. I wonder about my intention. Here I am, attempting to go into the depth of my mind, and I am a little nervous. I intellectually know that my upbringing has done some damage to the subconscious parts of my mind. With the help of psilocybin, I am trying to explore the damage and see what I can do about it.

At the group session that morning the guides told us that they wouldn’t interfere with our sessions unless it looked like we needed help. They also told us that if we wanted to stop the session before the psilocybin dose ran its course (about 4 or 5 hours), they would encourage us to go just a little further.

The guides keep a good eye on us. During the sessions the participants were spread out around the grounds of the villa. I (we) occasionally sit up, take off the headphones and eye shade and look around. When a guide notices that someone is sitting up, they ask, with the thumbs-up sign, if that person is OK? Or some of them just tell us with their smile that they are there for us and that all is right with the world.

Lying on a mat under a small canvas shelter when the dose hits, my mind goes to thinking about Jamaica and all the people there, and to the damages done to those Africans brought to Jamaica to work as slaves on the sugar plantations. I think about how the damage from that past is still unhealed. Grief pours out of me. I roll onto the grass face down sobbing for the pain and misery slavery and racism has caused and is causing. My issue of damage from 1950s Catholic dogma took a back seat to the grief for the damage done to Jamaica and the world. My grief expands to my own country and the damages there caused by centuries of slavery and the ensuing oppression and racism. I sob and pound the ground in anguish.

As my grief deepens my anguish is exacerbated by stomach pains from the mushrooms. (We had been forewarned that this could happen.) Also adding to my misery was the oppressiveness of the heat and the brightness of the Jamaican sun, even though I am under a canopy. It goes on and on – three, four, five hours. There were moments of relief, but only moments. I take off my eye mask and headphones and look around, I see Tara, one of the younger guides, walking by. She looks at me with such a loving smile and gives me the thumbs-up signal. I knew instantly that everything in my world was just fine. I put my mask and headphones on and go back to my misery.

There is so much grief flowing out of me; I am overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by my anguish for the abused people of the world and by the heat and light of Jamaica, I try several times to stop my session. There is a swimming pool about 100 yards from where I’m lying. Several times I think about giving up and relieving myself in the coolness of the water. I’m 76 and feel like I don’t need this misery. Let someone younger grieve for Jamaica and the world. Several times I try getting up, taking off my headphones and eyeshade. But Jonas, the guide who is watching over my area, comes over, ostensibly to walk me to the pool so I won’t fall because of the mushrooms. Each time as we walk to the pool Jonas stops me, looks me in the eyes, holds up his thumb and forefinger about an eighth of an inch apart, and asks, “Can you give it just a little bit longer?” Growing up as a good Catholic altar boy and boy scout, I always say “OK”, and go back to my mat and my grief.

Until the last time. After four or so hours of this intense experience, I’m again walking with Jonas towards the pool. But before he can hold up his thumb and forefinger, I bolt. Taking off full tilt towards the pool, I dive in. The relief from the heat is immediate. The relief from the grief didn’t happen. Getting out of the pool, I lie face-down in the grass and am instantly overwhelmed again, feeling in my heart the pain and suffering of Jamaica and the oppressed people of the world.

Finally, the psilocybin runs its course and my session ends. I am tired but relieved. We have another dose in two days, and I get to do it all over again. Would I?

Dinner that evening is fun. Most of us, guides and trippers, sit at the table, talking and laughing about the craziness of what we are doing in our sessions. Billy, another participant, says “Tonight we’ll laugh about today. Tomorrow, at our integration session we’ll look at it more seriously.”

Looking at it in my room that evening, I begin to wonder about what the day’s experience means for me. The mushrooms took me by surprise. I came to Jamaica to work on my own mind, but I spent my first session grieving over something that seems out of my control. Why do I feel so badly about something that doesn’t affect me in my day-to-day life? Why—when I have so many other things in my mind that’s detrimental to my mental, spiritual, and emotional well-being—do I feel so badly over something that doesn’t affect my day-to-day life?

What does my grief today mean for me? I believe that white folks can’t grow up in America without getting at least a little infected by the social disease of racism. It’s in the air we breathe. Einstein said that racism is a disease of white people. I believe him. I can see it in myself, I can feel it in myself. Some of us have been more seriously infected than others, but we whites all have the disease.

Race was not much of an issue for me growing up in 1950s America. Our part of town was mostly white, our friends were white, my 12 years of Catholic schooling was white. Black people lived in another part of town. One Black family lived close to us, but we never saw them much and when the neighborhood kids played sandlot baseball, we never thought to invite them. A large family, we mostly kept to ourselves and to our Catholic friends and cousins. I only heard my father use the term “nigger” a few times in his life. That was mainly when he referred to Brazil nuts as “nigger toes.” Mostly he used the term “colored”.  Occasionally, he used “darkie”, or “coon”. There wasn’t a lot of emotion behind the terms when he used them. It was just said through the ignorance we all carried.

As for my own racism, it manifests in my mind and in my body. In my mind, the N word pops into my mind in weird ways. For instance, I might be thinking of a sentence with the word “Trigger” in it. Then the N word seems to rise from my subconscious mind following the Tr word. Embarrassing, but luckily it stays in my head.

In my body, my racism might manifest when I’m in the proximity of a Black stranger. I can feel my body tighten up on the inside and probably on the outside. Then the thoughts come - ‘How am I acting? Do my eyes betray anything?’  Ugh, more embarrassment. The only time that I felt completely at ease with a Black person was when at a grocery store. I was probably in my 50s at the time. There was a Black clerk in a check-out line of a grocery store. As I approached, we made eye contact and nodded to each other. More of a slight bow than a nod. Buddhists have a greeting, “Namaste”, which means “I salute the light in you”. I think that’s what the clerk and I were unconsciously doing. We smiled and nodded at each other again as he handed me the receipt for my groceries. This incident has stuck with me.

Sleep came that night as I lay there wondering what the next day would bring. The next day, after breakfast, we meet as a group to talk about the experiences of yesterday. There was lots of laughter as the 10 inner explorers talked about what went on inside our minds and in our bodies. The 6 guides mostly listened. When it was my turn, I talked about my unexpected experience with grief for the oppressed of the world. I talked about how burdened I felt because of the heat and the brightness and the stomach pains. Also, about how I was unsure of what my choice of psilocybin would be the next day – as recommended by the guides or just a token dose to stay connected to the group.

In the early evening, before dinner, Catie, an art therapist and a self-described art nerd, leads some of us in some art therapy. We played with clay – shaping and painting it. Just like in grade school! In the evening, we have another fine Jamaican dinner.

Monday morning dawns, another dose day. I had decided yesterday that I would join the others with at least a small dose. First there’s breakfast, then we meet as a group before dosing to talk about our intentions for the journey.

Mine was to look at the Catholic stuff that has been lurking below my surface for decades. I know I don't want the heat and the sunlight that seemed like such a burden during my first dose. I ask for and get a lounge under a shelter by the pool, where I can jump in on a whim and none of those pesky guides would be able to stop me.

Before the meditation circle, the guides give their dose recommendations for each participant. Jonas recommends 7 or 8 grams for me. I choose 7 – no token dose for me, no one’s calling me a slacker. Jonas also explains that the guides discussed the amount of psilocybin for each participant. This impresses me because it means that MycoMeditation is not a “We’ve got your money so go on out and have a high-ole time” kind of place. It tells me that the guides talk among themselves about what is best for us. They weren’t just sitting in their rooms waiting for lunch or looking at phones.

Retreating to the shelter by the pool, I wait for the dose to hit. I want to look at my Catholic upbringing. When I was very young, I accepted as truth anything that my parents or the nuns and priests told me – things that were not only untrue but also harmful to me on an unconscious level. Guilt and shame took root and flourished in me because I couldn’t always live up to the teachings of the Catholic Church. I am hoping the psilocybin would help me access the areas within myself, so I can unlearn, on an emotional, maybe unconscious level the damaging beliefs that I’ve already unlearned on an intellectual level. Lying on a lounge with my eyeshades and my noise-canceling headphones on, I feel relaxed. As the psilocybin hits, I begin visualizing bright colors flashing in my mind. Then my thoughts turned to my Catholic past.

I think about the things I had been taught, then say out loud, “What a load of horseshit”. Then I burst out laughing. The grip of those early untruths seems to ease. “Oh man, I can’t believe I fell for all of that Catholic stuff”, again, out loud. I begin to focus on the specific ideas I had been taught. More laughter. If any of the guides heard or saw me, they apparently knew I was OK.

My thoughts quickly turn to the bible story about the crucifixion of Jesus. I picture the scene on Calvary – the dying men, the crying women, the guards waiting for the end to come. Then I picture the scene about Jesus calling out “I thirst”. As told in the bible, the guards dipped a sponge into a pot of vinegar and shove it up to Jesus’ mouth. Again, out loud, I say “What a load of horseshit.” Why would anyone lug a jug of vinegar up a hill to an execution?” The guards were human beings probably of the same class of people as Jesus and his followers. I suspect the vinegar story in the bible was created by some poor scribe in a bleak monastery in the Middle Ages who wanted to make the suffering of Jesus seem ghastlier. When I was young the nuns and priests regaled us with even more embellished tales of the suffering of Jesus – the scourging at the pillar, the crowning with thorns, the taunting of Jesus by the crowds, the nails through the hands and feet. Not healthy stuff to feed an 8-year-old child.

Lying on my lounge I create a new story about the crucifixion. I don’t know if the details in my story are factual, but the story is true. It’s true because it puts a human face on the guards, who are just men who were caught up in the ignorance of the time. (You can find my version of this story, at the end of this travelogue. I titled it “On Calvary.”)

The rest of my dose time is spent on my complaints, often out loud, about the heat, the stomach pain from the mushrooms, and the brightness when I take my eyeshades off. I relieve the heat somewhat by jumping in the pool.

When coming down from this second dose, I notice other participants, also on the downhill slide to what passes as the real world. Some talking, others being quiet. Noticing that there was one participant still in the depths of her trip, I decided to lay back down on my lounge rather than join the others. I feel like I am her cheerleader rooting her on from the sidelines. As dinner time got closer, I ended my vigil. Later in the evening, when I saw her still going strong with her pain, I was able to justify, in my mind, quitting my job as her self-appointed cheerleader.

The evening meal is like the one after our first dose. Most everyone is in high spirits. Those after-dose dinner meals were part of the healing process for me. It is good to laugh at myself and at others talking about the weird and funny events of the day. It seems to reduce those feelings inside us that we consider shameful or embarrassing into something laughable and acceptable.

In my room that night I review the day. The trip is easier than the one on Saturday, laughter instead of grief, but there was still the heat, the brightness, and the stomach pains. Despite that, I was still able to come up with a pretty good story. I create a lot of stories in my head but only a very few of them make it to my computer - this one about the women at the crucifixion would. As I think about this story, I pull a rosary I had with me out of my pocket. I brought it to Jamaica as a symbol that might stimulate some memories deep in my psyche.

Looking at it, I realize the rosary is a means of celebrating Mary, the eternal female energy of the world. This is what my crucifixion story, “On Calvary,” is all about. For me then, the crucifix at the beginning of the rosary seems inappropriate. In saying the rosary there are 53 prayers to Mary and only 9 to the spirit god, but it begins with the crucifix, a way of emphasizing Jesus’ suffering. In my youth, I was reminded too many times that the “sins” I committed added to Jesus’ sufferings. Understanding this anew, I ripped the crucifix from the rosary. Now the rosary made sense.

The next morning is another fine Jamaican morning. Then another fine Jamaican breakfast, after which we join as a group, to talk about what we experienced the previous day. It was gratifying to share my thoughts with the group, knowing that I wouldn't be judged. It’s also makes it easy for me to not judge the others. I imagine that most, or all, of the participants feel the same way.

In the afternoon I walk on the beach, loving the spirit of the place. No wonder people come to the Caribbean. After the beach and a swim in the pool, I retire to my room to read and make notes of my experience thus far. Before dinner local masseuses offer massages. Gladly I got one. A good way to end a Jamaican day. A massage and a fine dinner with very close friends.

Wednesday morning is our last dose day. We have breakfast and gather in the main room. Each participant took a little time to speak about their intentions for the trip and about how they are feeling. When it's my turn to speak, I am unsure of what I would focus on. Speaking vaguely about looking more deeply into my Catholic programming, I feel unsure of my direction. I'm also not looking forward to the heat, the brightness, or the stomach pains that are sure to come.

We meditate, then Jonas goes around the room to each of the participants. He tells each what the dosages of psilocybin the staff recommends for them. When he comes to me, I choose 7 grams, same as my last trip. On my way out the door my intention for this dose came to me. Stopping Jonas, I told him that when I was young and in grade school and still under the influence, and the thumb, of the Catholic Church, I had a big fear of the devil. Even though I am now 76 and no longer believe in a devil, I can still reflexively cringe at the thought of devils or demons or ghosts. I tell Jonas that my intention is to invite the devil to come out and show his ugly mug. By now I consider Jonas and the rest of the guides to be not only my friends, but also my allies in my effort to throw off the indoctrination of my past.

We trippers go out to our chosen spots. I have picked a lounge chair on the veranda of the main house, still close to the pool. I want as many creature comforts as I can get.  I set my paraphernalia on the table and lie down. Closing my eyes, I listen as the last-minute scurrying-around fades. I wait. Soon I’m plenty high. My thoughts zoom in and out. I meditate. Now the thoughts slow down, then they speed back up, popping in and out. Still waiting, my mind soon notices that I’m seeing some great colors flash in my head. As soon as I notice the colors, they quickly fade.

Then I thought, “Oh yeah. What about that devil?" As a kid, the devil was my biggest fear. Not even a wolf walking towards me in a dream was scarier. I will myself to tell the devil to “come on out, if you’re coming.” I wait. Later, I realized that what I really want is for fear to go away, not particularly of the devil, just plain fear. I hate feeling afraid. 

Then what happened? I'm not sure. The bastard never showed. At least not in the way that I was afraid he would – as a separate entity/phenomenon wanting to do me harm.  Today, I still have some fear of the unknown, or the unknowable. It just doesn't seem as threatening as it once did.

After this, I’m still plenty high. Because of the no-show, I’ve lost my steam and only an hour or so has passed. I still have 3 or 4 hours to go, dealing with the pain in my stomach and oppressive heat all around me. But that's it for me - I want to be done with the hard stuff, searching for my fears and for something in my mind that isn't working right. I want to have fun. Guides are passing me on the veranda, giving me the thumbs-up, which I return. Once when the heat becomes too much, I ask Felicity, a guide from Australia, to walk me to the pool. I go for a swim. It doesn't work. Later, back on my lounge, I complain out loud. “My stomach hurts.” And “Holy crap, it's hot.” Tara, the guide, asks me if I want a drink with ginger for my stomach. I do, it helps a little. Time passes.

In the evening, after dinner, Tara brings me bitters with water for my still queasy stomach. It helps a lot. I feel like I skated on this last dose. Once the devil didn’t show in my head, I quit trying to delve inside my mind and spent the remaining 3 or 4 hours complaining about the heat and my stomach and telling myself this psilocybin therapy business is a young person’s game. I don’t believe that as I write this a year later. The things we tell ourselves to justify our actions!

Thursday seems like a free day, no more being hot and achey. Some of the group goes out for breakfast at a cafe. I stay and eat breakfast in my room. Then we meet as a group to integrate more fully what we have learned from this last dose experience. My attention is with the group as everyone is talking, but afterward my attention goes back to wanting to have fun

We have lunch and I have another massage, I want those creature comforts. The afternoon slips by. Later, one of the directors of Myco, Abby Townsend, announces that there will be a turtle release in the afternoon. Abby has worked with a local organization for this release. I decide to go. I haven't left the retreat center when the chances came up before, but now adventure beckons. It's a joy to see how those little creatures madly dash for the sea. They know exactly what to do and where to go. On the way there and back I watched a construction crew working on utility repairs along the road. I've worked with and around construction crews all my adult life. I like what I see about construction in Jamaica – less machines and more workers.

Back at the center, I play cribbage with Liz and Dan while waiting for dinner. Card and board games have always been a treat for me, a welcome leftover from childhood. Sitting and chatting after the game, Liz notices activity on the veranda. “Looks like they’re bringing out the joints.” My ears perk up. I say, “I better get out there,” and head to the porch.

Not expecting a party, I am thrilled to be at one at Myco. Shortly after, someone brought out a couple of six-packs of beer. I am a little nervous at first, a by-product of my youthful shyness.  I’ve always been nervous at parties. When I was young, before counseling and before looking inside myself, I’d go to parties and drink and eat myself into oblivion. When I first connected with my wife, Mary Ann, she couldn’t believe I would be stressed out going to parties. As my married years went by, the party-shyness became less and less.

My nervousness dissipated before I had my first toke. By realizing where I am, in Jamaica, and who I’m with, people who accept that we all have our demons, I relax, knowing that if I embarrass myself, the group, the guides and participants, will not judge me for it. And if they did, I know they will forgive me.

 We were talking and laughing. After an intense week, I was enjoying myself. Not talking much, but deeply content sitting in Jamaica on a veranda. I don’t even notice if it’s hot or not. I am sitting on a sofa next to Johnny, a participant and a gay man.  I’m always a little nervous around gay men, another leftover from my past. Deliberately sitting next to him, I soon lose my nervousness. We are on the same wavelength, in the party vibe, enjoying ourselves. After a while Buster, one of the Therapy Dogs, shows up. I can’t resist him. I head to the lawn and play with him for a while. After Buster has done his therapy work, he drifts away to something else. I rejoin the partiers.

The party ends when dinner is ready, and we drift inside to another fun Caribbean dinner. What made this meal extra interesting is the discussion I listen to but don’t much participate in, still high on cannabis.  I sit at the end of a table, next to three of the guides. All through the week, we participants would talk about the silly things that came up in our sessions. But here were guides talking about the silly things that happened to previous participants in previous retreats. I think “Wow! Is it appropriate for the guides to be talking about their previous clients in a mixed client/therapist setting?” Then I realize that they are just having a little ‘shop talk’. It seems refreshing to listen to their/our laughter. It reinforces my belief that whatever I do or say here at Myco is acceptable. The dinner continues. I am happy.

In my room, I’m still happy. Later, I begin reviewing the week and taking a look at myself, at my inner workings. This is not exactly fun, but pleasant enough. I’ve learned a few things: That the past isn’t as influential as I thought it was; that I can be relaxed; that I’ve gained a bunch of friends and allies who’ve helped me to change my understanding of the past; that looking into my mind and working to change it is a good thing, indeed a valuable service to the greater culture. Someone, probably someone in the sixties, once said, “Want to change the world? Then change yourself.”

In the morning my airport shuttle will be leaving early. While packing I can't find my passport. Freaking out I searched frantically. Noticing Tara's voice on the veranda I ask her in to help calm myself down. She assures me that I'll get home tomorrow. Myco can contact the passport service at the embassy. I'm immediately calmed. Then, I pick up a book to continue packing and there's the passport. We both have a good laugh, and I thank Tara profusely.

Friday morning, the van to the airport picks us up early. I'm happy to see Patrick outside by the shuttle. He's the groundskeeper for the house where I'm staying. We've had several nice conversations through the week. In high spirits, I hug and say goodbye to all the people I see. Then we're off to the airport.

Expecting to enjoy the ride by taking in the Jamaican countryside, I'm enjoying a conversation with Lesedi, someone I just met from the other Myco retreat house. She's animated in our conversation, and soon I am too. The time quickly passes, and all too soon we're at the airport, exchanging contact information. Lesedi and I shared a closeness coming from the experience we both went through.

At the airport there's another bonus for the week. I must still be high as a kite from the week. I'm enjoying watching the kids, their antics and their facial expressions. I'm enjoying watching their parents too. They all seem relaxed, interacting with and enjoying their kids.

Arriving in Florida to go through customs and change planes, I'm still in love with life. More fun-loving kids to enjoy. Later in Columbus and heading home, I'm still high from the week. And soon, I am home.

*  *  *  *  *

For a couple of months after my experience in Jamaica, I was buoyant, floating on an “all’s right with the world” cloud. During the first couple of days back I realized that I took the journey with the subconscious hope that this Jamaican retreat would cure my fatigue, my aches, my bouts of depression, etcetera. Alas, it didn't. But I was feeling too good to feel too bad about this.

Soon after my return I realized the buoyancy I was feeling was caused by a feeling I've hardly ever experienced before - that I am on the right track with my life. I feel very confident of who I am, what I believe about myself, and what I believe of the outer world.

The Jamaican experience didn't eliminate my ingrained fears, but it did put me on to the road to being able to step outside of them. Now the trick will be to learn how to stay outside of them.

I also feel a little chagrined about my experience.  It’s a little feeling inside me that says I was a bit of a weenie about the difficulties of the Jamaican heat and brightness, and the stomach pains from the mushrooms. Especially on the last psilocybin journey, where I just gave up trying to explore inside myself, and I turned to whining and complaining. But I guess this feeling of not doing it well enough is just another feeling that I'll get to explore in further searching of my mind and body.

Finally, my trip to Jamaica helps to convince me that the mysteries of life are sweeter than I ever imagined.

 

On Calvary

Looking at the crucifixion with some understanding of how humans work, it's probably true that Jesus called out “I thirst.” What really happened, though, was one of the soldiers guarding the three condemned men picked up a water jug and looked at another soldier who, as he was watching him, turned to look at the centurion who stood with his back to the whole proceeding. The guard with the jug then also turned to look at the centurion. The soldier put down the jug and resumed his earlier position, his back to the three crosses. To the right was a large knot of Jesus’ families and followers who faced the agonizing scene. They were Mary, the mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene, a close companion, John the Apostle, and a few other companions and followers.

 

When Mary, the mother, saw the guard put down the water jug, she approached him and whispered, “Why did you stop? These men thirst. They will die soon.”

 

The guard, looking ashamed, whispered to Mary, “I want to do that, ma’am, but the centurion will punish me.”

 

Mary Magdalene added, “Not if you ask first. Escort us to him and we’ll ask.”

 

The guard replied, ”I will escort one of you.”

 

Magdalene turned to Mary and said, “You should go, and make sure the guard introduces you as the mother of one of the prisoners.”

 

Mary and the guard walked to the centurion, who was sitting on a rock, his back still facing away from the proceedings. He stood as the two approached.

 

The guard said, ”This woman wishes to speak to you.”

 

The centurion nodded.

 

“These poor men are suffering needlessly from thirst. They’re going to die. Can this guard give them some water?”

 

“It is forbidden,” the centurion replied harshly. “They deserve no mercy. They committed a crime and must pay with their life.”

 

Mary looked directly at the centurion, “Don't embarrass your mother by being this way. She raised you better than that.”

 

The centurion was silent for a long moment, then turned to the guard, “Give the prisoners some water.” To Mary, he said, “Leave me.”

 

The guard gave water to the prisoners with the sponge on the tip of the spear, and Mary returned to stand among her family and friends.

 

*  *  *  *  *

Obviously, this is something I made up. But it’s also a story that is believable because it’s true whether I got the facts right or not. True because the story is about empathy and compassion, emotions that researchers believe exist not just in humans but also in mammals. It’s also about the spiritual power of a mother. If humans fail to show compassion to someone in need, it’s because compassion has been beaten down in them. It’s still there, just not very available.

 

All I know for sure about compassion is that it’s gratifying and uplifting to see it working in all of us. Whatever else exists in humans, on either side of our many divisions, compassion exists in all of us, it connects all of us. It’s that connection that will help bridge the gulfs that separates us.