When I was fourteen, I saw a psychic; she told me that if my older brother dies, I will die with him. That we are tethered to one another for all eternity in this life and the next.
Well, that sucks.
The wolf that raised me. Haphazardly.
I feel like he is going to die. And I don’t know how to save him.
Or save me.
Did I abandon him?
Did I abandon me?
I am preparing to go to prison this weekend. Folsom State Prison. Cue Johnny Cash.
I am helping bring a circle process to twenty lifers, in hopes that we can alter the culture of prison, from the inside out.
I am honored. I am humbled. I am naïve.
I am also white and a woman.
I have been encouraged to breathe from my heart, let the energy emanate from there, and shut down anything coming from below the belt.
Is it possible to shut the vagina down?
Mine is pretty loud and rambunctious, for better or worse.
We will find out.
I have not been able to write since Ayahuasca. At least not about Ayahuasca. I have spoken about it, to many people. But I have not been able to sit down and describe it in detail. Every time I try I start to feel nauseous.
My eyes are drooping.
Tingling in my brain.
Reminds me of shooting heroine.
There were two shamans in the ceremony, one female, and one male.
The male one just spoke to me on the phone. He thinks we should date. He thinks we should date because when he answered the phone, we had a call scheduled to talk about integration, I began by asking him, “How the hell did you become a Shaman when you look like a tailgater from Detroit?” To which he replied, “If that is your line of questioning, I think it is safe to assume we should consider dating.”
I hung up confused. And mildly curious.