The night is cool (for Texas) and breezy. The sky is covered in gauzy veils of cloud; thick paintbrush strokes that obscure everything except for the moon, who looks rather fuzzy. I drag my quilt into the crunchy, leaf-covered grass of my backyard, spread it out, and lay down. The earth is still warm from the sun rays it soaked up hours before, but the wind drives up the goosebumps on my skin. I scoot to the edge of the quilt and pull the other half around me, becoming a burrito.
My perception is only mildly altered from the shrooms I consumed a few hours ago. I had been keeping them around for a long time, and their potency had lessened drastically since the last time I had used this batch. The effect was a friendly microdose; a slight vibration in my body, a slight whirling in my mind, a slight breathing of the objects of the world. Oh, to be aware of the constant flux of all things!
I have never taken plant medicine alone before tonight; I feared what might be unearthed in my solitude. But I am reading books by Joan Halifax and Ram Dass, both of whom speak about plant teachers and are indebted to the lessons they learned by the mind expansion gifted to them from psychedelics. So tonight I figured, “what the hell. I’ll probably be fine!”
My body feels perfectly content in the warmth and safety of the tightly-wrapped quilt. I stare up at the sky, inviting transmissions of truth and wisdom. Nothing comes, other than the desire for the cloud cover to dissipate so I could see the stars. Thoughts flash across my mind like pages being turned in a book. Desires, memories, perceptions, information from my senses. But this is nothing new. This always happens.
The clouds drag across the sky like they are a sheet being pulled slowly by the night goddess. A scattering of a few subtle stars make themselves known through the haze. Hi, Orion.
There are three cats inside my house; my roommate’s cats, but ones I pretend are my own, too. We don’t let them outside, but they are very interested that I am outside right now. I turn around to look at the glass door and see if any of them are still there, looking at me. Two of them are.
There is also a cat outside, standing a few feet away, motionless as a statue. Staring at me.
I bolt up to a sitting position. In the hazy moonlight I can see it is a black cat. Or, is it a cat at all? Is it actually a statue? My motion does not trigger any motion in the visitor. It remains stationary.
My heart rate quickens. We don’t have a cat statue. One of my roommate’s cats is a black cat. How did Cashew get outside? My muscles flinch in preparation for standing up to grab her, but I see that this one is smaller and has a collar. Not Cashew. I remain sitting.
Wow. I must not be microdosing after all. I see a whole ass creature who isn’t really there.
I fumble for my phone and turn on the flashlight, then aim it at the manifestation. It squints its eyes in the bright light, the first movement I have seen. The gaudy intrusiveness of the manufactured light shows me plainly that it is real.
Feeling remorse for temporarily blinding the poor guy, I turn off the flashlight. We continue to stare at each other.
A few moments pass, and the cat, perhaps pissed off that I assaulted it with my abrasive light, turns around and soundlessly slinks off near the side of the house, disappearing into the darkness. I hear nothing to signal its departure from the backyard. I remain sitting, marveling at the visitation, wondering what it means.
embracing samsara 