Sacred Dialogue with the Jungle: A Father Wachuma Ceremony of Healing and Connection
After four ayahuasca ceremonies that had taken place in the darkness of the night, I was vibrating with excitement to work with a master plant during the day. What would it be like to see the world with Father Wachuma holding my hand through it? With him letting me borrow the lens through which he sees nature?
We learned a little about Father Wachuma’s rich history, with origins in the Andean mountain ranges and a presence in Bolivia, Peru, Chile, Argentina, and beyond. Indigenous groups have worked with the medicine for over two thousand years, with the intent being to expand our consciousness and deepen our connection to nature.
As I sat quietly with my hands in my lap, Wara blessed the medicine and gently passed him towards me. She smiled at me with all her warmth, transferring a love that coursed through me and pulsated in my fingertips. I cupped my hands tightly around the vessel that held Father Wachuma’s essence, present in the form of a light green dust.
Simultaneously nervous and eager, the combination of emotion I’d become quite accustomed to feeling prior to working with any master plant, I whispered soft wishes to him: “I’m a little scared, Father. My body has been through a lot these past nine days, and I so badly want to spend time with you, so deeply want to welcome you in and open myself spiritually. Would you do me the favor of being gentle with me today?”
As I finished my inaudible prayers, Wara whispered to me, passing a secret just between the three of us: “Don’t worry Kiara. He told me He’s going to be only kind to you.” Thank you, I said to Wara, hoping my gratitude would visit both her soul and then pass seamlessly thought it to reach Father Wachuma as well.
After I’d taken the medicine, I sat calmly and rested my head against the wall of the Maloka (the overwhelmingly beautiful octagonal structure in which all of our ceremonies were held). I was slightly nauseous at first, but by that point I’d had so much practice relinquishing control with Hayahuasca, that I was completely unphased by the discomfort.
As we headed towards the dock as a group, I focused on my individual work with the medicine but allowed myself to derive some comfort and warm energy from the presence of the beautiful beings I’d become so close to in the past nine days.
We ventured into the jungle, asking her permission to walk on her sacred ground, to speak with her wise plants. One by one, we ducked our heads below the vines that seemed to serve as the door to this enchanted space.
I wondered with awe at the plants I walked under, feeling as if I’d shrunk to the size of an ant and now lived amidst a world built for beings much larger than myself. I admired the vibrancy of their colors, the ways in which the stems and trunks stood upright while the leaves and branches swayed softly.
Now entranced by the leaves of the ground, lost in thought about the cyclicality of nature, I was lightly pulled from my admiration as I noticed droplets of sun forming around my feet. We’d reached a clearing. Lifting my head slowly, slowly, traced the roots of a tree, watching as they merged into a red pillar that rose endlessly, only to once again split.
I walked towards her slowly, asking if she was comfortable with me leaning on her trunk for support. She welcomed me in, and as I leaned into her, I noticed that she had deep scars. A long indent in her trunk that had healed over, but still revealed the layer of deep red that lay just underneath the brow of her outer layers.
I traced my fingertips along those painful memories, asking who had hurt her, why they would do such a thing. Compelled by empathy to hug her, I did, yet quickly retreated when I felt something sharp pierce my stomach.
See, around her scars, she had built spikes. As someone whose default mechanism in response to vulnerability is to shut the world out, I saw myself in her. “That’s the problem with spikes, I said. They’ll protect you from getting hurt, but they’ll also prevent you from being loved. You have to let down these walls if you want to let anyone in.” Together we mourned the relationships we’ve let slip by as a result of our walls and committed to, however gradually, tearing them down.
I soon found myself groveling at the feet of another woman, the white oje. Her simultaneously elegant and dominant presence was palpable. Even more slowly than before, I approached her roots, which extended at least a meter above ground. I rested my cheek along her skin, which resembled water in its smoothness, tilting my chin upwards to follow her lines to the sky. I remained glued that way, marveling in her power, until my intuition pushed my gaze downwards. Only then did I notice that this tree I’d thus far understood to be immaculate had fissures. There were pockets of darkness that hid between the curvature of her roots, and I could just make out the shadows of spiders and remains of decayed leaves
But while I’d normally avert my eyes from the sights we’re perhaps innately wired to fear, I held steady, and gently rested my hands on her. “I’m not afraid,” I whispered. “We all have our darkest crevasses.
I’m not afraid of yours. Sometimes, in life, you find someone who’s willing – eager, even – to visit those dark places with you. They want to hold your hand and walk through them together.
Those people are really unique – hold onto them tightly. You don’t have to do it all alone. It’s nice to at least let someone else hold the flashlight.” Together we put into question the assumption that accepting support makes us weaker. Together we flipped the script.
With Father Wachuma, time stretched and shrunk, oscillating in such a way that made it nearly impossible track. As the sun began to set, we thanked the jungle one by one, holding our palms to her soil in gratitude before we walked back out the same door through which we came.
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