Some meetings rearrange the way you walk through the world. This one happened when I had just finished ten days and nights of drinking Ayahuasca in the Yawanawá territory. My body was fragile, my spirit wide open, and the medicine still singing in my veins.

When I started this Substack, I wrote that I wanted to tell you the story of a serpent I once met. This chapter is where that story truly begins.

Her name was Nalini. This is how she entered my life and invited me into the silence.

When the ten days and nights of drinking Ayahuasca came to an end, I slowly emerged from my hammock. I could barely walk. I went to bathe in the small creek next to the temple. With a towel bound around my waist and the dented aluminium pot in my hand, I had to concentrate very hard with each step, stumbling to the river. It took me a while to focus; the force of the medicine was still strong inside me. I was still in a dream state, getting back into my physical body. The reality of my situation dawned on me: I was standing naked in an Amazonian creek, deep in the jungle, mosquitoes feasting on my blood. What the hell was I doing? I chuckled faintly to myself and began to pour the water over my arms and legs.

As I bathed, I looked up to the sky. The sensation of cold water on my skin brought me back to reality. I heard the beautiful songs of the birds and the symphony of insects. I felt the sun warming my skin.

What an incredible journey it had been. In those ten days of ceremony, I had explored the outer edges of my consciousness. I had visited so many places and gained so many insights into my life and the path ahead of me. I had revisited many moments from my past and also seen moments of my future. I experienced memories with a higher level of consciousness, a heightened perspective, and was able to understand the purpose of those lived experiences and why I had behaved as I did. I felt sorrow, gratitude, forgiveness, compassion, and deep love for many people in my life. I had come closer to understanding who we are, as humanity, and where we came from. I felt so much gratitude for that time. A big smile came over my face. Here I was again—back!

JIIIIIIIIHUUUUUUUU!

I shouted in joy. Edi and Muca erupted into shouts, too, echoing me from the temple. We all laughed together.

“Strong warriors!” We shouted to each other. I felt such joy and gratitude for those two men, for my ten days of ceremony, and for this experience. I walked back to the temple and gave them big hugs.

That night we sat together around the fire. I was able to eat a full plate of food for the first time in days. Edi and Muca had caught some small fish, and Louisa had grilled them over the open fire. I peeled the tiny morsels of flesh from each minuscule bone. It was one of the most delicious meals I had ever eaten in my life. When we finished, Luis sat down and said, “Vāta Txanu, I want to tell you a story about the Runūa, the serpent.”

I always enjoyed story time. With a smile on my face, I laid back in my hammock to listen.

Luis was sitting in a chair, the only one in the whole village. It was close to falling apart, but he looked like a king, sitting up there while we were hanging on his every word. The fire burning on the temple floor flickered, and a few lanterns burned like candles. I could only see the right side of Luis’s face. His right hand held the end of what remained of his left arm.

“The Runūa is the most sacred animal of the jungle,” he began. “We have four different kinds of Runūa here. The mānā Runūa, which is the serpent that lives on the earth, sleeps on the earth, and eats on the earth. They also can be found in the waters or in burrows under the ground. In your language, you might call them boa constrictors. This Runūa is a very sacred animal and carries a lot of force, but she is difficult and tends to be slower in giving her force and wisdom away if you connect with her.

“Then we have the waka Runūa. She is the Runūa of the water and is very powerful. She carries more power than the mana Runūa. She spends most of her time in the water, but she also spends time on land. You would call her anaconda.

“Then we have the Runūa Txitu, a very sacred serpent who is difficult to see. She is like a waka Runūa, but without a tail. If you saw her, you might think she had an accident and cut her tail. Her body just ends at one point, but that is exactly as she is. It is very hard to find one of them, as they are excellent at hiding and masquerading. They don’t grow very long, maybe a maximum of three meters, but they can become very thick.” He pointed with his right arm to the height of his knees. “Because of their size, they won’t move a lot when they are fully grown. Not many people see them. You have to be very lucky to encounter one. She is extremely powerful, and she carries a lot of wisdom.

“Then there is the most sacred of all, the queen of the Runūa: Axuiká. She lives in the trees and hardly ever comes to the earth. Fully grown she is twenty-five to thirty meters long. She is an extremely powerful animal, and not many people can report an encounter with her. The last man of our tribe that saw Axuiká, and could tell about it, lived one hundred fifty years ago. If you encounter her, and she sees you first, you will never survive. If you spot her first, she will know, and that moment will almost instantly turn you into a pajé.

“I want to tell you today about the Runūa, and what I tell you is true for all the four types of Runūa that we know about. They live here in the forest. They don’t move very much; they just lie in one place, in silence. A mature Runūa does not go hunting. She commands her territory, which has a distance of thirty minutes walking in each direction.” With his only arm, Luis gestured in a circle. “That is her world, her space, and she is the master of that space. She is a master of consciousness. No other Runūa will enter that space; one Runūa will hardly ever meet another, not even to mate. A female doesn’t need a male to have fertile eggs.

“In her space, the Runūa is aware of everything that happens: every animal, every plant, every movement.” Luis held a long silence after that sentence, and looked deeply into my eyes.

“She never goes out hunting. If the Runūa wants to eat, she feels into her territory without moving from her place on the jungle floor, sensing which animals are around. She selects an animal in her kingdom, locks into it mentally, and then sings a song to it. The song is undetectable to the human ear, but her target can hear it. Hearing the song of a master, it can’t help but walk right into the mouth of the Runūa. And while the animal is getting closer, the saliva of the serpent begins to flow, sometimes coming out of her mouth like foam, allowing her to ingest even a large animal. It is in that saliva that some of her force resides, the force that calls the prey. You see, the animals are in service of each other, and this is the way that the Runūa lives as a master of consciousness. She never hunts. She lets her food come to her.

“A Runūa is not an animal we see often,” he continued. “If you see one while walking in the jungle, you can be certain that she wanted you to see her. If she did not want you to see her, she would not be there. She knew you were going to come long before you were even aware that this snake existed. To meet a Runūa is a special moment in your life. For most people it happens only once or twice. Some people will never see a Runūa at all.

“Runūa normally do not attack human beings. You do not have to be afraid. Snakes will only bite for two reasons. If you step on her, you will be bitten before you know what has happened. The only other reason a snake will attack a human is if you clear a piece of jungle to build something in her territory and threaten her livelihood. It is not so simple for a serpent just to leave and go to another space, because that could be the territory of another serpent, and they will defend their kingdom. In all other cases, they are peaceful animals.”

I asked Luis what to do if I should come upon a Runūa. He nodded, knowingly.

“If you meet a Runūa, you must take time. Whatever you are doing, stop doing it. Just pause, and sit down to be with the animal. Take some rapé, the snuff made of tobacco and the bark of a tree. Rapé is the medicine of the Runūa. Take your time. She will not go anywhere. Sit close to her and take a stick. With that stick, tap her body very gently. Look her in the eyes, and ask the serpent for its blessings. At that moment, tapping the serpent’s body with your stick, you speak the intentions for your life. But be wise: whatever you ask the Runūa for in that moment, you will receive.

Luis told me that if I were ever to meet one, I should ask her for a good wife, a good house, and a boat with a motor. I laughed. The life of a Yawanawá Indian is very simple! If you have those three things in the jungle, you are the man.

Growing serious again, I looked deeply into Luis’s eyes. “I want to meet a Runūa,” I said. “I want to meet that serpent.”

I closed my eyes and went into a deep meditation, calling in an encounter. As I was just coming out of a ten-day ceremony and was still feeling the presence of Madre Ayahuasca strongly inside of me, it was not difficult to go deep into a meditative state. And in that meditation, I saw her: a big, beautiful, female serpent appeared in front of me. Her colors were stunning. I could feel her wisdom. She was moving right in front of me, swimming in beautiful colours and patterns. She looked straight into my eyes, and I looked back without fear. With a gust of wind, she blew her name: “Nalini.”

I looked straight back at her and said, “Nalini, I want to meet you.” She didn’t say anything; she just gazed penetratingly into my eyes. At that moment, I knew I was going to meet her. I knew she would be on my path in the coming days. I didn’t know where, I didn’t know when, but I just knew it was going to happen. I opened my eyes to face Luis again. He stood in front of me and nodded, knowingly. He had seen what had happened in that moment. “Let’s see,” I said.

I spent the following day in the temple, walking around, eating, talking, and laughing, coming back into my body, after the ten-day journey with Madre Ayahuasca. The sun was shining, and we decided that the next day we would begin cooking some Ayahuasca. A friend of Luis had come by and left us a big stack of Ayahuasca vines. All we had to do was find the leaves of the chacruna plant to add to the brew and start cooking. Luis knew where to find the chacruna plants in the jungle.

We went looking for chacruna the next day. In the Yawanawá language, chacruna is called “kawá,” while the Santo Daime call her “rainha da floresta,” queen of the forest. And so the four of us set out: Luis, Muca, Qwatsi, and I. We walked deep into the jungle. There were no real paths. We followed some tiny hunting trails and cleared the way with machetes, looking for plants along the way.

Looking for the chacruna was not easy for me. I am quite familiar with the plant, having spent time with Santo Daime communities in Brazil. I was under the impression that I knew the plant well enough to recognize it, but in the jungle, where there are thousands of different plants, they all begin to look more or less the same. Finding one chacruna plant amidst all that flora, was a very different experience from seeing one-hundred chacruna plants in a field, planted in rows.

Luis was a good teacher. He told me that the chacruna was close and that he already had seen it. He refused to help me find it. That was my task. It took me more than twenty minutes to find the plant, which, in the end, was right in front of my nose. I walked around in small circles, examining every plant. Luis sat patiently at a root of a tree, and Qwatsi stood next to me, laughing. He had identified the plant long ago.

We collected twenty-five chacruna plants that morning. We took them out of the earth, roots and all, to add to our medicinal garden. I walked back to the boat next to Luis. We were in good spirits as our walk had been fruitful. We joked about me not being able to find the plants so quickly, and as we walked, I was not paying a lot of attention to the path.

Then suddenly I saw a glimpse of huge snake right in front of us. I almost stepped on her. There she lay, in the middle of the path: a huge, beautiful mānā Runūa. It was her: Nalini. My heart skipped a beat.

Her body was very thick, bigger than any snake I had seen in my life, covered in beautiful colors. I felt terrified, but I could not help but look at her in awe. She looked straight into my eyes, and I looked straight back. Luis hadn’t seen her at first, and even he looked a bit scared. He watched from a distance. Later, he confessed that he almost stepped on her as well.

I stood frozen, trying to remember Luis’s instructions. She was such a big animal, probably four meters long by my estimation. Her body had a girth greater than the belly of a baby. I just stood there, paralyzed. Luis saw my fear and touched me gently on the elbow, saying, “Let’s walk a bit.”

“What if she goes away?”

“She will not go away,” Luis assured me. “They don’t move during the daytime. They only travel at night. Don’t worry. She will be there when we get back. Calm down.”

So we walked, the four of us. Twenty minutes passed. We gathered some other plants to put in our ever-growing medicinal garden. I couldn’t stop thinking about Nalini, lying on the path, waiting for us to return. My heart was beating fast, and my mind was racing. Muca led us back. Sure enough, she was still there, in the middle of the path, exactly where we had left her.

Once again, I stared at her in complete awe. I couldn’t believe I was in the presence of such a beautiful, strong, sacred animal. I could really feel her sacredness, the power of her consciousness, as she stared directly into my eyes.

I remembered Luis’s instructions: “You must take rapé when you meet the Runūa. This is the medicine of that animal.” I checked my pockets for some rapé, but they were empty. Nobody else seemed to have either. I looked at Luis in horror. What should I do? He calmly told me not to worry, to find a stick, and to sit down.

My fear began to subside, especially as I saw how calm Luis was. I found a long stick and kneeled near Nalini, as far away as I could get while still being able to touch her with the stick. I had picked up one of the longest sticks I could find. I took my time, moving gently and purposefully. Luis watched. I slowly began to tap on this beautiful, strong animal with the stick. As I tapped this sacred creature, I put out my intentions. I looked her straight in the eyes, and she looked straight back into mine.

Silently, tapping Nalini all the while, I asked her for health, happiness, an open path, abundance, prosperity, friendship, love, and wisdom. My main intention was to encounter my mate: a beautiful woman to be by my side, a shining soul to share this dream of life with. And I called in my forever home, when the time and space was right. A home that would be connected to friends and community, with clear waters and abundant food. I asked her to help me with the healing work that was happening in Peru, and to show me the next steps on my path. Throughout it all, I was very precise, using specific details. I had learned that if you’re not specific enough with your intentions, you can get exactly what you asked for, but not what you wanted.

I took my time. I carefully chose my intentions and asked Nalini to help me to manifest them. For at least twenty minutes, I tapped her with the stick. Luis was watching me from close by, and Muca and Qwatsi were sitting at a distance, all observing what was happening.

When I finished, I stepped back. I watched the snake in complete awe. The silence was singing. It had been a very sacred moment, so the others had respected it. I felt so much honor, so much love, and so much gratitude for this animal.

I felt that my time with her had not yet come to an end, but I didn’t know what could come next. So I asked the others if we could go on a walk again and return a third time.

Again, we left. And again, we found some plants for our garden. We returned about half an hour later. This time, I found the courage. I sat down very close to her, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and put my hand on her cold skin. I took a deep breath and focused myself. It was unlike anything I had felt before. I kept breathing deeply, my heart pounding in my chest. Sitting there quietly, unmoving, feeling the sacredness of this being, feeling her power and her wisdom. Sitting there, I just knew: she had to come to our temple. She had to come and give her blessings to the space. I opened my eyes and looked at her:

“Nalini,” I spoke, ”I am going to take you. I have built a home and a temple not far from here. I am going to bring you there to ask for your blessings. Please come with me, Nalini. I want you to bless our space with your presence. If you want to live there, you can live there. It is a beautiful house. We have food. We have everything. Everything there is for you, Nalini. If you want to leave again, you are free to come back here. Please, Nalini. Come with us.”

I spoke slowly, as calmly as I could. She just looked me straight in the eyes.

To Luis, I said: “Luis, I’m going to take her.” Luis stood up, shook his head, and walked away in silence. I understood: this was not his thing; it was only mine. Luis took Qwatsi by his arm and walked away. Muca, a strong warrior, stayed with me, and I felt very grateful that he did. I had never caught a snake before.

I prepared to transport Nalini to the temple. I found a strong, long branch with a V-shape at the end. I also took a straight branch and collected some small vines to use as ropes. Standing in front of her, with the V-shaped branch in my hands, I looked into her eyes: “Nalini, I’m going to catch you.” I told her out loud, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to kill you. I’m just going to take you. So please, Nalini, relax.”

I stood right in front of her with the branch in my hand. I took some time to gather my courage. When I felt ready, I pinned her neck to the ground with a strong, swift movement. Both sides of the V-shaped end were on either side of her head, so she was unable to move her neck and head. As I did this, I stood just half a meter in front of her head, still looking her straight in the eyes. She went into a fit, thrashing and hissing. She slapped and whipped her tail around. She could easily have knocked me out with her tail, I realized later. She resisted so much, but I just stood there, holding the branch down, pinning her to the ground with all my force.

“Nalini, calm down,” I told her gently. “I’m not going to hurt you. I am not going to harm you. I am not going to kill you. I am going to take you to my home. After that, you can come back if you want, or you can stay there with me. It’s your choice. Calm down, Nalini. Calm down.” I closed my eyes and began to breathe slowly, radiating as much peace and calmness as I could gather. After about ten minutes, she began to relax. I kept breathing slowly, and a few minutes later opened my eyes to find her, once again, staring into my eyes.

“Nalini, I’m going to take a branch, and I’m going to bind you to it, okay? I’m going to take you, but don’t worry. I will not hurt you.” She stayed calm.

I reached for the other branch that was lying next to me, at the same time continuing to anchor her neck to the ground with the branch in my other hand. I laid the second branch next to her body. She completely curled up, making it impossible to bind her body to the branch. With all my strength, I tried to pull her straight again, but there was no way I could do it on my own, especially as I continued to anchor her head. Muca stepped in to help, and we carefully extended Nalini’s body alongside the branch. I used the small vine as rope, binding her head to the stick. Together, Muca and I pulled her straight and bound the middle of her body to the branch with another vine. I looked around, sweat dripping from my face. Muca and I were working together in silence. In that moment we understood each other. She curled the back of her body around the branch, and we carried her back, each with one end of the stick on our shoulders. I walked in the front, Muca in the back. She was quite heavy, I estimated around forty kilograms. We walked back to the boat, which would take us back to the temple. On our way we found Luis and Qwatsi, patiently waiting, a pile of plants lying beside them.

“Luis,” I said with a big smile, pointing to the beautiful creature that we were carrying, “Nalini.” Luis just laughed.

“Nalini,” he repeated. “They baptized her Nalini.” He shook his head as he said it.

We all got in the boat, and Muca and I lowered Nalini down onto the floor. We covered her with some of the plants we had taken so that she was not in the sun. After a short boat ride, we arrived at the small harbor close to the temple. We walked to the temple, Muca and I still carrying Nalini on our shoulders. Inside the temple, many woman were sitting and talking. When they realized we were carrying a giant serpent, they all ran out, screaming. Muca and I just laughed. It was a very funny moment.

We placed Nalini gently on the ground. There, with the snake still bound to the branch, we took out the rapé. Muca and I sat on either side of the Runūa, and I handed Muca the rapé applicator to put in his nose.

Ffffwwwpppp! I blew the rapé into his nose while my hand was on the cobra, touching the body of that beautiful creature. Then Muca and I exchanged the applicator and rapé bottle, and he blew the medicine into my nose. There I was, sitting, touching the serpent, slowly drifting into the deep forest of rapé. I went deep into the arms of that medicine. We stayed in silence for a while, my hands still on Nalini.

After some time, I said to Muca, “We have to release her. She has to be free.”

In the meantime, many Indians of the village had gathered around the temple. The news that we had caught a Runūa had traveled fast.

Sitting right next to the animal on the ground, I took out my pocket knife, an old blade that I’d grown fond of during all my years of traveling. First, I cut the twine at the back of her body, very gently, all the time speaking out loud to her, reminding her that all would be well.

“Nalini, you’re going to be free now. You can go wherever you would like. If you want to stay with us, feel free. We have food. We have a temple for you. If you want to go away from here, you can go. You are completely free now.”

Next, I cut the small vine that was keeping her middle tied to the stick. Many Yawanawá were standing around, watching from a distance, some of them close by with a machete in their hands, ready to strike if something were to happen. Later, some Indians told me they thought I was very brave, a strong warrior. But who knows what they were thinking at that moment.

I prepared to cut the last vine, the one that was keeping her neck tied to the branch. I cut it very gently. When I cut the other vines away, she had hardly moved at all. But the moment the last small vine was cut, something happened that I never expected. Her head shot up so quickly I could barely follow the motion. Before I could blink, her upper body was standing perfectly erect, and her face was right in front of mine. She stayed there, not six inches from my face, looking into my eyes. My heart almost pounded out of my chest. I felt so many emotions raging through my body.

In that moment, I took a deep breath and decided not to move a single inch. I kept sitting there, looking straight back at her. The Indians were watching, ready to jump into action if needed. I realized I was doing something not many people had done before. It took me a while to figure out what to do. There was utter silence at that moment in and around the temple.

Then I spoke to her. I put my hands up, palm towards the ground at the level of her head, and whispered, “Okay, Nalini, relax.” While speaking, I lowered my hands, showing her to go down. And that is what she did. She lowered her head and again relaxed onto the ground. I took a deep breath, relieved.

“Vāta Txanu, strong warrior!” some people shouted nearby.

My heart was still beating hard, and gently I retired at a distance from the serpent. I went to sit with my back leaning on one of the benches. What a morning it had been!

I noticed there was a dog walking around. I hoped Nalini would not eat him. Nalini made no aggressive moments. She just surveyed the room, very alert.

Though I had just finished a ten-day Ayahuasca ceremony only two days before, I felt this opportunity was too powerful to pass up. I made a decision and announced to Luis: “It is a beautiful day for a ceremony. I will drink some medicine.”

With Nalini still lying in the middle of the temple next to me, the Indians still standing around watching, I took the bottle of Santo Daime and blew my prayers into it. I took time to prepare myself for the journey, as I had an inclination it was going to be a deep one. After sitting there for about half an hour, I gathered the strength and poured out half a liter of the medicine, drinking it all at once. A typical dose of Ayahuasca is about thirty millilitres, so this was an unusually large amount. I had never done anything like this before. I carried the memory of my dear friend Maurillio telling me that once, in the middle of his church, he had drunk an entire liter of Daime. I had been building up to this moment for many days, maybe even throughout all the years I had been drinking Ayahuasca.

It was difficult to swallow all that medicine at once. I had never consumed such a large quantity before. But I did it with the intention of connecting deeply with Nalini, communicating with her, and going past all the boundaries between us. I moved closer to her again. While drinking, I kept my hands on her body, feeling her strength and her presence. It must have taken me a good 15 minutes to get it all down.

Muca also drank a heavy dose of Ayahuasca, and the two of us sat next to the snake. After about twenty minutes, I could feel the force of the medicine strongly. I said to Muca, “Let’s give her some medicine.”

We poured a small amount into our glass and gently poured it onto her nose—just a couple of drops. She stuck her tongue out and licked it away. We laughed, put our right thumbs into the air, and I told her: “This is Ayahuasca, Nalini. One of our medicines. You are a strong warrior. Very good!” I chuckled a bit from the joy of being able to share this moment with her.

Then I remembered that rapé is the medicine of this animal. I shared that thought with Muca, and he said, “I’m going to give her some rapé.”

Rapé can be lethal to serpents in bigger doses, so we gave her just a tiny bit. We gently put the V-shaped stick over her head again, gently pinning her head to the ground. Muca took the applicator and filled it with a tiny bit of rapé. Squatting very close to her face, he blew the medicine gently into Nalini’s nose.

When I released her, she shook her head. Swaying, gliding, she looked about the room in a hypnotised—and also hypnotising—state. I could see that the medicine was affecting her. Still sitting next to her, I said, “Nalini, I am going to lie down in my hammock. I would love to speak to you, so feel free to join.” I walked to my hammock and lay down, dropping deeper and deeper into the force of Ayahuasca.

After about fifteen minutes, Nalini started to move. Very slowly, she moved through the temple, her body gliding over the floor. She came closer and closer until she curled up on the ground just next to my hammock. She put her head in such a way that she was looking straight at me; my head was on one side of the hammock, looking straight back. Deeper and deeper, I fell into the realm of the medicine. Beautiful patterns and colors appeared in front of my eyes. When my eyes were open, I saw her lying right next to me, this beautiful, strong, powerful, sacred animaI. When my eyes were closed, I saw all the patterns and colors. Madre Ayahuasca was singing her songs. And in the center of it all, there was Nalini, looking straight into my eyes.

It was as if, in that moment, the veil between dream and reality had completely disappeared. It was an unreal experience.

What happened those hours is very difficult to put in words. In a way, it was a beautiful communication between us, a communication that happened on a higher plane. She told me many things, all of which are difficult to repeat now. She started to talk to me about life, about the universe, and about all manner of things that are almost impossible to describe. I just listened.

One of the things she asked me was, “Why are you living like this?” I had no idea what she meant, so I asked her to explain. She continued: “Why are you living like this? Why are you grabbing things? Why are you not always true to yourself? Why are you doing all that? Why are you trying so hard to make things happen? To please people? Why are you out all the time?”

Still, it was very difficult for me to understand what she was asking. Feeling my questions, she showed me many situations in my life when I had gone out and made things happen, convinced people, moved situations. In my visions I could clearly see some of the moments of impatience that I had in the past. It was incredible to see how she was reading my mind, seeing my questions, and at the same time providing the clarity that I was looking for, in the visions that I was receiving at the same time. The moment I would understand one part of her teaching, a new question would come up, and she would just change the vision gently and fluidly, providing the next part of the answer to me. I started to learn that she was the master of the realm of the visions.

Then she started to show me another way, the way of letting the universe work its plan. Instead of going out to make things happen, I could go inward and envision the things that I desired. Then, I could let those vibrations magnetize all that I desire, and let things flow to me naturally. I slowly understood the things she was showing me. It took me by surprise, as I had never been aware of my way of living like that before.

Then she took me into her world, and while the visions kept changing, more words were coming. “I just lie there,” she said, “all day long, in silence. I hardly move. I don’t go out to get things. I am present in the silence.” While she spoke, she took me into the silence, step by step. She took me into deep states of meditation until I couldn’t hear any noise or sound. The silence was so profound, so deep. I felt many things in that silence. And, at the same time, I felt nothing.

“When I am in the silence,” she continued, “ and I would like something, I just plant a seed. I plant a seed in the silence.” She spoke softly, calmly. She took her time to communicate with me both in words and visuals.

“When I have planted that seed firmly in the silence, I stay with that seed for a while. I water it with silence. When I have watered the seed with enough silence, I slowly come out of it again, back into this reality. Now and then, I go back into the silence and water that seed with more silence.” She described this process to me so vividly. I could see it happening before my eyes. I felt humility. I felt gratitude. I felt wisdom.

“That is how I invite you to live,” she told me. I nodded. I felt so stupid, in a way. How could I not have known this before? Understanding was pouring in. I pondered that wisdom for a long time.

“Because you caught me, I have a gift for you. I will be with you for the rest of your life. Wherever you go, I will go,” Nalini said. “I will be your ‘spirit animal,’ as you call it in your world.” I felt my chest well up with emotion. “Whatever seed you plant in the silence, I will plant the same seed right next to it. We will water your seeds, your intentions, together.” I saw it all happening right in front of me. “Like that, the fruits of the seeds that you plant will come even faster to you. I will be there with you, in the silence, always. That is my gift to you.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks. The moment was indescribable. I was overcome with gratitude. I thanked her: “Nalini, I honor you. You are such a beautiful animal, so full of wisdom, strength, and sacredness. Thank you so much for being on my path. Thank you so much for coming into my life. Thank you so much for granting me the ability to take you here, to our temple. Thank you for bestowing your blessings on the house, on the temple, on my life, and on the lives of all the people here. Thank you so much for coming, Nalini.”

We stayed there for several hours, communicating on deep levels of existence. Many people came from the village, asking for the blessings of this beautiful animal. I just laid in my hammock, in a deep state of bliss, right next to her. As she bestowed her blessings on our visitors, she kept teaching me about life, about the world, about the universe. She showed me things that I cannot yet put into words.

About six hours after I had started my ceremony, it began to get dark. The sun went down, and Nalini and I shared our last moment of communication. She showed me her heart. And in my vision I could see it very clearly. It looked like a treasure that contained many secrets and an almost infinite amount of wisdom. I could truly see why they called her the most sacred animal of the forest. “My heart contains a secret,” she told me, looking straight into my eyes. “Maybe one day you will find out what that secret is.” After those words, she slowly started to move away. Lying in my hammock, I saw her stretching out in front of me. At one point, as she moved back into the jungle, I saw her full length. She was massive, so powerful. I reached out and grabbed her tail. With all the strength I could muster, I pulled her back. Any fear I had felt earlier in the day had subsided. I knew she would never hurt me. Swiftly, she turned her head. Vvvwooooosh.

I reached my right hand out to her with my palm faced to the left, and I spoke to her a final time: “Thank you so much, Nalini. Thank you so much for being on my path, for coming into my life. Thank you so much for your presence, your blessings. Thank you so much for the teachings. Thank you so much for being with me for the rest of my life. I honor you. I love you. I bow to you. I thank you.”

After those words, I let her go, and she went back into the jungle. I lay in my hammock, still trying to grasp what had just happened. A few minutes later, I was overcome with a desire to see her again. I took my flashlight, got out of my hammock, and tried to find my shoes. Stumbling, I walked into the night to look for her. I was still deep on the medicine. I looked around, but there was not a single trace left of her. She was gone.

I went back to my hammock, and Luis came to sit next to me in his chair. I was still deep on the force of the medicine. The fire was burning. I shared with him some of the visions and teachings that I had received from Nalini. He just listened in full attention. When I told him about her last message, telling me that her heart contained a secret, he gently started to nod his head. “Ta bom,” he said knowingly, leaving a long silence.

“There is one dieta that only a handful of men have done in the history of the Yawanawá,” he continued. “It is the most profound, powerful, dangerous, and difficult dieta we know of. That dieta starts with taking the Xiná, the heart of a Runūa. You will drink the essence of her heart, and in that moment you will enter a dieta for one year.

“That year will be a very strong and challenging one. If you finish the dieta well, you will receive all her wisdom, all her healing, all her power, everything. It is as if her spirit will come and live inside of you. There will be no holding back. The men that have finished that dieta, became the greatest leaders of our tribe. It was around one-hundred-fifty years ago that the last person successfully completed that dieta. The last person who attempted it broke his dieta—and died. To get to the heart of the Runūa, you have to kill the animal. You can only kill such a sacred animal for the purpose of opening Runūa Xiná, and by killing her and taking her heart, you enter a very sacred contract with her. That contract is not to be taken lightly.

“Her spirit will go on a journey, starting at the nearest river. She will travel through all the rivers of the forest, exploring the whole forest and its powers, learning, studying. She will travel through the whole earth, all the mountains, all the seas, all the oceans. And wherever she goes, she will soak up all the wisdom, all the force, all the healing. Then she will go to each single planet and do the same, soaking it all up. Then onward to the stars, the universe. Then she will continue into the heavens. Her journey will end at the highest level of the heavens, where the cosmic serpent lives. This journey can be described as a true university, as she will study everything in the universe on her journey.

“When she encounters the cosmic serpent, she will communicate that a man has drunk the heart of one of her children. Taking the heart is like taking a secret key, putting it into an invisible lock, and turning it. The spirit of the Runūa will receive the force of the cosmic serpent and stay in the heavens. Then a part of the cosmic serpent will start to move and travel to the Earth, making the same journey that the spirit of the Runūa made, only backwards. That whole journey there and back, takes a maximum of one year. In that year, the person who does the dieta has to prepare his body for that force to come in. It will be a very strong year with many challenges; you have to be really prepared to start and finish that journey.

“When that force arrives, it will observe you, look right through you, and will see every single part of who you are and your dieta. If she sees that you have broken the dieta in any way, she will kill you. She will put a disease inside of you that no plant, no animal, no man or woman can heal. But if she sees that you kept the dieta pure for the whole time, then all the force, all the wisdom, all that she is, all that she has, all that she represents, will come and live inside of you. All that she has, you will receive. Then you will become a dreamer, and everything that you dream of will come into this reality. You will become a ‘professor do professores.” A teacher of teachers.”

I looked at Luis and felt the depth of those words. I felt their truth resonate at a deep layer of my being. I felt a seed being planted inside of my heart. I watered it with silence. I closed my eyes again and spent the whole night deep in my journey. The journey took a long time, maybe fifteen hours in total. The whole time, I saw Nalini in my visions; in the patterns, in the colors. She was there, swimming right in front of me. She was looking at me, teaching me, talking to me, listening to me. She was always in the silence.

***

The next day, everyone in the village was talking about the day with Nalini. I received many hugs and gentle taps on my shoulders. It was a surreal situation, and I started to doubt if it had all really happened. I sat at the fire eating some rice and beans. Qwatsi was sitting next to me, reading straight from my mind. He ran off and retrieved my iPod, which had been lying around in the temple for the last few days. Proudly, he showed me all the photos he had taken. Scrolling through the pictures, I saw that many of them were with Nalini. Qwatsi had photographed our carrying her on the branch, and Nalini lying on the floor beside me in my hammock. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Reality was still reality, dreams were still dreams. I gave Qwatsi a huge hug. What a special boy he was!

After breakfast, Mēyu, a woman of the village, arrived at my house just as I was preparing to walk to the stream for a bath. She brought two beautiful bracelets and showed them to me. They were made of tiny beads of beautiful, bright colors, designed into intricate patterns. They reminded me of the patterns on Nalini’s skin.

Mēyu had made the bracelets specifically for me. She said that putting them on my wrists during my dieta was a very powerful action—and that the force of the dieta would stay with me for as long as I wore them. They would remind me of my spiritual family, the Yawanawá, and of my sacred time in the jungle. Covering my hands with water and soap, Mēyu slid the tight bracelets over my wrists.

One of the bracelets had a design that showed the head of a Runūa and the various designs on the Runūa’s body. That bracelet was specifically designed to keep the energy of my time with Nalini with me.

The bracelets pressed against my skin like a reminder of that seed, planted in silence, waiting for its time.

Obrigado, Nalini

There’s a way the plants speak that doesn’t come through books or teachers. It comes through silence, through listening, through visions. Luis had told us that one of us would be shown something in a dream—a medicine, a teaching—and that it would come in its own time. I didn’t know how to take his words until it happened. What unfolded in the days that followed helped me understand how these tribes have learned what they know. This is not a story I could have imagined. It had to come from the plants themselves.

Sometimes when I lay in my hammock in the temple, Luis would come and sit beside me on the only chair in the village. The chair would go with him wherever he went. There, he would tell me a story or teach me something about plants, animals, or other tribes. Many times I was deep on the force of the medicine and in an altered state of consciousness. His stories were just amazing, and even when I would not fully understand everything in Portuguese as of yet, I loved listening to them. Sometimes I would lose my sense of reality listening to those stories, and the veil between the dream world and 3-D reality would fade. Together, Muka and Ayahuasca were singing their songs to me. It was so special to see how the dieta was unfolding, and how spending time in the jungle, and being completely out of communication, was calming my mind. In those deeper states of silence, new insights continued to come in.

On the sixth day, while I was lying in my hammock, deep on the force of the medicine, I felt a huge energy enter me. My body was moving and trembling; I had to get up. I almost jumped out of my hammock after not moving for days. I walked with big steps, stomping on the ground, roaring like a panther. My fingers were rigid, and my hands were spread wide open. My arms were at my sides, shaking. I must have looked rather frightening to the others.

The black panther is one of my spirit animals, and in those moments I could feel the spirit of the black panther. I have connected with him before in other ceremonies. I see him as a beautiful, shining, strong animal, lying in silence on the branch of a tree, almost invisible, in stealth, radiating his wisdom. Or he is roaring, running through the jungle. He is a magnificent animal who has taught me many things over the years.

Edi looked at me and asked me if I was alright. I said I was okay and that I felt the black panther—but that there was nothing to worry about. I asked for another glass of medicine. He looked at me, saw that I was serious, and poured me another serving. It must have been around two hundred milliliters, which is a very large dose compared with a regular dose of around thirty. I drank it all at once and kept pacing through the temple, roaring. Eventually, I returned to my hammock. My body relaxed, and all at once I fell into a deep journey. It was as though I had been knocked out, and in my vision I travelled to a completely new space.

I was immersed in silence. My body was almost non-existent; it had relaxed so deeply, I could hardly feel it anymore. Lying there, my thoughts went in a strange direction. It was as if I couldn’t remember anything anymore. I consciously tried to remember important details of my life, but I just couldn’t. I panicked for a moment: was I losing my mind? I reminded myself that I was on a deep journey, and that the journey would end at one point. I took a deep breath and relaxed back into the moment. When I tried to remember anything, I could not. I couldn’t remember my name, or the name of my parents. I couldn’t recall anybody or anything in my life in that moment. Sometimes a very vague glimpse of my life would come in, but if I tried to focus on it, it would disappear immediately. As I relaxed into the experience, my mind went completely blank. I went into complete nothingness, and I just let it happen. From that place of nothingness, I travelled further and further to places that I had never visited.

I was sitting on a log in the middle of the rainforest. A beautiful woman came to sit beside me on my right, a woman I had seen before in my visions. “I am Madre Ayahuasca,” she said. “I am your mother.” I nodded. The black panther, in the body of a man, came to sit next to me on my left and said, “I am the black panther. I am your father.” And like that, a circle started to form, a circle of elders. Slowly, everybody took their place. It was really special to see so many elders in a circle. Some of them were wearing beautiful headdresses made from feathers. Their bodies were painted. Some had beautiful long robes in many colors. There were just a few words spoken; mostly, there was silence.

When the circle was completely formed in the vision, Luis stepped into the circle. I was surprised to see him there. He looked exactly as he looked in real life, without any ceremonial clothes or ornaments. Walking straight toward me, he had a small glass in his hands. “This,” he told me, “is Huni Shiwa, the medicine of secrets.” I looked at him to question whether I should drink it. He nodded, and I took the glass.

In this vision, Luis explained many things about the Huni Shiwa: what it was for, how to use it, the proper dosage. He showed me how to identify the plant, telling me exactly what to look for when searching for it. He showed me where it was growing, in a place next to the river. He showed me how to prepare the medicine, and we prepared it together. When he had told me everything he knew about the Huni Shiwa, he left the circle. I looked around one more time, honoring this protective circle of elders, the cup still in my hand. It was a deep and profound moment, and then I woke up.

I heard the music of the jungle again. I thought, “Where am I?” Slowly, I remembered where I was. I was lying in my hammock in the temple. It took me a while to realize what had happened, and I remembered the words Luis had spoken just a few days before: “One of you, only one, will have a dream. In that dream, someone will come to you—a man or a woman. That person will show you about the plants in your dreams and teach you many things. It will only happen to one of you.”

I closed my eyes, and tears started to roll down my cheeks. I called to Luis, who was lying in his hammock nearby. He came to sit next to me, and I told him everything that had happened in my vision. He nodded and said he had been there with me. This man had not drunk Ayahuasca for more than sixteen years, yet he was still able to travel to those places without any medicines. What an inspiration and example he was for me!

He asked if I remembered what he had showed me. I told him everything I could remember. He listened in silence, sometimes asking about a small detail. “What did the leaf look like?” Or: “How many of the leaves would you put in the pot to prepare it?” After telling him everything I remembered about Huni Shiwa, he told me he had heard about it before, but they had never found the plant: it was still one of the secrets of the jungle.

He asked me where the plant was that I had seen in my vision. I told him it was next to a river, in a very specific spot, at a place where there was a bend in the river.

He asked, “What river was it growing next to?”

I had no idea. It had just looked like one of those Amazon rivers. There were thousands of them. “I don’t know,” I said.

He remained silent for a bit. Then he started to laugh. “Next time,” he said, “ask for the name of the river, okay? Then we can go there and find the plant.” We locked eyes, and it took me a moment to understand what he was saying. When I understood that it would be very difficult to find that plant without knowing the exact location, I started to laugh. Luis joined in, and we laughed together for quite a while.

I gave him a big hug and thanked him. It was so special to remember the words of Luis of a few days ago, and to now be in a moment where they had come to pass. It had been a profound experience for me. That experience deepened my love and respect for Luis. My heart was beating with excitement.

That evening, sitting around the fire, he told me that I now had experienced how indigenous people learn from the plants. This was the way the plants came to them—in their dreams, in their visions. Every generation, a few new plants and medicines would come to them like this. There and then, I understood how the tribe had obtained such a deep knowledge of the plants, knowing cures for diseases they had never even seen, like cancer.

That night, Edi and Muca came back from a long day of hunting. The whole day I had been feeling them after my vision. I was not sure how they would react to this happening. We had talked in the days before about who was going to receive that vision that Luis had prophesized. Those conversations had become a little competitive, and that energy had taken me a little by surprise. It had created some distance between Edi, Muca, and myself.

When they arrived they sat down around the fire, and Luis told them what had happened. I listened to their conversation in silence and observed their reactions. Luckily there was not a single feeling of jealousy. They praised me and honored the vision, and we were all so happy. I felt so relieved to feel that. Louisa joined us and brought a plate of small, fried fish. We sat there in silence and ate them with our hands. When we finished our simple dinner at the fire, I gave them all a big hug and poured another cup of Ayahuasca. I had made a commitment of ten days and nights. The journey was not over, not quite yet. Day eight was coming to a close, two more to go.

“Strong warrior, strong warrior!” they told me, with their right fists in the sky. And there I was again, in my hammock, leaving the dream we call life, entering a world that was becoming more and more familiar to me. I went back into the reality that we call a dream.

As I went back into the dream, my body wrapped in the silence of the forest, the days of dieta passing one by one. I thought I had seen much already. I thought I had touched something true. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

There was still one more encounter waiting for me in that jungle. One that would stay with me long after I left.

You may remember, at the very start of this story, I mentioned that I wanted to tell you about a serpent I once met.

Her name is Nalini…

On the third day, we decided to hold a daytime ceremony in the jungle. In the early morning, we walked into the jungle and set up our hammocks and mosquito nets. Qwatsi was with us, as always. We walked through the dense jungle for around ten minutes. When we reached a suitable spot, we cleared a small area with our machetes. Qwatsi worked so hard in those moments; it was amazing to feel his energy and enthusiasm. We bound the hammocks to the trees and drank some medicine. Hanging there in the middle of the jungle, we had some good conversations. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and our spirits were singing after the beautiful opening of our temple.

Qwatsi was right next to me in his hammock. Our connection had become so deep, so strong, so full of love and trust in those early days of the dieta. Every morning, we would give each other long hugs, and whenever there was something to do, he was right in the middle of the action, seeing where he could be most helpful. He was a very intelligent boy and quickly understood situations and people. He was always watching. He had joined us in most of our ceremonies, although he never drank.

In my time in the village, I learned that Sete Estrelas had not had any Ayahuasca for many years. With the coming of the missionaries, they had lost their connection to their traditions. The missionaries had forbidden them to use their medicines, speak their language, tell their creation stories, and even use their Indigenous names. Over time, much of their culture was lost. It was surprising to me to learn that, as I had expected, a tribe with such a long history of working with Ayahuasca would have a strong connection and practice with the medicine.

And while I enjoyed leading the ceremonies, there was also a part of me that felt a sense of sadness. I had come to this dieta with a deep yearning to learn. I had hoped to sit in ceremonies where Luis would be leading, singing his prayers, and opening pathways that I had not yet walked myself. I imagined being able to watch him, learn from him, and receive his presence in the force. There was a longing in me to receive teachings from someone I respected deeply—someone further along the path. I had felt such resonance with Luis, and while I treasured the conversations and lessons we shared, I had also hoped that some of that learning would come through shared ceremony.

Realising that Luis no longer drank Ayahuasca or led ceremonies was a big moment for me. It stirred something in me that was difficult to put into words at first. I had come with the hope of learning through witnessing, sitting with someone I deeply respected as he worked within the force of the medicine. But he wasn’t practising what he was teaching. He spoke about the plants, about their power and their spirit, but he wasn’t drinking them anymore. That realisation carried a quiet sadness. I had imagined something different. For a time, I even tried to make peace with it by imagining that perhaps this could be my future too, that one day I would also stop drinking the medicine, that the need would fall away. But slowly, during this dieta, that projection dissolved. I came to see that working with the plants is a sacred relationship. It is not something to transcend or walk away from as a sign of growth. It is something to tend with balance and care. If a time ever comes when I no longer need to drink, it will arrive on its own. Not as a goal, and not as an escape. For now, I know I am still meant to walk with them. Still, something in me wished I could have seen him there, singing, guiding, working in the force. That feeling lingered quietly in the background, a small ache in the heart.

Another discovery that surprised me just as deeply was the absence of Ayahuasca vines and chacruna plants in the forest surrounding the village. I had expected to find them growing naturally in the jungle, almost everywhere. That had been my assumption—that in a region so rich in plant life, these sacred plants would be abundant, especially near a tribal village with such a deep ancestral connection to them. But the truth was different. There were almost no vines to be found. No chacruna. Not near the village, nor in the surrounding forest. I was stunned by that. Slowly, I came to understand why. With the reawakening of interest in plant medicine, more and more people have come to these territories in recent years, seeking, drinking, and dieting. But the plants had not been replanted with the same care and reverence. They had been harvested again and again, without renewal. Over time, the source had dried up. The forest had been emptied of its medicine. It took me a moment to grasp the magnitude of what that meant. Over time, I came to see that this absence was a message in itself. Something had been lost. Not just the plants, but the connection. The living presence of the medicine in the forest had faded, just as it had faded from the culture.

My bringing of the Santo Daime to the village turned out to be something very special. For the people of Sete Estrelas, it was almost like a rebirth of their sacred traditions. There had not been ceremonies in the village for a long time. With the arrival of the missionaries, not only had the use of Ayahuasca been discouraged; it had been systematically erased. Little by little, the ceremonies stopped. The songs were forgotten. The old prayers were no longer spoken. For decades, that part of their culture had lain dormant, still present in memory, but not in practice. So when we arrived and held our dieta, when the force of the Daime began to move through the village again, it reawakened something. It touched a root that had not been watered in a long time. I could feel that. I could see it in the eyes of the elders, in the curiosity of the children, in the quiet reverence that returned to the land. It felt like something ancient had been stirred back to life.

The return of the medicine brought with it many questions. Important questions. Edi and Muca would often come to me for advice on how to work with the medicine, how to hold space, how to navigate what was coming alive again in their village. One of the topics they brought up was the presence of children in the ceremonies. Could the children come? Should they be allowed to drink medicine? Should there be rules or structure? It felt like a real crossroads. After reflecting on it, I proposed that we hold a meeting with all the mothers of the village. This was not a decision to be made by a few men sitting around the fire. This was something that needed to come from the mothers, from the ones who would carry this path forward through their children. I felt it had to be a collective decision, made with care and in alignment with what the people truly felt.

A few days after the opening of our new temple, all the mothers gathered around in the early morning. I really enjoyed being on the force of the medicine and being in conversation with people. It opened up a space inside of me that I hadn’t really experienced much before.

We opened the conversation, and I explained what I had seen in a beautiful Santo Daime community in Mauá, a few hours northwest of Rio de Janeiro, called Céu do Montanha. I had visited it the year before with Padrinho Alfredo. In the Mauá community, the Santo Daime takes a central place. They have a splendid temple there, and when I visited, a big, strong Ayahuasca vine was growing in the middle of it, its branches, leaves, and flowers reaching up to cover the entire roof. The vine had been planted at the same time the temple was constructed, symbolising the unity between the physical structure and the living medicine. Since then, I heard that the vine had been cut, but at the time I visited, its presence left a deep impression on me.

Twice a month, and also on special days of the year, the community holds ceremonies open to everyone—locals and people from abroad. Right next to the temple, there is a house just for the children. Mestre Irineu, the founder of the Santo Daime in the early twentieth century, stated that a mother entering a ceremony with the Daime should be able to receive the Daime without worrying about her children. If she were going to worry about her children, it would be better for her to not join the ceremony, as her worries would make it difficult for her to fully receive the medicine.

The community, therefore, built a children’s house right next to the temple. During every ceremony, all the children of the community would be in that house. Most mothers would participate in the ceremony, while others would take care of the children, ensuring that the others could attend without worrying about their offspring.

The children were allowed to play, run around, dance, and sing while the work was happening in the temple. If the children chose to go into the temple, they were welcome there. It was truly beautiful to be part of the ceremonies, watching the children play in their house, and seeing some of them enter the ceremony with such joy and light.

If the children came up to the place where the medicine was served and asked for some medicine, they would receive a very tiny amount of it. This would happen only if the children came to that place themselves and asked for the medicine. Never would a child be asked if they would like some medicine. The community had explained to me that the children intuitively knew what they wanted or needed, and the adults were there to listen to the children and to guide them if they chose to drink the medicine.

The children I had seen in that community were among the most beautiful I had ever met in my life. They radiated so much joy, so much truth, so much purity. Their eyes were open and alert. Until that point, I had read quite a bit about the Rainbow Children, also known as the New Earth children. There, in that community in Mauá, I had seen them for the first time; true children of the light. I look forward to seeing those children in a few decades and hearing their stories, as well as witnessing what they will bring to the world.

We discussed all of this, sitting in a circle with the mothers of the village. It felt very special to be in that space, to be in such an open and thoughtful conversation while still under the gentle force of the medicine. There was a clarity in the air, a softness, a deep listening. I could feel the presence of Ayahuasca with us, not just as a memory or an idea, but as a living presence in that moment. Ayahuasca is seen as the grandmother of all the plants, all trees, and all flowers—a plant that teaches, a teacher plant, with a spirit that is seen as feminine by most people. She carries so much wisdom, so much experience, so many teachings. She teaches with patience, compassion, and depth, like a true grandmother. And to feel that spirit moving quietly among us as the mothers spoke, each in her own way, made the moment even more meaningful. It felt like something important was being remembered.

After our conversation, all the mothers agreed: the children would be welcome to join the ceremonies, but only when the children asked to be part of it. If they wanted to be part of the ceremony, they had to show up at the temple with their hammocks and should prepare themselves that day by not eating anything sweet. Every mother communicated that with her children in her own way.

Qwatsi had been at my side for the whole conversation. Afterwards, Louisa and Luis came close to me and told Qwatsi that he should let me know if he wanted to drink medicine, and that he should listen to me about what that would be like. Qwatsi and I looked at each other and leaned in for a big hug. It felt so special what was unfolding between us.

After the conversation with the mothers, we all hung our hammocks in an open spot in the jungle, away from the temple. I drank another cup of medicine. When I had the bottle in my hand, Qwatsi came up and asked for a cup. It would be his first cup of medicine. I looked him in the eyes and poured him a small amount. He went to his hammock and stayed right next to me for the whole ceremony. Now and then I would get up from my hammock, stand next to his, and ask him: “Qwatsi, tudo bom?” All good? Most of the time, he would look up and respond: “Tudo.” After that, we would hug.

Lying there in my hammock, the force of the medicine coursing through my body, I looked back on things that had happened in the years before. It was as if I could contemplate those situations from a distance, without any judgment or reaction. One night, lying on my mattress in my hut, I reflected on Sananda-Wasi, the healing centre I had founded in the Sacred Valley of Peru. I had opened the centre after just two years of experience with Ayahuasca and only a few ceremonies facilitating. In hindsight, starting a centre like that so early in my journey may have been a bit bold and premature. However, at the same time, I had always seen it as my university of healing, a place where I could learn through hands-on experience, guided by sincerity and prayer. The vision had been strong, and it had come with a certain clarity and timing. It was birthed into reality through a string of synchronicities and moments of grace. The beginning had felt special, touched by something larger. The very first woman who walked through our doors was Bonnie. She entered with four tumors in her right breast and left without them. But over time, things began to shift. I started to realise that there were areas of the work that I didn’t yet fully understand. I could feel that I needed more training, more education, more time with the medicine myself. And now, deep in my dieta, I found myself wondering if the center would still exist by the time I returned.

One question that several people over the years had asked me was: “What is your centre’s success rate? How successful are your programs?” I began to explore those questions, and in the process, I reflected on how the Western world perceives healing in these times. I could see that “success rate,” as defined by the West, relates to survival rather than inner health, peace, and fulfilment. Reflecting on what a “success rate” means, I could see that it was generalising to think in that way. It took away the preciousness of looking at every single person in depth, really understanding each individual’s process as their own journey.

Lying there in my hammock, I remembered two women who had come to the centre in Peru and had stayed there for three months. Both had breast cancer. In my view, deep healing had happened with both of them, but their processes could not have been more different.

One of the women, Bonnie, was thirty-five years old. She was diagnosed with stage four cancer, with five tumours in her right breast. She joined a three-month program that involved working with food, natural medicines, Ayahuasca, and various other healing modalities. With full commitment, Bonnie dove into the journey. We worked on many levels of her disease: emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual.

When Bonnie had been with us for several weeks, we adopted two small kittens for the centre from a local Peruvian family who weren’t able to take care of the litter. They were only a few months old and were barely more than skin and bones. They were tiny and fragile. They wouldn’t have survived much longer if we hadn’t taken them in. When they arrived at the centre, they hid behind a pile of firewood and hardly came out from behind it. We all worked together to try to feed them and make them drink, tempting them with milk, water, fish, and various types of food, but they would simply ignore it. They hid behind the firewood for days, and we all worried that they wouldn’t make it.

A few days later, Bonnie was in the living room, next to the fire, eating a plate of food. One of the cats, a shiny black kitten that we had named Cleopatra, emerged from behind the stack of wood and crept over to Bonnie, climbing into her lap. I watched from a distance as Bonnie offered the kitten some of her food with so much gentleness and love. She touched the tiny, fragile, black cat with a light, tender touch, not wanting to scare her away. The cat ate a little bit and drank something from Bonnie’s cup. I stayed at a distance, just watching. I felt touched by the scene I was witnessing. Bonnie was taking care of the cat with so much love and gentleness. After spending several weeks in the centre, this seemed like a very welcome distraction for both.

That night, I led Bonnie and two other people in a ceremony. It must have been the tenth ceremony in Bonnie’s program.

In that ceremony, deep on the force of the medicine, Bonnie returned to the moment with the kitten. She returned to the state of mind she had felt in that moment: the cat on her lap, feeding and nurturing it, providing all the love she could find within herself. While she was re-experiencing this, her vision changed rapidly, and the kitten transformed into a big, scary monster. The monster stood, huge in front of her, and came very close.

The vision shook her up, and Bonnie felt afraid. Then she remembered an instruction I had given her earlier: “When you see something scary in your visions, don’t try to make it go away, and don’t try to ignore it. Rather, face it and ask it what it wants to show you. Maybe that energy has an important message for you that it wants to communicate.”

And that is what she did. She asked the vision what it wanted to teach her, and in the moment she asked, the vision changed again. The new vision showed her higher self, holding her own body, caressing it, loving it, taking care of it, just like she had been doing with that kitten earlier that day. In that moment, she saw her own body and the relationship she had with her body. Her body was trying to tell her that the care and the love she had given so beautifully to the kitten were the same kind of love and care that her body had wanted to receive from her. She started to see that she had never allowed herself to give her body the full love and care that it had asked for. That was a big insight for her at that moment.

The vision also showed her that the breasts are part of the human body that are deeply connected to nourishment and femininity. This realisation rushed in through thoughts about her relationship with her mother, how she was raised, and even her mother’s relationship with her mother, and how her mother was raised. She went deep into the roots of her disease. She saw that the lack of nurturing and loving herself, and the lack of love and nourishment that came from previous generations, had manifested itself as disease in her breast.

As Bonnie peeled back those layers, healing began. I guided the ceremony with full presence, holding the force through music, singing, and playing my guitar as the visions moved through each of us. I remember seeing her from across the room, feeling the current shift around her. The medicine was working deeply in her. At the same time, I was navigating my visions, but I could still sense something powerful was unfolding in her space. Between the songs, I prayed silently for her healing. The atmosphere was thick with presence, the kind that needs no words. I knew something sacred was taking place.

After that deep ceremony, we continued the program, and a few weeks later, we went to the hospital for a test. We had all felt a shift in Bonnie, and although we hoped that shift had also manifested itself in her physical body, we had no clue what would come out. Together we drove to Cuzco, and when we arrived, Bonnie got a scan. The test showed that all the tumours were gone. Bonnie had healed herself of cancer.

Above is a short video from Bonnie’s journey at the centre. Watching it now, I feel the tenderness of that time and how deeply it shaped the way I walk with the medicine.

Those first ceremonies at Sananda-Wasi were beautiful, and I will always hold them close to my heart. They were full of magic, healing, and transformation. But I see now that early success in this path does not necessarily mean that you are the one creating it. The medicine itself is the force that moves, heals, and transforms. When you are just beginning to hold space, the plants can still work their miracles regardless of how much or how little you understand. It is easy to believe that the beauty you witness is coming from what you are doing as a facilitator. I see this often now in the medicine world, and I recognize that I also fell into that belief for a time. The ceremonies were powerful, but the real power came from the medicine, from the spirits, and from the willingness of the people who showed up to do their work. As space holders, we are simply learning how to step aside, to get out of the way of that magic. In those early days, I did not yet fully understand that.

Looking back, we could see that something had changed the moment the root of her disease was touched. That ceremony, when she saw her own body through the lens of nurturing and love, when she met the deeper layers of her illness, felt like a turning point. Once that root had been seen and something shifted in her relationship to herself, everything else we had been doing—the food, the juices, the natural medicines, the therapies, the prayers—became the building blocks her body could use to make the physical transition. That was our observation at the time, but of course, we could never truly know. What happened was a mystery, a grace. It was a magical time for sure, and a remarkable start to my path as a carrier of the medicine.

I lay in my hammock with tears in my eyes, feeling the weight and beauty of how it had all begun. At the same time, a quiet realisation settled in me. That early success, which many would have seen as extraordinary, also carried a shadow I did not fully see back then. It raised expectations, not only in the eyes of others, but within myself as well. In truth, I was still so young on the path. I had only sat with the medicine for two years, and suddenly I was guiding people through some of the most delicate and life-altering experiences of their lives. Looking back now, I see how premature that was.

In those early years, I believed that following the vision and answering the call was enough. And while it did open doors and bring moments of grace, there were also times at the centre when I could feel how unprepared we were for the depth and intensity of what unfolded. I have seen this pattern more and more in the medicine world—people stepping into holding ceremonies too soon, without the grounding and years of preparation needed to fully hold the responsibility. I see now that I was one of them. I don’t say this to diminish the healing that happened or the love I poured into the work, but to acknowledge that this path asks for a depth of study and presence that cannot be rushed. If there is one message I would offer to anyone who feels called to this work, it is this: take your time. Walk with the plants, learn from the elders, deepen your own healing, and allow the years of experience to shape you before holding others.

This reflection doesn’t take away from the beauty of Bonnie’s journey or the grace of what happened. If anything, it honours it even more. It reminds me how sacred and powerful this work is, and how much respect and preparation it deserves. Even now, I am only beginning to understand the depth, presence, and inner maturity it takes to carry these spaces with care—and I know this understanding will continue to grow in the years to come, far beyond what I could have seen a decade ago in that hammock.

Lying in the hammock in the jungle, I could see all of this more clearly. I returned to those moments at the centre, but with a wider view—less entangled, more spacious. That perspective gave me clarity on what had unfolded. It softened some of my judgments and helped me feel a deeper sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the magic that had been there, and also for the honesty of what I still needed to grow into. It offered me grace for the path I had walked and for the younger version of myself who had said yes to something much bigger than he could yet understand.

When another woman, Mary Lou, knocked on my door, she was in her early sixties and in the middle of her fourth round of breast cancer. The cancer was in stage four, and tumours in her breasts had recently spread to her lungs. We sat in front of the centre, in the beautiful garden, hummingbirds flying around, and she spoke frankly: “Look, this is my fourth time having cancer, and it will be the last time. I am going to survive and heal, or I am going to die. But I am not going through another round of this.” She said these words with such determination that my body trembled a little upon hearing them; they felt so true and clear.

A few days later, she moved into the centre. She had decided to take time off from her teaching job and stay in Peru for three months to follow the program. We spent those months working closely together, focusing on the many layers of healing.

A couple of weeks after Mary Lou moved in, her husband also came to Peru. He stayed in a hotel nearby and would come to visit as much as we allowed. We had to find a balance that allowed us to work with her uninterrupted, while also including him in the process so they could heal and grow as a couple. When he came in for the first time, they sat next to each other on the sofa with quite some distance between them. There was hardly any physical contact. They both looked tense and uncomfortable. When I asked about their relationship, not many words were spoken. When I inquired about their intimacy, silence was the answer.

I left that conversation feeling that the distance between them could be something to address in the healing process. One day I stopped by Mary Lou’s room, had a chat with her, and left a book on her bedside table. It was titled "The Art of Sexual Magic," by Margot Anand, a renowned teacher in the fields of relationships, sexuality and Tantra. A few days later, I stopped by her room again, and she was deeply immersed in the book. When I walked in, she hid it under her blanket, like a teenager caught in the act. We both laughed.

A few days later, I brought up the topic of sex. She told me about the distance that had developed between her and her husband, as well as the lack of intimacy in their marriage. That conversation opened a whole new chapter in the program. That day I gave her a simple homework assignment. I suggested that she go to her husband’s room, lie next to him, and that they should silently hold each other for ten minutes. Although I could feel her resistance, she went with it and followed the instruction. The combination of our talks and exercises like this started to open up their relationship. It was beautiful to witness the unfolding between them. In a few weeks, they were like teenagers again, madly in love.

Seeing this renewed connection between them, we offered to hold a daytime ceremony where they could renew their vows. A few days later, we all sat in a circle, in the middle of the stunning Andean mountains, under the blue sky. Mary Lou sat like a queen on her throne with her husband beside her, the two of them shining and radiating love to each other.

It was so special to revisit those moments, lying deep on the force of the medicine in my hammock in the middle of the jungle.

Another focus of our time together was Mary Lou’s fear of death. She was terrified of it—so much so that she didn’t want to discuss it at all. Every time the subject came up in our conversations, her whole body would tense. I kept initiating such conversations, and slowly she grew more comfortable.

“Death is just a transformation,” I told her, “not the end. It is a rebirth into eternal life. Every single person who has had a near-death experience—whatever their religion, walk of life, gender, race, or upbringing—came back to life with the same experience of a magnificence they can hardly put into words. Trust those experiences, because death might be the most spectacular journey that you will go on in this lifetime.” We did meditations around death and began to discuss and probe its mystery.

As the program neared its end, we all knew what the situation was; we could just sense it. We went to the hospital for a test. We all sat in the waiting room, silent. When the results came back, they showed exactly what we had expected: the tumours had grown and spread throughout her body. Rather than improve, Mary Lou had gotten worse. We discussed what she should do when the program finished. We suggested she go home, stop working, and spend her remaining time with her family and friends.

And so she did. She returned to the mountains of Colorado. Her family and friends converted her living room into a temple, with Tibetan prayer flags hanging from all sides. Her bed was moved to the living room, and her family and friends came to spend time with her there. She had the conversations she needed to have and brought closure to all that was still left open.

One day, several weeks after the program, I spoke with her on the phone. She sounded so calm, so peaceful and centred. She accepted the situation completely. She told me: “Dennis, I feel so sure that it is time for me to go. These last weeks and months have been so amazing. To let go of all that fear and to witness the change in my relationship, as if it were a whole new marriage, I feel completely at peace. I feel so good about the life I lived, the decisions I made, and everything that has happened. Slowly, I will pass. It is time.”

She spoke with such calmness and presence. It touched me deeply to hear that from a woman who, just a few months before, had held so much fear around dying.

That was the last time I spoke with her. She passed a couple of days later, in complete peace. When I spoke to her husband a while later, he said that her final days had been very serene. Everyone had been calm, and right before she passed, she sat up one final time and pointed upward with her finger, as if to say, “That is where I’m going.” Then she left, very quietly.

Lying there in the jungle in my hammock, I thought of these two examples of healing: one a young woman who came in with cancer and left without it; another of an older woman who came with cancer and then passed away. It was clear to me, seeing everything again, that deep healing had happened for both of those women. I felt immense gratitude for both Bonnie and Mary Lou, and for what had happened to them.

But what about “success”? Returning to that question, I could see how superficial the Western perspective on success can be. Why put a label on healing? Healing in the West typically refers to the healing of the body. But what about inner health and peace? To me, both of those women’s experiences felt like deep healing, and no further labelling was necessary. Knowing that Bonnie had healed her body and left our centre without cancer was a moment that I will cherish until the end of my life. And knowing that Mary Lou died in complete peace, without fear, surrounded by those who loved her, that was an incredible journey to be part of.

What I saw in those moments in the jungle is that healing can take many shapes and forms. Having that perspective gave me a great deal of clarity on what had happened. I felt so grateful for the wider perspective that the dieta was showing me.

When I came out of that vision, I got up out of my hammock and suddenly got so dizzy that I had to hold myself to a tree so I would not faint. It took me a while to regain my consciousness. I slowly lowered myself to the ground and sat there for a while. I had already noticed my body getting weaker since the start of the dieta, but at that moment, it really sank in. My stomach rumbled, and I felt hungry. I got up and walked back to the temple, hoping Louisa might have some food ready. Edi, Muka and Qwatsi stayed in the jungle.

Arriving there, I found her rumbling around, cleaning the earth with her broom. The fire was going, and some pots were cooking the ever-present rice, pasta, and beans. It felt so comforting to see Louisa there. We sat down and talked a bit. She had so many things to share, so much love to give. She took care of us so well during our dieta.

While I was eating a plate of food just outside the temple, rain began pouring down from the heavens. Rains in the Amazon can be wild and fierce. Quickly, we ran into the temple to stay dry. A few minutes later, Edi, Muca, and Qwatsi came running down and dove inside as well. They were completely soaked, their hammocks tucked under their arms. Looking at them, I noticed they hadn’t taken my things with them. It took me by surprise. All of my belongings were still out there in the jungle, getting drenched in the heavy rain—my hammock, the mosquito net, my backpack with its contents, and the Daime. Why hadn’t they taken my things along with their own?

Qwatsi looked at me, and it was as if he could read my thoughts. Without hesitation, he dropped his things in the temple and ran back into the jungle. Seeing him sprinting through the rain, something stirred inside of me, and I ran after him.

He was running so fast that I struggled to catch up. By the time I reached the place where my hammock hung between two trees, he had already climbed one tree, undoing the knot and holding the hammock in one hand. Seeing him there, high in the tree, made me stop in my tracks. I watched Qwatsi working with such love and devotion that tears began to roll down my cheeks. For the first time in my life, I felt what it might be like to be a father, to feel that kind of love for a child.

Standing there in that eternal moment, I felt overwhelming gratitude for that boy in my life. After a moment, I caught myself and snapped out of it. I ran up to the tree and untied the other knot. We packed the rest of my things into the backpack and ran back to the temple. When we arrived, we looked at each other, and I felt so many things all at once. I was so proud of him. What a beautiful boy he was. I could see that he would grow into a strong man, someone with a lot to give to the people around him. We gave each other a long hug, holding that embrace for what felt like a lifetime.

We moved the fire into the temple and sat around it for a while, warming ourselves and drying off. The next days unfolded beautifully. I kept my intention of drinking a cup of medicine every four hours. Although the timing sometimes stretched a bit longer, I continued going deeper into the force of Her than I ever had before.

Several times I took my hammock and returned to that clearing in the jungle. The place had become sacred to me, and many times I would lie out there in my hammock, with Qwatsi by my side. It became harder and harder to stay in the house or the temple, as more people from the village began to show up and linger around. I was surprised to see this happening, as it had been very clear that no one should enter our dieta space. I just observed it and decided I much preferred the silence of the clearing we had made. It became my favourite place, and I spent much of my time there, deep on the force of the medicine, either alone or with Qwatsi.

There in my hammock, I let myself be engulfed by the sounds of the jungle. Sometimes I would practice a new song on the guitar or read a book. Mostly, I would just lie there and absorb everything, listening to the ever-present sounds of the forest.

On one of those days, Qwatsi and I drank some Ayahuasca together in that special place. For a long time after our journey, we sat at the base of a large tree, our legs dangling over the earth, speaking softly in the quiet of the jungle. I shared the love I felt for him and told him how much I would miss him when I left. He looked at me with those sharp, bright eyes of his and asked if he could come live with me in Peru. It was such an innocent, heartfelt question that for a moment it stopped me in my tracks. I felt a surge of warmth, almost like what I imagine a father feels when a child asks to stay by his side.

We talked about it for a while. I was not sure how to respond, so I told him that I didn’t know if it was possible. I explained gently that I didn’t have a wife, and that I thought it would be good for him to have a woman to take care of him. Deep down, I wished I could simply say yes. Later I would find out that it would have been nearly impossible for him to join me in Peru anyway, as he had no documents or passport.

Qwatsi was a bit disappointed upon hearing that, but his spirit was strong, and it didn’t stop us from daydreaming about the future. Sitting there on that big tree root, we imagined that one day I would have a house in that very spot, a house with a wide porch where hammocks would sway in the breeze. We pictured ourselves living there together, taking rapé under the same tree, bathing in the small creek nearby, tending to the fire, and sharing the silence of the jungle. It was such a pure dream, so real in that moment that it felt like we were already living it. I still hold that memory close to my heart. From that day forward, we would often speak about “our house in the jungle,” as if it already existed somewhere just beyond the veil of time.

Four or five days into my ten-day commitment, it became increasingly difficult to walk. My body was so weak, and my journeys were very deep. It also became harder and harder to drink the Santo Daime. Without refrigeration in the jungle, the medicine was fermenting slightly, and its mouldy taste grew worse and worse. Sometimes I would sit with the glass in my hand for over half an hour before I could manage to drink it, doing my best to keep it down after I gulped it. Getting out of the hammock had become a challenge. Louisa often helped me eat, get up, and even go to the bathroom. Her care during those ten days made me feel completely safe and protected.

I noticed that Edi and Muca were spending less and less time in the temple and around the house. One day I suggested holding a ceremony, and they both shook their heads and walked to the village in silence. I stood there, perplexed. Had the rules of the dieta not been clear? Were we not supposed to stay at the centre for the first month without leaving? Slowly, the joy and excitement we had all felt so strongly at the start began to fade. A new chapter of the dieta was opening.

Lying there in my hammock, wrapped in the embrace of the jungle and the silence of the dieta, I felt the circle complete itself. The memories of the centre, the faces of the people who had come through its doors, the intensity of those early ceremonies, the beauty and the overwhelm—they all moved through me like a quiet stream. There was so much I had learned, and just as much I had yet to understand.

Looking back now, I see how strong the vision had been in those early years. I had followed a thread of synchronicities and signs that felt undeniable. Doors opened, people arrived, and money had been there; a centre was born almost overnight. There was a kind of magic in that. But visions, I came to understand, are one thing. Living them is another. To truly hold a vision in the world, to carry its weight with integrity, requires more than insight and inspiration. It asks for presence, clarity, skill, and maturity. It asks for years of walking the path.

Back then, I had just a few ceremonies under my belt. A few rounds of sitting with the medicine, and only a handful of times facilitating. And yet, there I was, holding a centre, guiding programs, leading others through some of the most delicate and transformative experiences of their lives. I had said yes to something I could feel in my bones, something that was calling me, but I had not yet become the man who could fully carry it.

The synchronicities had shown me the path, but they had not prepared me for the full scope of what it meant to live that path. The ceremonies were only part of it. There were all the other layers: the relationships, the communication, the team dynamics, the management of space and energy, finances, the constant holding of others while trying to stay grounded in myself. It was a lot to carry. And while I honoured the courage and trust that had brought me there, I could also feel, during this dieta, a humbling realisation settle in me. I needed more time. I needed more training. I needed to deepen my presence before taking on that much again.

That didn’t come with regret. If anything, it came with tenderness. A gentle bow to the younger version of myself who had leapt into something so big with so much heart. I could see him now, not as someone who had done it wrong, but as someone who had been learning in real time. The centre had been my university, my initiation, my teacher. And though I wasn’t sure what would happen with it once the dieta ended, I trusted that whatever was meant to continue would do so in the right way, at the right time.

I lay there, breathing in the scent of the earth, letting the sounds of the forest remind me of the rhythm of things. There was no rush. Life had its own timing. And I was beginning to trust that more and more.

The dieta itself was teaching me this. The silence, the plants, and the force of the medicine were shaping me from the inside out. These memories of Sananda-Wasi were not just stories—they were alive, revealing new layers of meaning as I lay in that hammock. The jungle had become a mirror, and the hammock a cradle of reflection, reminding me that this path is not walked in a single leap but in countless steps of learning, humility, and trust.

And with those realisations, I drank another cup. The ten days weren’t over yet. In a way, it felt like everything was only just beginning.

One night, as I lay in my hammock under the open sky, a clear image came to me. It felt more like a memory than an idea. I saw a circular temple made entirely from the jungle. A structure held by trees, roofed with broad green leaves, open at the sides to the forest. It was not large, but it felt sacred. A place for ceremony. A place for learning. A space where people from the village and from afar could gather, pray, study, and listen. I didn’t know what to do with the vision yet, but I could feel it growing inside me.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of a boat engine. I stuck my head out of my hut and asked Louisa if she knew what was happening. She told me that Muca and Edi had left very early and were arriving back at the small harbour next to the jungle house.

I sat on the porch and watched as they came closer. There was already a big pot of caiçuma on the fire. Edi laid a long stick with many green leaves down on the porch beside me. I looked at it, wondering why he had done that. When I brought my face closer, I saw a bright green frog, almost as big as my hand, sitting on the branch. Its colour was nearly the same shade as the leaves, so I had missed it at first. When my eyes caught it, I jumped back a little. Muca and Edi laughed when they saw my reaction. “Strong warrior,” they could barely say between bursts of laughter.

In the days before, they had been telling me about kampu, also called kambo in other languages. Kampu is a type of frog that lives in the trees, and the Indigenous people of the Amazon use the milk found on its skin as medicine. The man of the jungle would go out in boats before sunrise or late at night, floating on the water in darkness. They listen to the sounds of the jungle, waiting for the distinct song of that frog.

The kampu frog has a deep, unmistakable mating call. It sings once and then stays silent for a few minutes. When they hear that call, they follow it, listening for the next sound, moving in that direction again. Step by step, they come closer. Eventually, they spot the frog on a branch, sometimes high up in a tree. Because the frog has no natural enemies, it does not try to flee. It stays there, still and unafraid. They bind its back legs to a stick so it cannot jump and take it gently back to the place where the medicine will be applied.

Something about hearing that story stirred something in me. I was beginning to feel more attuned to the forest and its ways. The next day, the time had come for me to receive the medicine of the frog. To prepare, I had to drink at least two litres of caiçuma. That alone was a challenge. After weeks of drinking that thick liquid, I had grown tired of it. It was sweet when freshly made, but in the days that followed, it became fermented and bitter. Drinking that much on an empty stomach made it even harder. It took me forty-five minutes to finish the quantity needed, sitting there on the porch while Luis waited patiently nearby.

As I drank, I kept looking at the animal they had caught. The frog was stunning. Light green on top, with a pale, whitish belly. It looked royal, serene and still, sitting on the bench beside me. I could not stop staring.

One of the men had gone into the forest to find a small piece of vine. They fashioned it into a tube. The vine was hollow, allowing them to blow through it and light it at one end like a cigarette. When I had finally finished the caiçuma, they used that glowing vine to burn three small holes into the skin of my upper left arm. It hurt sharply, but I tried not to grimace. I wanted to show respect for the medicine, and I was living among warriors. To show pain in that moment would be seen as weakness, and I knew they would laugh. So I stood with a straight face, letting it happen.

After a few minutes, they peeled off the burnt skin. Then, using a small wooden stick, they scraped the white sticky milk from the frog’s back legs and placed it directly into the fresh wounds, straight onto the exposed flesh.

Maku stood next to me while Luis applied the medicine. “Keep breathing,” Luis said. Maku took my arm and led me down to the river. My heart began to pound. My face swelled. My lips curled, and my tongue grew thick. I felt awful, almost as if I was becoming a frog.

I started to feel nauseous. My body got heavy. My thoughts turned dark. I fell to my knees and then onto my side. My heart was beating wildly in an irregular rhythm. Maku was next to me, fully present. I felt safe with him there. I trusted him deeply. I knew I was making strange faces in my agony, but I could not stop it. I must have looked ridiculous. Maku helped me sit back up and kept my face in an upright position. He held his hands on both sides of my head. I wanted nothing more than to lower my head, but he would not let me do that. I almost got angry with him. “Can’t you just leave me alone for a minute?” I wanted to shout.

After a while, he invited me to throw up, but I could not. I tried hard, putting my fingers down my throat, trying to force the purge. I felt terrible. I kept asking myself, Why am I doing this?

After about twenty minutes, Maku invited me to bathe in the river. I just wanted to sit in the mud and be left alone. But he gently kept urging me and even began washing me himself. I pushed him away at one point, but he continued, gently taking water from the river to wash the medicine from my arm. The coolness of the water on the burns brought immediate relief. Then Maku poured water onto my face. I felt annoyed at first, but the sensation pulled me back. It woke up my body and brought me back to presence.

The heaviness started to lift. The swelling in my face began to go down. I was coming back to myself. The water called me back to life, back into my body. It was refreshing. I started pouring water all over my body. I felt a wave of relief. I looked at the white dots on my upper left arm and knew those scars would likely remain for the rest of my life.

When I walked back to the fire, the others were already there. Luis asked if I had vomited, and I told him I had not. He nodded. The others sat around the fire. We shared our experiences. They had never known anyone who had not thrown up on kampu. “Strong warrior!” they shouted, fists raised in the air. Keeping the medicine takes courage. It takes strength. I felt a little better about the ordeal I had just gone through. The energy of that moment was intense. We sat there with towels wrapped around us, still shivering slightly, as the fire warmed us.

Luis explained that kampu serves the Yawanawá the same way vaccines do for Westerners. It strengthens the body, the heart, and the immune system. For it to work correctly, you had to take Kampu three times in ten days. Kampu moves in the heart and makes it beat with force, pushing the blood through the body. It gives strength and stamina, and it makes you a better hunter. It also clears panema, that cloud of negative energy that can surround a person. They give kampu to children and also to lazy people. Kampu takes the laziness out and makes them good workers again.

The frogs are easy to catch. They have no predators because they are highly poisonous. They live in trees, singing and eating insects. Due to the poison, animals immediately spit them out if they try to eat them. The frogs know this. They are not afraid. So the Indians can pluck them from the trees. The frogs do not run or jump away when people are close.

The Yawanawá scrape the white foam from the frog and apply it, then release the frog back into the wild. The frogs are not killed or harmed in the process, though it must not be comfortable for them. The milk on their skin is closely tied to their behaviour. When you take all of the milk from a frog at once and release it back into the jungle, it stops singing. Sometimes it remains silent for up to two years. In that time, it slowly produces new milk. But if the frog does not sing, it does not mate. And if it does not mate, there are no new frogs.

I was grateful to learn all of this in the jungle with the Yawanawá. I knew that the medicine of the kampu was already spreading into the Western world. The milk can be stored for a long time on a flat piece of wood. Many people had already taken those sticks and were applying the medicine far outside the forest. And while it is true that many have found real physical healing from the frog’s medicine, the population of the frogs is quickly declining in the Amazon. As a result, the Brazilian government has recently made the export of Kampu medicine illegal.

For me, learning how the medicine works and understanding the effect on the frog’s life changed everything. I decided not to take the medicine out of the jungle. If more and more people continue to use it in distant places, the kampu frog could disappear within years.

The Yawanawá also use the frog’s milk in another way. Muca had not put the dots on his arm that morning, so I asked him if he was going to take the medicine with us. He did not say anything. Instead, he took the frog and washed it in a small pot filled with caiçuma. He spent several minutes on this, making sure to remove all of the milk from its skin. When he was done, he set the frog gently back on the bench and drank the entire pot of caiçuma mixed with the frog’s milk in one big swallow.

I watched him in awe. That drink must have contained at least thirty to fifty regular doses of kampu. I saw his face tighten. His neck swelled. Edi explained to me that the moment you drink kampu, your throat closes up. Soon, it becomes impossible to swallow anything, so you have to drink it quickly, in one movement.

Not long after he drank, Muca disappeared into the jungle. Real warriors do not show their process. Still, I could hear him from a distance, and it took hours for him to come back. He was for sure a very strong warrior. Both of his arms were covered in dots, and his chest was beginning to fill as well from all his previous kampu sessions. The Yawanawá wear those dots with pride. The more dots, the stronger you are. Muca had earned every one of them.

The next evening, Luis called Edi, Muca, and me to sit down with him. “I want to tell you something,” he said. Then he stayed quiet. Something was happening.

“Maybe one of you will have a dream,” he continued after a long pause. He looked toward the ground as if waiting for the words to come. “I think only one of you will have a dream. In that dream, someone will come to you, a man or a woman, and they will show you the plants in your dreams and teach you many things about them.” He raised his index finger and held it there. “Whoever that person is, they will heal many people in their life.”

In that moment, I closed my eyes and made a quiet promise to myself. I decided that I would be that person. I wanted to receive those teachings. I wanted to learn from the dreams and the plants, as he described them. I opened my eyes, looked at Luis, and nodded. He nodded back. It was all happening.

That night, after Luis spoke those words, the vision of the temple returned. I saw it again, clearly and calmly, just as before. A round structure held by strong trees, with a wide open roof of jungle leaves. A place where people could gather, where the plants could be honoured, where teachings could be shared in silence and in song. A space that belonged to the forest and the people, yet was open for those who would come from far away. I saw the fire at its centre, the benches all around it, and the forest breathing in and out through the open walls.

The next morning, I found Luis sitting in his hammock near the fire. The sun was rising through the trees. I sat beside him in silence. After a while, I spoke.

“I had a vision again last night,” I said. “A temple made of trees and leaves, round, open, simple. A space for prayer, for learning. A place for people to come from near and far.”

Luis listened without interrupting. He rocked gently in his hammock. When I finished, he looked at me and nodded. “When the forest gives a vision like that more than once, it is not a coincidence,” he said. “Maybe that place already exists in the world of the spirits. Now it wants to be born here.”

We sat together in silence. The fire crackled gently. The forest moved quietly around us. Our eyes met, and we both nodded. Then Luis said, “Let us begin.”

Just a couple of days later, construction began. The entire shuvu was completed in just five days. It was a round space about nine meters across, with a roof made from a thousand broad leaves from a bush called paia. Eight strong trees formed the perimeter, and one large tree stood in the centre. The sides were open. Only the roof was covered. It was amazing to see how fast the work was done using only materials from the jungle. Not a single nail was used.

Watching vision come to life, that quickly and completely, left me speechless. It was incredible to see what could be built when people knew the land, when their hands were trained in the wisdom of the forest. I felt honoured that this vision had taken root here, among these people.

We planned to hold an opening ceremony at the new temple and invited people from Luis’s village and neighbouring villages to join. Approximately thirty people were expected to attend the opening. The days of building and preparation were filled with a quiet joy and sense of arrival.

In preparation for the ceremony, the women of Sete Estrelas painted my body with black dye made from the fruit of a tree called ginipap. In their language, the paint is called Nanē. It stays on the skin for a couple of weeks. One morning, Muca and I took the boat deep into the jungle to find the tree. The one we found was massive, towering at least twenty meters high, with a trunk a meter and a half across. In its highest branches were the small fruits we needed for the paint.

Muca took up his axe and started chopping at the base of the tree. I watched in disbelief. My body tensed. Was he really going to cut down this ancient tree to collect a few small fruits?

I asked him what he was doing, trying to stay open. Muca kept working. He told me that the Muka dieta was a special time in a person’s life, and being painted like a warrior with nanē was an essential part of that path. He said the tree had been waiting for this moment its whole life. And now, it’s time had come. Its spirit would be honoured through our transformation. I listened to his words. I did not fully agree, but I also saw how much care and purpose he brought to his work. He worked quickly, and the tree came down with enormous force.

We collected the fruit and returned to the temple. The women mashed the small fruits into a pulp, then squeezed the pulp using an old t-shirt. A thick black liquid dripped into a bowl. They left it in the sun for a few hours. When the paint was ready, I was called to sit in the centre of the temple and take off my shirt.

One by one, the women came with wooden sticks and began painting my arms, chest, and back. The dye was gently tapped onto the skin, soaking into the surface layers. My arms began to take on the pattern of a cobra. My chest looked like an anaconda. I sat there quietly as the intricate markings emerged. Each movement of their hands was deliberate. When they finished, we left the paint to dry overnight.

The next morning, we washed off the layer of dried dye. Initially, my skin returned to its usual tone. But over the next twenty-four hours, a deep blue colour began to rise from beneath the skin. The designs were clear and dark. They would remain on my body for weeks, even if I bathed in the river. As the painting continued, Luis walked by and gave me a thumbs up. “Strong warrior,” he said.

That night, with the fresh paint still settling into my skin, we held another ceremony on the porch of my house. Under the strength of the medicine, I felt the paint forming a kind of armour around me. My skin became a shield. I could feel a firm presence surrounding my body, a layer of protection. I felt strong, rooted, and ready.

Luis came to sit beside me. He looked at me for a while and then began speaking. “You know, Vatā Txanu, feather crowns are very sacred. They carry power. They are not for everyone.”

He paused before continuing. “Strong men, wise men, master hunters, pajés, medicine men, leaders, men with many wives, these were the ones who could wear the feather crowns. Today, many people wear them, but that was not always the case. A crown should match the spirit of the person wearing it. Some encircle the head. Others fall past the chest. Some reach all the way to the knees. You have to be ready. The more sacred the bird, the more powerful the crown.”

I listened carefully. I had seen Edi working on a crown in the last few days, and I wondered if this was connected. He had been using feathers from a sacred bird—the arara, or macaw. These birds always travel in pairs. They sing to each other from the tops of the tallest trees. They are hard to hunt. When you shoot the first one, you have to reload quickly to shoot the second, because they fly high and fast. The Yawanawá use simple shotguns with one shell at a time. To get both birds, you have to be skilled and fast.

Edi had managed to shoot two of them. He had made a crown with their feathers. The front of each feather was bright yellow. The back was deep blue. It was beautiful. The feathers carried the spirit of the birds. That was the purpose of wearing the crown—to honour the animal, to carry its gifts, to remember it with reverence.

“Choose your crown very carefully,” Luis said. “Receiving a crown is an important moment. Choose wisely. Do not just put one on your head.”

Later that night, I lay back on the porch. I could feel the force of the medicine working through me. Edi came to sit beside me. He asked me to sit up straight. I did, and he began speaking to me during the ceremony. As was the custom, he said many beautiful words.

“Dennis,” he said, “I am so grateful that you have come to our village. Your presence is helping us so much. We now have this house in the jungle, and the temple is almost ready. The people who have been working on it have all benefited from this project. From the money that people earned, my brother bought some clothes for his baby, who was soon to be born. My cousin bought materials to finish his house in the village. Many others have benefited from your coming here.

“Everybody is grateful for all that is happening. Now, seeing you in your dieta, seeing how you work with Huni, I have so much respect for you. The path in front of you is very open. There are many good things for you to discover. You will have many things to share with many people in your life. We all agree that your coming to this village is like a fruit that fell from heaven. It is like a gift from God to this tiny community. Thank you for all that you do. Thank you for showing up. I want to give you a gift. Know that it comes from my heart to yours.”

He took the feather crown that he had finished that day and placed it gently on my head. Crowned with those beautiful yellow feathers, I could not help but cry. I was deep in the force of the medicine, and I could feel the power of the crown descending onto me. Edi bound it firmly around my head. Luis watched from a distance in silence. I sat up straight with the crown on my head for the rest of the ceremony, feeling the presence of those two birds. They carried so much joy, so much light, so much life, so much music. I could hear their songs in my visions. They were beautiful.

I sat with the question of what they were here to teach me. I stayed with that feeling for a while, and then I understood. The crown was music. Music was my crown. Music had been my greatest gift all my life, and in that moment, I felt the confirmation. I felt, even more strongly, what I have always known: Santa Musica is the queen of all that is.

A wave of joy, light, and love moved through my body. Edi and Muca saw it happening, and once again we whooped and cheered together. They told me how beautiful I looked with the crown and how perfectly it fit me. They said I looked like an Indian now. They saw it clearly. I was a Yawanawá Indian.

JIIIIHUUUUUUU!

Luis had been watching it all unfold from his hammock. When I had calmed down, I turned and looked him in the eyes. He looked back at me and said, “Welcome home.” I nodded, and his words entered deeply. It was a moment I would not forget.

The next day, the temple was finished. It was amazing to watch the men build it so quickly, using only what the forest had provided. Whenever I tried to help, I only slowed things down, so I stepped back and let them do their work.

The temple was an important milestone for Sete Estrelas. When it was finished, all the men who had worked on it gathered inside, sitting on the benches we had made. Everyone was in good spirits. There was laughter and storytelling. I sat on the porch of my house, watching from a distance, lying in my hammock with a smile on my face. The roof of the temple was still bright green from the fresh paia leaves. I knew they would dry and turn brown in time. For now, they were shining. I was seeing the vision made real.

Seeing the temple come to life deepened my appreciation for the medicine and my trust in it. I was beginning my path with Ayahuasca, and this dieta felt like an opportunity to go further. I started to consider how. Then the answer came. After the temple opened, I would drink a cup of Ayahuasca every three or four hours, day and night, for the next ten days.

My body shivered at the thought. It felt like a strong commitment. I went to find Luis and ask his opinion. When I found him, he was sitting in the temple with a young girl. I had seen her a few times near him and had been curious about their connection.

I sat beside them and told Luis what I was thinking. After listening quietly, he said, “I think it is something you can handle. It will be strong. But I trust you.”

I asked if he would help me. I told him I might find it difficult to keep drinking. I asked if he would bring me the cup and remind me of my commitment.

He looked me in the eyes for a while and said, “This is your commitment to the medicine, not mine. I am happy to support you. But I will not force you to do anything.”

Looking into his eyes, I knew. This would be my journey.

The ceremony for opening the temple was approaching, and because several people from outside the village were joining us, I felt a quiet nervousness building. I would be serving them a medicine that I had known for only a few years. In contrast, they and their ancestors had known it for generations. It was an honour, and I wanted to ensure that I honoured them as well.

When the evening arrived, everything was ready. The firewood was stacked. The temple and the surrounding forest had been cleaned and prepared. The medicine was brewed. Our bodies were painted. People arrived one by one, filling the temple and my porch. Hammocks were tied in every corner. When everyone had arrived, we formed a circle inside the temple. Edi sat to my right, Muca to my left, both of them painted like warriors. I sat in the middle, my guitar resting beside me. The medicine was placed on a small altar before me. My yellow feathers crowned my head. My arms still held the blue designs of the nanē.

It took a while for everyone to sit and grow quiet. When the moment came, Edi spoke first. “Good evening,” he said. “Thank you all so much for being here with us on this very special night. Tonight is the first ceremony in this new temple, the temple of the new centre that we are building. This is a pivotal moment for our village and the Yawanawá. After Nova Esperança and Mutum, this is only the third village in the history of the Yawanawá to open up to Western people for a dieta. This is the third village creating a centre where people from abroad can come to learn and experience our traditions, our plants, and our culture. We are honoured that you are all here to share this special moment with us, and we are grateful for your support. And we are deeply grateful for Don Luis and the wisdom he carries.”

His words were generous. He continued, “Above all, we are grateful for a special person who is with us here. A man born in the Netherlands, with white skin and a tall body. A man from the Western world who comes to us from the other side of the great ocean, many days of travel from here. A man who had a dream of us, of Luis, and who followed that dream and found us.”

I sat quietly, receiving his words. They moved through me with humility.

Luis spoke next. “First,” he said, “I want to thank our Creator for all of this creation.” His words were simple and whole. Then he spoke of his father, who had taught him everything he knew about the plants. He said he was grateful to be able to serve his people through the knowledge of the forest. He shared that for many years, he had dreamt that someone would come into his life to help build a place where he could teach. A place where he could pass on what he had learned.

Almost two years earlier, he said, he had received a dream. In that dream, God came to him and told him that a white man would come to his house and sing the name of God there. God told him to teach that person everything he knew. That person would help him build a space to share his wisdom. At the Mariri festival in 2013, we met for the first time. Since then, he had been waiting for me to return. A year and a half had passed, and God kept telling him I would come back. So he waited. “And now here he is,” Luis said. “Vatā Txanu.”

He paused and looked around the circle. “A long time ago, the Indigenous people of the forest decided to allow some medicines to leave the forest. We saw that many difficult things were happening in the world. To help humanity through this time of change, we chose to release some of our medicines. We sent out Huni. We sent out rapé. We sent out the kampu. These medicines found their way into the world.”

He looked at me again. “At that same time, when we let those medicines go, we also sent some of our souls to be born in other parts of the world. Souls that have been with us many times before. Leaders. Healers. Medicine people. We sent them to be born in different lands, to speak different languages, to grow up in other cultures, to learn more about this planet. And then, in their dreams, we would call them back.”

He let those words land. “We never knew if they would hear the call. But we waited.”

He gestured toward me. “This body was born in the Netherlands. But his soul is Yawanawá. He listened to the call. And now he is back with us. He has been with us many times before. All the knowledge of the Yawanawá is already inside him. He only has to remember.”

I sat completely still. When Luis spoke, something in me began to tremble. My heart beat with force. My body tingled. Tears ran down my face. I could feel the truth of his words moving through me, opening places I had never touched before. Everything began to make sense. The path of the last few years. The visions. The calling. The connection. Something ancient was returning.

Luis continued. “Now the time has come for more plants to leave the jungle. These are difficult times in the world. People are killing each other. People are stealing. People are destroying the place where they live. The world needs these plants. Now we have found a bridge, a doorway, through which these plants can travel. “He,” and he pointed at me,“ will be a bridge. We will help him remember the plants. Then he can carry them.”

There was a long silence. Then Luis asked if I would like to speak. I took a breath, centred myself, and began in my best Portuguese.

“Dear people, welcome here tonight. Thank you for coming and for sharing this special moment with us. It is an honour for me to sit here in the middle of this circle, in the middle of this temple that was born from a vision, in the middle of a dieta that began with a calling that came from the force of Ayahuasca. May this place be blessed. May it be protected. May it grow into a centre where the knowledge of this tribe can be sustained and passed on to future generations. May it be a place of light for all who come.”

I paused. The circle was quiet.

“May this space radiate the teachings of the plants, the animals, and the forest into the world, helping humanity remember and heal. May we walk this path together with humility. This is my offering of gratitude to the Indigenous people, to the Yawanawá, to Don Luis, to the forest, to the Santo Daime, to the Earth, and all of you.”

I looked into their faces. “Thank you for helping me remember. I am honoured to be here. Thank you. Let us begin.”

I took the bottle of Santo Daime in my hands, opened it, and took a deep breath. I held the air in my lungs for a moment, letting it soak in the prayer that was moving through my heart. Then I blew my breath into the bottle, gently and with intention. My breath became the channel for the prayer. I took my time, letting songs rise quietly inside as I made that offering. I knew I was placing something precious in the medicine.

When I was finished, I began serving the first round. People came to me one by one to receive their cup and returned to their places in the circle. I looked around the temple in quiet awe. I felt gratitude and humility in equal measure. The visions of the past few years had led me here. Step by step, I had followed them. There had been many tests, many doubts, and now I was sitting in the middle of it all. A temple in the jungle. A dieta unfolding. A people I had dreamed of. It felt impossible and obvious at the same time.

All of it had begun with visions. My connection with the Yawanawá. Meeting Luis. The house in the jungle. The temple. The dream of serving. But it was not the visions alone that brought me here. It was the steps I took in response to them. Each time I acted on what I had seen, new doors opened, some gently, others through difficulty. I learned that a vision is not a guarantee. It is an invitation. It opens only through commitment, through effort, through walking the path all the way to the end. The spiritual force does not carry you. It shows you the direction. But the walking is ours.

Now I was sitting in the centre of it all. And it felt both surreal and sacred. My body was alive with emotion. The force of the Santo Daime was rising gently through my being, and the medicine began to sing.

Edi moved around the circle, checking on people. From time to time, Muca stood and pointed his flashlight into the trees, watching the edges of the forest. I stayed seated, still, holding the centre of the space. I tried to radiate love with my presence. Qwatsi was next to me in his hammock. He had not left my side for days. After a while, I reached for my shruti box and let the sacred tones of India rise into the jungle. I sang my song for Muca:

Muca, Muca
Padre de la Tierra
Enseña me, cura me
Trabalho con me, entra me

Madre, Madre
Ayahuasca
Cura, Cura

Madre, Madre
Chacrunita
Pinta, Pinta

Yawanawá
Muito Obrigado
Muito Obrigado

The melody calmed me. It quieted the last traces of nervousness I had carried. And when the song ended, I let the silence follow. It was full and complete. Edi came to sit beside me. We looked at each other and raised our thumbs in quiet approval.

“Muito bom,” we said together.

We smiled. The way we were working together felt aligned. It felt whole. I picked up my guitar and began playing some of my favourite songs into the night. The stars above the temple roof watched with a kind stillness.

When it was time for the second serving, I offered another round of the medicine. Muca took the guitar and sang his own songs—Yawanawá songs that held strength and sweetness in equal measure. The ceremony moved forward. It had its own pace, its own presence. I found myself in the middle of something that had once been just a dream. Now it was reality, and it was alive. My vision had become shared. It had become collective.

After some time, I picked up my guitar again and sang one of the songs I hold most dear:

Yo honro el lugar que hay en ti
Donde todo el universo está
Yo honro el lugar que hay en mí
Donde todo el universo está
Namaste, namaste

I honor the space inside of you
Where the whole universe abides
I honor the space inside of me
Where the whole universe abides
Namaste, namaste

There was no rush. The ceremony unfolded slowly. Many songs were sung. Some people eventually returned to their homes. Others stayed in hammocks inside the temple. There was no formal closing. The medicine continued.

When the night grew quiet, I went to my hammock and drank another cup. That was the beginning. The beginning of my commitment to drink every three or four hours for the next ten days and nights. My body knew what was ahead. My mind tried not to anticipate it. I lay there quietly. The insects began their chorus. The birds called out through the dark. The monkeys laughed somewhere in the trees. And beneath all those sounds, a deep silence lingered. I listened. My mind became still. My heart opened. My eyes closed. And I surrendered.

This was the time I had been waiting for. The ten days ahead would be different from anything I had experienced before. Not just one ceremony. Not two. But ten full days in communion with the medicine. I would drink and rest, sing and pray, listen and observe. There would be no distractions: just the medicine, the forest, and the dream I had chosen to follow.

People usually drink one or two cups of Ayahuasca in a ceremony. Sometimes three or four. To drink every few hours for ten days straight was something else. I knew that I would face myself again and again. That the medicine would take me through joy and challenge, light and shadow. And I knew I would stay with it. That was the commitment.

I turned on my side in the hammock, listening to the silence. I felt the edge of something beginning. A gateway opening. I had made my choice. I had spoken my yes. Now the medicine would do her work.

I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the jungle settle into me. The medicine was moving, not through visions or strong messages, but through quiet sensation. It was slow and steady, like rain soaking into the roots of something that had been waiting. There was no rush. Just presence. I knew it would deepen over time, and that each cup would open a new doorway.

By the following morning, I had already drunk several times. The rhythm was becoming familiar. Drink, rest, wake, drink again. My body was starting to recognise the pattern. The days were blending together in a quiet current. There was no start or finish to ceremony. The whole period was one continuous stream.

The forest held everything. The temple had become my centre. My hammock was tied beside the main tree. The altar remained still. Luis would occasionally pass by and sit nearby without speaking. Edi and Muca made sure there was water. They did not interfere, but their presence was always near.

During the day, I walked quietly along the forest paths near the house. I stayed close, letting the medicine guide my steps. At night, I rested in the temple or lay on my mattress in the hut. The jungle was always singing. Frogs, insects, birds. All of it rising and falling in a rhythm older than language.

The first days felt like a gentle clearing. My mind was quieting. My body was beginning to empty. I was not trying to understand anything. I was just keeping the promise. Another cup. Another stillness. Another breath. The dieta had begun, and I was inside it.

The days ahead were still unknown. But the door was open. And I had entered.

A

Although I had felt a great force while eating the Muka root, I hardly felt anything lying there on my mattress. I kept my eyes closed and lay still. Luis was in his hammock on the porch. Everyone else had quietly left and returned to the village to give us space.

As I lay there on the mattress with my eyes closed, my mind began to race—not as a distraction, but as if the spirit of Muka was stirring what was hidden. It felt like the plant was showing me where I held tension. Thoughts about my life, conversations, people, and situations. They popped up one after another, quickly and powerfully. My head ached from the relentless stream, and I wondered if this was normal. Luis had instructed me to keep my thoughts positive, but with such speed and force, that felt nearly impossible.

I felt some anxiety, but I remained still on the mattress. During my Kundalini Yoga teacher training, I had learned to repeat the mantra Sat Nam mentally in moments when the mind wandered into undesirable places. The words mean truth is my identity. I began silently murmuring the phrase: Sat Nam, Sat Nam, Sat Nam. I returned to the mantra each time I became aware that my mind had drifted. Eventually, I drifted into a deep sleep.

I woke up more than twelve hours later, unable to remember my dreams. I was lying on my mattress with my eyes closed and felt surprised. Muka was supposed to be a dream plant, yet I had received no dreams on the first night. Was something wrong? I wondered. But when I asked Luis about it, he only smiled. He knew the dreams would come.

When I woke up, Louisa was already bustling outside. She was always nearby, taking care of us. Her reassuring, gentle presence was complemented by her hard work to make our space sacred.

Louisa gathered dried, dead trees to build a fire. She arranged six logs in a circle on the ground, resembling the spokes of a great wheel. At their center, she placed dried leaves and used a propane lighter to start a small fire. As the ends of the logs burned, she pushed them forward, feeding the flames until the wood was burned entirely. She prepared all our meals over that simple fire. Even on days when it rained for hours, she managed to get it burning in minutes. I admired her ability to work so effortlessly with the forces of nature.
My dieta food was simple and, at times, challenging. In the first weeks, I only ate dried banana balls, which are green bananas cooked, mashed, and put together in a ball. I got to eat one of them a day for the first 10 days or so. After that, it was complemented with some corn, rice, beans, spaghetti, noodles, crackers, and sometimes small fish. The portions were tiny, and I drank only caiçuma—pure water was not allowed; it would wash the force of Muka out of my mouth. Louisa would prepare the food, place the pots on my porch, and softly call me when they were ready. Sometimes, I was deep in my journeys, resting in my hammock or on my mattress, but she was always patient and full of care.

“Denni… Denni… Tem arroz aqui, feijão, macarrão,” she would call. She told me many stories, though at first, I understood little. My Portuguese was almost non-existent upon arrival. But over time, I began to pick it up, and we communicated more easily. It often took time to get up when I was emerging from my journeys. I would stick my head out and ask, “Comida?” Food? She would nod and point to the pots.

Our early exchanges were simple, yet we were singing to each other on a deeper level. One thing I had noticed early on was that the Yawanawá rarely touched each other. Even married couples refrained from physical affection in the company of others. They greeted each other with an open right palm facing to the left. Before introducing hugging into the community, I had never seen anyone embrace.

But I began giving Louisa long hugs after she prepared meals or when she left for her home in the village at night. The first few times, she stood frozen, unresponsive, like a statue. Yet, as I persisted, she started to enjoy them. Soon, she would seek me out before leaving, ready to receive her hug. Though I introduced hugging as a gesture of appreciation, I remained aware that it was not part of their traditional way. I tried to meet Louisa with gratitude while respecting her pace.

In Yawanawá society, I observed that men are the leaders and warriors, while women are expected to support them. Their perspectives on relationships were deeply rooted in tradition, shaped by values that had been passed down for generations. Some men had lovers in other villages, something they spoke of openly and with pride. Some elders had multiple wives, and older men often partnered with much younger women. Within their culture, this was seen as a respected tradition—one where a wise elder would benefit from the vitality of a younger partner, while she, in turn, would gain status, knowledge, and protection. Over time, some of these women became highly respected figures within the tribe, recognized for their own wisdom and leadership. A strong and vital elder was regarded as a pillar of the community, someone whose presence was seen as a gift to the collective.

But there was an aspect of this dynamic that I found deeply unsettling. Some of the relationships I observed involved girls who, by Western standards, would still be considered children. It was not uncommon for an elder to take a wife in her early teens—a tradition rooted in their worldview, one that has existed for generations. Within their cultural framework, this was not seen as inappropriate but rather part of a lineage-based way of life. Still, when I first encountered it, I felt something inside me recoil. The idea of an older man being with someone so young brought up a strong internal reaction—something between discomfort and deep dismay.

These experiences challenged me profoundly. They taught me to sit with the dissonance between cultural respect and personal values. I did not judge—but I could not look away either. I learned that reverence for another culture sometimes means holding discomfort with grace. That discomfort, too, became a teacher.

Over time, I had many conversations with the Yawanawá about relationships, marriage, and family. I listened to their perspectives, and they listened to mine. I did not try to change their views, just as they did not try to change mine. But I also could not pretend that this aspect of their tradition did not stir something in me. It was one of many moments in the forest that taught me how to hold tension without rushing to resolve it—between reverence and questioning, between respect and inner truth.

When we discussed relationships, they asked why I was still unmarried. “Vāta Txanu, you deserve a good woman,” Luis said. “A man like you should never be alone. You need a woman to cook for you, wash your clothes, and talk to sometimes.”

I laughed, explaining that relationships in the Western world were often built on equality. Luis shook his head. “That’s not right,” he said. “If you don’t find a woman soon, we will hunt one for you.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. We had many humorous exchanges about relationships, exploring the vast differences between our cultures. Beneath his teasing, I sensed Luis was pointing toward a deeper truth in his eyes: that love, service, and shared life are essential for a man walking a sacred path.

Still, we were in a dieta, so we had to remain celibate and keep our thoughts pure. But sometimes, I found myself dreaming of those strong Amazonian women. The Yawanawá women were fierce, silent, and powerful, with a kind of strength I had rarely seen in Western women. Though I wasn’t supposed to think about women during dieta, my thoughts sometimes wandered. But what could I do?

Sat Nam, Sat Nam, Sat Nam…

One of my favorite parts of the dieta was bathing in the jungle. Wrapped in a towel, I would walk to the small creek a few minutes from my hut, carrying a dented aluminium pot and a piece of soap. I would perch on a wooden beam above the water, squat on my heels, and pour the cool, fresh water over my body. Lathering up, rinsing, feeling the water cleanse me—it was a profound ritual.

The act of bathing began to feel like a prayer to the forest—an acknowledgement of my presence, my humility, and my willingness to be cleansed. It was as if the forest saw this small act and received it.

Often, the water brought me back into my body after intense journeys with the medicine. I would look up at the sky, feeling life pouring through me. This simple act became incredibly special.

Edi and Muca found their Muka roots a few days after I started my dieta. Soon, we shared our ceremonies on the porch, lying in our hammocks. Though the guideline was to drink Ayahuasca every four days, we ended up drinking it almost daily throughout those months. We played music, sang, and shared deep conversations. Those were magical times, filled with laughter, truth, and trust.

At one point, I suggested we try a different approach: silent ceremonies with larger doses of medicine. They were hesitant at first, but they trusted my vision. Luis watched from a distance as we strung our hammocks deeper into the jungle. We drank in the daylight, remaining in complete silence.

The silence was profound. We were almost afraid to move, lest we disturb the deep stillness. At one point, I looked over at Edi. He was on a deep journey. When he opened his eyes, I raised my thumb to the sky. He did the same—all good.

That night, Luis shared that, in the old days, shamans always drank in silence when they would drink together. I smiled. Everything was unfolding beautifully. In that silence, I felt the weight of tradition—not as something from the past, but as something alive, moving through us.

As I sat with the silence of the jungle, I started to realize how much of my life had been shaped by external noise. In the outside world, I was always surrounded by conversations, decisions, responsibilities. Even in ceremony spaces, there was always music, prayer, or guidance. But here, in dieta, I was left to face only myself. There was nowhere to escape—no phone to check, no distractions, no one to process things with.

I had always thought of myself as someone who could sit with silence, but this was something different. This was silence as a teacher, pressing me to look at myself with absolute clarity. It felt like a mirror, showing me where I still needed to grow.

During our second silent ceremony, I was lying in the hammock and had drunk a big cup of Ayahuasca. My mind started to race in many directions and became clouded. I noticed my breath was shallow. I deepened my breath, and almost instantly, the clouds started to lift, and I grew calmer. Interestingly, I had been seeing those same mind-clouds in my visions. When I looked closely at them, they were also fading away, slowly opening up. After that night, I began to watch my breath more closely, even in the quiet hours between ceremonies. It became a compass.

And through one of the holes in those vision-clouds, I could see a man standing with an erect spine and a sturdy face. He was dressed in a skirt of leaves and held a long stick in his hands, the skin of a serpent was coiled around that staff. A huge anaconda was curled up at his feet. He watched me without any emotion or expression. I appreciated his silence and felt that I had to be silent as well if I wanted to communicate with him. When my mind was still, I could see him clearly. When my mind was running in many directions, the clouds would thicken, and I would lose track of him. It felt as if the jungle itself was watching, deciding whether I was ready to receive this teaching.

When I saw him clearly, I felt a teaching enter my being. The learning was on leadership. It went like this:

A great leader must have certain qualities, including a very pure heart. Who we are is a reflection of our hearts. If you have a bad heart, you are imbalanced. You will see horrors, but you will feel fine because the horrors will simply be a reflection of what is in your heart. If you have a good heart—full of love, compassion, and gratitude—you can see great horrors and feel compassion for those affected, or find a way out of them for yourself and many others.

A leader will see what is within another person and understand their degree of spiritual balance. A leader is balanced but also has spiritual force. A lazy person cannot be a leader. How could they heal or study? Their mind must be working; it must be on, yet at the same time calm and centered. Their heart must be shining. This way, they can cleanse people, help them breathe fresh air, and become balanced and firm.

Great leadership begins when you are your own leader. Leaders need to organize what they want, structure their actions, and exhibit self-discipline, taking care of all that goes in and out of the body. Taking ownership of your life and body, and being responsible for all of your thoughts, words, and actions, is a great way to start living in leadership.

The next step of leadership is when you have a partner, a family. Starting a family will bring much growth and progress into your life. You must lead your family to a fulfilling life, take care of them, and be responsible for them. If you are this kind of leader in your family, you have already reached a precious level of leadership.

How do great leaders manage their roles? How can they teach through experience? They are leaders because they have the answers to these questions—and to many others. They will have answers to even the toughest questions. The leader has studied them. The leader has lived them. The leader has much experience in life and has the necessary balance to learn from experience.

When someone has proven to be a great personal leader and has grown into a leader of their family, then, and only then, it is possible for the next step in leadership to open up. This can only happen as a gift from the divine energies that have witnessed the person throughout their life, in every single moment and on every step along their path. When those energies have observed only good things, then the next level of leadership may come. Becoming a great, wise, humble community leader can only be bestowed by grace. When someone reaches this level of leadership, it will feel very natural to them and to their people, as all that came before has prepared them for that step.

When a person tries to become a great leader but has not first become a personal leader and a leader of their family, it will be difficult for them to lead others effectively. When the experience is missing, or when the calling to become a great leader comes from a place of ego—from the mind rather than grace from the Creator—then the assumption of leadership can create many difficult situations for them and their people.

Receiving such a clear and powerful vision filled me with awe—and also fear. I suddenly understood the enormous responsibility leadership entailed. It was not the absence of doubt that marked the path—it was the willingness to ask, again and again.

To receive a teaching so clear was really special. I started to notice that the teachings in ceremony, under the force of the Daime during that dieta, were very different from the teachings that would come outside the dieta. The longer I spent in dieta, the deeper the teachings became. Just being in the pure jungle and out of communication—without any cell phone reception or internet—my mind calmed down significantly. More and more, I noticed my thoughts changing.

It was as if my mind had been a muddy glass of water, constantly stirred by the movement of daily life—by responsibilities, conversations, and distractions. In the jungle, that glass had finally been placed on a table and left undisturbed. The sediment slowly sank to the bottom, leaving behind pure, clear water. My thoughts, once racing between tasks and concerns, began to settle.

But as the stillness deepened, another thought surfaced—one that I could not ignore.

What if I wasn’t ready for this kind of responsibility?

I had seen how many Western leaders had not taken the path of proper initiation, as required in indigenous traditions. They had stepped into power without purification, without surrender. And I could see them—many of them—falling into the same traps: power, money, sex, ego. They had started with good intentions, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, they had been consumed by their own shadows.

And what about me?

Would I be able to hold this responsibility with integrity? Or would I, too, become lost—speaking of deep truths but not fully embodying them?

I looked into my own mind, watching the thoughts swirl like shadows. Was I genuinely leading myself before leading others? Or was I just repeating lessons I had learned rather than living them?

I felt the weight of these questions in my chest. The truth was, I did not have an answer. But I knew that if I wanted to walk this path, I had to keep asking these questions again and again.

True leadership was not about certainty—it was about humility. It was about being willing to keep looking inward, to keep purifying, to keep surrendering.

Something in me shifted after that vision. It was not just about understanding leadership—it was about embodying it.

A little later in the same ceremony, I received another clear vision. I clearly saw myself building a temple next to the house in the jungle. It was a beautiful open structure, with strong trees supporting a roof covered with palm leaves. It was such a vivid vision and felt so true that I decided in that moment to make it a reality. It felt like the next step in my dieta.

I shared all this with Luis. He listened quietly. Luis shared that the figure in my vision was likely Mukaveini, a revered Yawanawá warrior from olden times. “That you are receiving these kinds of teachings,” he said, “is a very good sign for your dieta.” He also liked the idea of building the temple. We discussed some details and finances, and once everything was clear, Luis said he would organize the men to build the temple in the next few days.

Most mornings, Luis would lead us on long walks through the jungle. He explained that he was going to teach us Niipeia,the wisdom of the plants. He said that plants have spirits and that we were going to learn how to work with them. He reminded us that human beings depend on plants for life: the oxygen we breathe, the food we eat, the materials we use to create dwellings to stay warm and protect ourselves. But, he continued, the plants don’t need us. We depend on the plants, but the plants do not depend on us.

I learned that the surrounding villages highly respected Luis. He was one of the only people in the region who knew which plants could heal a snake bite. He told us he had saved about fifty people from cobra bites. People travelled from far and wide to see him. I was so grateful to have the opportunity to learn from him.

The snake is a very sacred animal in the Yawanawá tradition. There are poisonous snakes, which they collectively call “cobras,” and there are snakes that are not poisonous, called “Runua”. Cobras occasionally bite people, and modern medicine has almost no remedy for snake bites in the Amazon. If certain snakes bite you and you are lucky enough to make it to the hospital, they might amputate the bitten limb. In many other villages and tribes, there were several people with amputated limbs from snake bites. However, there was no single amputation in Luis’s village and the surrounding areas. The healing of snake bites made up the first part of our lessons from Luis.

I was still learning Portuguese, so I used those days to get familiar with the plants and the language. Sometimes all of the plants looked exactly the same to me: green, with leaves and a stem. But slowly, I trained my eyes to notice the tiny differences: the various shades of green, the small details on the top or bottom of the leaves. Did the veins of the leaves start from the same spot and emanate to the left and right, or did the veins originate from different places on the leaf? Luis told us that it would be very difficult to learn from the plants in this way when not in a Muka dieta. Muka was the teacher of plants, and he would deepen our lessons through our dreams.

We often took plants back to the house from our jungle walks and planted them close by. Slowly, we created a medicinal garden. After the first ten days, we had over thirty different plants to treat snake bites planted around the house. Luis asked if there were snakes in the place where I lived. I laughed and told him they did not exist there.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before I taught you about all these plants for healing snake bites?” he asked me. I explained that I actually hadn’t understood him well at the beginning and that I had used this time to learn more Portuguese and develop a sharper eye for distinguishing the plants from each other. He smiled back and said, “Clever!”

The next lesson was going to be about plants to heal cancer. I was fascinated. At my center in Peru, I had been working with people afflicted with this disease. I was honored to be entrusted with this learning, and eager to listen. Luis showed us plants for various types of cancer—cancer inside the body or on the skin. Some plants could heal many kinds of cancers; other plants might work for only one specific type. I learned about twenty-five different plants for cancer healing. Luis also showed us how to prepare and apply them. “Plants have a spirit,” he said. “By working with the plants, we connect with that spirit. The plants are like a doorway to the spirit world. In the end, it is the spirit of the plants that does the healing, not just the plants themselves.”

I told Luis that in Western medicine, scientists extract specific molecules from a plant and then use those as components in the process of making a medicine. He explained that, in his experience and in the knowledge of the indigenous people, this approach is not wise. By extracting only a part of the plant and isolating its properties, we risk losing the connection with its spirit—and, in doing so, much of its healing power.

Luis’s teaching on using the whole plant stayed with me, especially as I began to reflect on the growing popularity of psychedelics in the Western world. It made me realize that there was something deeper at stake—something about the nature of relationship, reverence, and guidance.

Ayahuasca is a medicine that has been used by Indigenous peoples of the Amazon for hundreds, some might even say thousands, of years. It is often labeled a "psychedelic," but I am not sure if that is the right term. I prefer the term "entheogen." That word comes from the ancient Greek: en-theo-gen. “Theo” means “God” or “divine.” “En” stands for “within.” So the word means something like “connecting with the divine within.” All entheogens—whether from plants, fungi, or animals—come directly from nature. They are not synthesized in laboratories; they are gifts from Mother Earth to us. And as with all true gifts, there is a responsibility—not just to receive with care, but to give something back.

By contrast, the word "psychedelic" comes from the Greek psyche, meaning "mind," and delos, meaning "to reveal." Psychedelics can be either natural (psilocybin, mescaline, DMT) or synthetic (LSD, MDMA). While both psychedelics and entheogens can alter perception and expand consciousness, I see a fundamental difference: psychedelics may open an experience, but entheogens invite a relationship.

Take, for example, the process of working with an entheogen like Ayahuasca, Psilocybin mushrooms, or Bufo alvarius (5-MeO-DMT from the Sonoran Desert Toad). These are not substances to be simply "used"—they are beings to be approached with reverence. In many Indigenous traditions, these medicines are understood as living teachers that one must build a connection with over time.

In the Amazon, one does not simply drink Ayahuasca and expect results. Traditionally, the medicine is approached through dieta—a process that may range from a period of simple preparation (adjusting one's diet, abstaining from certain activities, and creating intentional space) to a more initiatory path that involves extended time in solitude, celibacy, and strict discipline. During my own dieta with Muká, I came to understand that it is this ongoing commitment that allows the medicine to truly teach. Without that foundation, it can become just another experience.

The same is true for Psilocybin in many traditional contexts, particularly in Mesoamerica, where mushrooms are used ceremonially under the guidance of elders who have cultivated deep relationships with the fungi over many years. Even Bufo, a secretion from the Incilius alvarius toad, has been worked with in sacred ways by the Comcaac people of northern Mexico—held within a lineage that understands its potency and the need for proper ritual container.

These medicines are not merely chemical compounds that affect the brain; they interact with consciousness itself. Over time, one begins to notice their presence in dreams, in subtle messages, in ways that extend far beyond the moment of ingestion. A relationship forms—one in which the entheogen observes the person drinking, eating, or inhaling it. When approached with humility and discipline, deeper teachings emerge.

With synthetic psychedelics, no such relationship is required. One can take LSD, MDMA, or chemically extracted DMT without preparing their body, mind, or spirit. The experience may be profound, even life-changing, but it is often an isolated event rather than an ongoing dialogue. Synthetic psychedelics do not carry an inherent intelligence that continues to teach beyond the immediate experience. The effects may be strong, but they do not possess the same quality of guidance. Without lineage, ritual, or preparation, even the most potent medicine can speak—and still go unheard.

Additionally, the tolerance effect of synthetic psychedelics suggests a fundamental difference in how they interact with the body. If one takes LSD on consecutive days, the body resists—it quickly builds a tolerance, diminishing the effects. This could be seen as a sign that the body does not fully welcome it. In contrast, with Ayahuasca, one can engage with the medicine for multiple days in a row, sometimes experiencing even deeper journeys over time.

Psilocybin mushrooms, however, do lead to tolerance if taken frequently, which is why most ceremonial traditions do not encourage daily or continuous use. Yet, unlike synthetic psychedelics, Psilocybin mushrooms are still regarded as sacred beings that can form a relationship with those who approach them with intention. The teachings may continue in dreams, in visions, or through insights that unfold over time. The difference lies in how they are held—not just in their chemical effects, but in the respect and structure of their use.

Beyond the spiritual and physiological differences, there is also the environmental impact. The production of synthetic psychedelics like LSD and MDMA involves chemical extraction and synthesis, often generating toxic byproducts such as formaldehyde, mercury, and ammonium chloride. In unregulated labs, these substances are frequently dumped into the environment, contaminating soil and waterways. Many people are unaware of the environmental cost of their psychedelic experiences. Fields that were once fertile for growing food have been destroyed due to the pollution caused by synthetic drug production.

By contrast, entheogens like Ayahuasca, Peyote, and Psilocybin mushrooms are grown, harvested, and prepared without generating industrial waste. When cultivated sustainably and with respect for the land, they do not leave behind environmental destruction. Their use aligns with the rhythms of nature rather than the industrial processes that extract and synthesize chemical compounds.

For me, this is what separates psychedelics from entheogens. A psychedelic can break patterns, reveal visions, or expand awareness, but an entheogen does more—it guides. It asks something of the person who takes it. It requires commitment, respect, and time. And when approached in the right way, it does not just reveal—it transforms.

Ultimately, the distinction between psychedelics and entheogens is not just scientific, but also spiritual. An entheogen is not merely a substance—it is a teacher, an intelligence, a bridge to something beyond our ordinary perception. It carries wisdom, offering not just an experience, but a path toward healing and insight. To me, that is a profound difference.

When Luis said the best way to get the full benefits of a plant is to use the whole plant, this resonated deeply with me. It helped me understand why I had initially felt uncomfortable drinking Ayahuasca—and why, over time, I had come to trust it so profoundly. I now understood the difference between a substance and a true medicine.

It wasn’t a sudden realization, but one that settled in slowly—shaped by silence, ceremony, and the steady presence of the jungle, like leaves finding their place on the forest floor.

The silence had shown me clarity, but clarity was only the first step. To truly walk with integrity—I now had to live it, step by step, in the world and in myself.

I’ve sat with this chapter for a long time before sharing it. It carries silence, questions, and teachings that continue to unfold in me. If any part of this spoke to something in you—if it stirred a memory, a discomfort, a knowing—I’d be grateful to hear what came up. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below. I read each one with care.

A Note Before Publishing

The last time I published a chapter of Walking with the Serpent was in August 2023. Since then, I’ve felt an internal hesitation in sharing the following chapters, as they recount my first long dieta, and are very personal experiences.

In the time that has passed since opening this dieta in November 2014, I’ve observed a sharp increase in people seeking out ceremonies, visiting Indigenous tribes, and entering the path of dieta. What was once a sacred and intimate process has, in many ways, become an industry. The sheer number of people drinking Ayahuasca worldwide has left a clear imprint on the Amazon, with over 80% of the natural vines now depleted.

More and more Westerners are traveling to Indigenous territories, bringing money, attention and seeking spiritual knowledge. While many arrive with good intentions—hoping to learn, heal, or support Indigenous communities—the consequences of this movement are not always beneficial, particularly for the Indigenous people themselves.

The influx of visitors has placed immense pressure on communities that were never structured to receive a continuous stream of outsiders. The dynamic of exchange often shifts as money enters the equation, creating an imbalance where traditions that were once passed down through lineage and deep apprenticeship become commodified. The necessity for economic survival leads many Indigenous people to accommodate the expectations of visitors, sometimes at the cost of their own cultural integrity.

I have witnessed firsthand how the traditional ways of learning—based on time, patience, and deep relational trust—are being eroded. In some cases, younger generations are drawn more to tourism-based opportunities rather than following their ancestral path. This is not to blame them; when a village sees that hosting ceremonies and dietas for foreigners generates far more income than their traditional livelihoods, priorities inevitably shift.

This influx has also deeply affected the sacred plants themselves. With over 80% of natural Ayahuasca vines depleted in some areas, Indigenous communities must now replant what was once abundant. In some places, the loss of access to their own medicine has forced Indigenous people to buy vines at high prices or source them from plantations rather than from the land they have stewarded for generations.

Perhaps most importantly, dieta—one of the most profound and delicate forms of spiritual apprenticeship—is often misunderstood by those arriving from outside cultures. Traditionally, dietas were given as an initiation after years of preparation and guidance, with elders ensuring that the student was ready for such a commitment. Now, it is not uncommon to see people arriving in the jungle and, within a few days, being given access to dietas they may not be prepared for—sometimes by people who themselves have not undergone the proper training to open and guide such processes. This is not only spiritually dangerous for the individual but can also diminish the sacredness of these ancient practices.

These are complex issues with no simple answers. While there are ways to engage respectfully, it requires more than just good intentions—it demands discernment, patience, and a willingness to pause, listen and learn before participating.

This is part of why I hesitated to publish this chapter. I do not want my words to inspire people to rush into dietas without understanding the depth of the commitment and the responsibility that comes with it.

I am now publishing the next chapters, but with trust that you know that I am not promoting dieta—especially not the dieta of Muka. It is a very difficult dieta and should only be considered after spending at least a few months, over the course of years, with the Yawanawá, completing other dietas like Sēya, and having built a strong relationship with one of the spiritual leaders of the tribe who has the experience to open such a dieta. I later learned that Luis, who opened this dieta for me, was not truly equipped to do so—he had never done a dieta himself.

And perhaps, in ways I could not have foreseen at the time, the intentions set during this dieta are now coming to life.

In the past weeks, we have planted another 1,000 Ayahuasca vines and 400 Chacruna plants in the Yawanawá territory—several hundred of them in the village of Muka. What began as a prayer whispered into the jungle over a decade ago has now taken root in the earth, growing into something tangible. This is not just the fulfillment of an intention but a step toward restoring what has been lost—honoring the sacred balance between the people, the plants, and the land that sustains them.

I share these words not to encourage people to seek out a dieta, but to document my own journey as I originally wrote it, years ago.

For a week, we stayed in our new place in the jungle, building the house. It already had a roof made from palm leaves, and a simple but sturdy floor made from the thick bark of a certain tree. The walls were still nonexistent. Our days moved slowly, and we were all adjusting to the rhythm of the jungle. Louisa spent her time tending to the land around the house. Relentlessly, she wielded the machete, clearing smaller plants and roots, then swept the bare earth with a broomstick she had fashioned from sticks and leaves.

Observing her, I came to understand that keeping the jungle floor clean was important. When it was cleared, it was easier to spot animals like snakes and spiders. Fallen leaves and sticks provided the perfect hiding places for them. Louisa’s work ensured that we were safe, that we could move around without too much concern. Seeing her work for so many hours and days made my love and appreciation for her grow immensely.

Just watching everything unfold brought me into a deeply peaceful and relaxed state. I started to understand more about life in the jungle, and with that understanding came trust. The impatience I had felt before was slowly fading. The calm pace of the jungle helped me surrender into all that was unfolding. I knew I was there for a reason—everything that was happening was preparation for the dieta.

Qwatsi was always present in those early days, making himself available wherever help was needed. I often saw him carrying massive logs on his shoulders, or piling heaps of firewood for Louisa to cook our food. Just watching him move through the days filled me with admiration.

Each morning, Edi, Muca, Maku, and I would walk with Luis through the jungle, searching for Muka—the plant that would open my dieta. At first, I assumed we would find it quickly and was anxious to begin. But the days passed, and still, we had not found Muka. Nature humbled me. I had to let go of control, let go of my own sense of time. A dieta unfolds with its own intelligence, its own rhythm. My task was not to force it, but to surrender.

As we walked, I realized that I would never be able to find the plant on my own. I was entirely dependent on the others, on their knowledge and experience. So, I walked in silence, watching, waiting for Muka to present itself.

One morning, we had been walking for an hour in complete stillness when Maku stopped abruptly. He crouched down and studied a small plant. After a long moment, he turned and pointed to it. There was something about it. It was surrounded by other plants, yet there was an empty space around it, as if the jungle had parted to make room for its presence. A beam of sunlight had broken through the thick canopy, illuminating the plant directly. I felt it—this was Muka. This was the plant I had been waiting for.

It was relatively small, about thirty centimeters high. Its delicate green leaves radiated outward, slender and elegant. There were no flowers, just an undeniable presence—a quiet but potent force.

Maku called Luis over for confirmation. Luis knelt, carefully examined the leaves, turning them over in his hands, checking every detail to be sure. Then he nodded.

“This is it,” he said. “This is the plant for Vātā Txanū.”

A wave of energy rushed through my body. We gently pulled Muka from the ground. Two small potatoes grew from its roots, each the size of a large grape. Luis looked me in the eyes, nodded again, and started to walk back, the plant in his hands. I followed, my heart full. The moment I had been preparing for had finally arrived.

I reviewed my intentions for the dieta. Over the years, working with sacred medicines, I had learned that intentions are crucial. They create focus. They set the direction.

Life can be like a ship in the middle of the ocean. Sometimes the waters are calm. Other times, the waves rise high, and a storm overtakes the vessel. A dieta is no different. The force of the plants can be unpredictable. But remembering your intention is like grabbing the steering wheel of that ship, taking command. No matter how strong the current, you still know which way you are intending to go.

The clearer and more positive an intention, the better. I had learned that it was best to frame an intention as an affirmation, focusing on what I wanted to call in rather than what I wanted to release. On a ship, you sail toward something—not away from something. Likewise, an intention should be a prayer of invitation, not a statement of rejection.

As the dieta drew near, I took time to prepare an altar. I placed my notebook on the ground, leaning it against one of the poles of the house. I unpacked a few crystals, each carrying memories of different moments in my life. I placed small candles I had received from a dear friend who worked at my center in Peru, representing the support of my team. I placed a picture of Guru Ram Das, marking my years of Kundalini Yoga and my daily spiritual practice.

I took out my ankh—a symbol of the ancient Egyptian key of life. For me, it signified that everything unfolds in divine perfection, that all doors open in their own time. I placed a small wooden angel that my mother had gifted me during my Reiki master initiation. Next to these, I set down a bottle of Santo Daime, my sacred connection to that lineage. Finally, I placed my shruti—the instrument that would carry my voice into prayer.

A shruti is an ancient Indian instrument, similar to a harmonium, that produces a deep, steady drone. The word shruti comes from the Vedas—the ancient scriptures of India. The Vedas were never simply recited; they were sung. Their language was one of rhythm, not intellect. The shruti instrument was a way to recall those ancient prayers, to bring the divine into sound.

For months, I had contemplated the song I would sing to open my dieta. In my last ceremony before leaving Peru, I had received a song for Muka. It felt right to open my dieta with this song. A dieta begins with a prayer sung into life, and the shruti was the perfect instrument for this moment.

I sat before the altar, took a deep breath, and began to play.

The deep, resonant sound of the shruti filled the air, vibrating into the jungle. And then, I sang:

Muka, Muka
Padre de la Tierra
Enséñame, cúrame
Trabaja conme, entra enme

Madre, Madre
Ayahuasca
Cura, cura

Madre, Madre
Chacrunita
Pinta, pinta

Yawanawá,
Muito obrigado
Muito obrigado

I let the song carry itself into the trees, into the sky, into the unseen. When it was done, I gently set the shruti aside.

I reached for the Muka roots, holding them in my hands. My breath was deep, steady. My heart pounded. I could feel the blood pulsing through my veins, the energy of the plant already working through me.

Luis stepped forward, his voice calm but firm.

“Are you ready?”

I looked into his eyes and nodded. “Yes.”

I took my first bite of Muka.

I bit into the potato’s flesh, its bitterness hitting me with force. I chewed slowly, keeping my face completely neutral, as Luis had instructed. This was important—any grimace or sign of struggle could make the dieta more challenging. The spirit of Muka, they said, observes every gesture, every thought. I swallowed my saliva for the first time and kept chewing. Each motion was deliberate, each moment fully present.

The bitterness intensified with every chew, and as I swallowed again, a deep force began to enter me. It was both subtle and overwhelming, a current of beauty and wisdom that moved through my body. With my left hand, I counted the swallows on my fingers. After four swallows, I spat out the remaining pulp. The whitish paste of the masticated potato sat sticky in my hands, its texture coarse and raw.

Luis gestured for me to rub the paste over my hands, working it into the skin. I did as he said, feeling the energy of the medicine seep into me. Each movement deepened my breath, and as my hands became coated with the remnants of Muka, I felt a shift within. The medicine's force seemed to connect with something ancient inside me.

When my hands were completely covered, I brought them to my mouth, forming an open circle around my lips. With each exhale, I blew an intention into my hands, into the Muka, and into the universe. My breath carried the prayers from my heart, releasing them into the world. Each breath grew deeper and more powerful, the force coursing through me like waves crashing onto a distant shore.

Luis stood nearby, offering quiet sounds of encouragement as I continued. I had prepared some intentions beforehand, carefully written in my notebook, but most of them emerged spontaneously in the moment. They came unbidden yet perfectly formed, as though the breath itself carried them into being.

My intentions began with the teachings of Caboclo Tupinambá, one of the guiding forces of the Umbanda tradition. His words resonated deeply as I spoke them aloud, each line carrying the essence of life’s purity:

Life
Health
Happiness
Open Paths

Health in the body
Peace in the spirit
And love in the heart

It is this that we wish
For ourselves
For our beloved ones
And for all of our brothers and sisters.

I felt the truth of these words echoing through the jungle, connecting to something greater. These wishes were not just for me but for everyone—for all beings, everywhere.

From there, my prayers expanded. I called in protection, guidance, wisdom, and light. I asked for blessings for my parents, my family, my loved ones, and even those I considered adversaries. I asked for insights to help me understand the next steps in my life and for clarity about my work at the center in Peru. I prayed for knowledge about maintaining health in body, mind, and spirit and for the ability to prevent illness. I prayed for the Indigenous peoples, their sacred knowledge, and the preservation of their lineages, forests, and plants.

With each prayer, the energy in the space grew. Finally, I focused on the house we had built in the jungle. I asked that it grow organically into a center of learning and healing—a space that could support the Yawanawá people and their wisdom. As my prayers flowed, so did the energy. Each breath carried my gratitude and intention, weaving them into the fabric of life.

Then, something shifted. A deep, powerful energy rose within me, reaching my heart and revealing the core intention for my dieta. It was abundance. Above all else, I wanted to call in abundance—not just for myself, but for all. Abundance in love, in wisdom, in connection. Abundance not as material wealth, but as a richness of spirit and generosity. This was my core intention for the Muka dieta.

I blew this final intention into the universe with all my strength. When the last breath was released, I lowered my hands to my lap, the paste of Muka still covering them. I sat in stillness, allowing everything to settle. It was as though time had stopped, and the world around me felt alive in a new way.

Gratitude surged through me—a gratitude so immense it felt as though my heart might burst. I thought of the plants, the earth, and the intricate connections that sustain life. Without plants, we wouldn’t exist. The air we breathe, the food we eat, and so many of the medicines we rely on all come from them. And yet, their gifts go far beyond the physical—they offer teachings, guidance, and a profound sense of connection. For the first time in my life, I truly saw this, and the realization brought tears to my eyes.

When I opened my eyes, Luis was sitting across from me, watching in silence. Our gazes met, and no words were necessary. In that moment, everything felt aligned. The ceremony had reached its conclusion.

I walked slowly to my mattress and lay down, the roots of Muka still working within me. I was to remain there for the next twenty-four hours, speaking to no one, moving only when absolutely necessary. My thoughts had to stay pure, focused solely on love, truth, and respect. Negative thoughts or words would interfere with the dieta, and I was determined to honor its sacredness.

For the next three months, this focus would guide me. My speech would be noble and deliberate, avoiding gossip, lies, or harm to others. Every word, every thought, and every action would be a prayer, calling in love and light.

The journey had begun.

Dear Readers,

It has been over a year since I last shared a chapter of Walking with the Serpent. As I prepare to publish the next chapter, I want to share why I paused and what has emerged during this time of reflection.

I began writing this book nearly ten years ago, driven by profound personal experiences and a deep connection to Ayahuasca and the sacred path of dietas. At the time, I was inspired by the beauty and teachings of these traditions and felt compelled to explore and share their transformative power. Yet, as the years have passed, my understanding has grown, and I find myself looking at these experiences with a different lens—one shaped by experience, hard-earned lessons, and a broader awareness of the challenges this path carries.

At the same time, I’ve come to understand the broader historical context of the Amazon and its people—a history marked by waves of destruction that reshaped these lands and cultures in ways that still reverberate today.

The rubber industry, driven by Western demands for car and plane tires, unleashed a wave of unimaginable suffering on the Amazon and its Indigenous peoples. Fueled by greed and the desire for profit, rubber tappers invaded these sacred lands, enslaving, torturing, and murdering those who stood in their way. In their ruthless pursuit of wealth, nearly 90% of the Amazon’s original inhabitants were eradicated—a genocide that tore apart entire cultures.

Communities that had thrived in harmony with the forest for millennia were decimated, their ways of life violently disrupted. Songs that carried ancestral knowledge fell silent, stories that wove the fabric of their identities were lost, and ceremonies that connected them to the spirit of the forest were abandoned. Children were separated from their families, forced into labor or brutally killed, while elders—the keepers of ancient wisdom—were left powerless to protect their people or preserve their traditions.

The forest itself, once a source of life and sustenance, became a place of fear and loss. Trees were harvested under immense duress, their sap turned into a commodity that symbolized oppression rather than sustenance. The intricate connections of culture and ecology unravelled as the rivers carried not just goods to distant markets but the echoes of a people’s suffering—echoes that found their voice in the hum of cars and planes, transporting us across the world at the cost of their lives and land.

This was not just a physical devastation but a spiritual one as well. The intricate relationships that Indigenous peoples held with their land and the wisdom rooted in those relationships were severed. The rubber tappers left behind more than broken communities—they left scars on the very soul of the Amazon, a reminder of the cost of unchecked extraction and greed.

The missionaries followed as the next wave, bringing with them the promise of salvation while dismantling the very fabric of Indigenous spirituality and tradition. There is no definitive number to quantify how much wisdom and tradition was lost during this wave of destruction, but a reasonable estimate might be that at least 80% of Amazonian wisdom was severely impacted. The missionaries, with their relentless push to "civilize" Indigenous peoples, systematically dismantled the spiritual and cultural fabric of entire tribes. Sacred songs, intricate healing practices, ceremonial knowledge, and oral histories—passed down for generations—were either destroyed or forced into silence. Languages that carried the depth of these traditions were abandoned, replaced by foreign tongues, and many of the elders, who were the living libraries of this wisdom, passed on without their knowledge being preserved. This loss extends beyond what is visible; it is the disappearance of entire ways of seeing, living, and connecting with the world—perspectives that took millennia to cultivate. And yet, as devastating as this loss is, the Yawanawá shared a powerful truth with me: if even a single seed of wisdom remains, it contains the potential to regenerate everything that was lost. With the right intentions, practices, and time, these traditions can be brought back to life, as long as we honor and nurture the remaining fragments of this precious heritage.

The story of the Yawanawá is a living testament to this truth. Once 5,000 people strong, their numbers were reduced to just over 100 through the brutal waves of rubber tappers and missionaries. Just a few decades ago, their original language was fading, their songs and stories were nearly forgotten, and the sacred art of cooking medicine was lost. Ayahuasca, known to them as Huni, was barely used, and those few who still drank it—like Tatá, Yawá, Raimundo, and other elders—were ridiculed even within their own community.

And yet, through resilience, vision, and the profound wisdom of their elders, the Yawanawá have experienced a remarkable revival. Today, the tribe has grown to over 1,500 strong. Many of the young ones are singing the ancient songs, walking the path of dietas, and bringing their stories back to life. Their sacred traditions are not only alive but thriving, reaching far beyond their lands to inspire people worldwide. The songs of the Yawanawá are now sung in ceremonies across the globe.

This revival was foretold in a vision to Tatá, one of the few true pajés I’ve met in this lifetime. A revered elder, Tatá passed away at the age of 103 in December 2016, leaving behind a legacy of wisdom, strength, and faith. I was deeply blessed to receive from him a sacred prayer called Sēya. His vision, known as Kairao, foretold the rebirth of the Yawanawá’s traditions and their songs echoing far and wide.

I look forward to sharing the full story of Kairao with you later in this Substack.

Now, as we navigate a third wave—the so-called psychedelic renaissance—I find myself asking difficult questions. Is this movement of Western seekers and expanding consciousness another wave of extraction and harm? Or can it become something different—a wave of healing, rooted in sustainability and reciprocity?

The early signs, I must admit, are not encouraging. In just the past few decades, 80% of the natural stock of Ayahuasca vines in the Amazon has been depleted, harvested to meet the growing global demand. Once abundant, these sacred plants are disappearing from their native lands, where they hold not just medicinal power but deep spiritual significance. For the Indigenous peoples of the Amazon, Ayahuasca is not merely a plant; it is a bridge between worlds, a teacher, a healer, and a guide.

Reflecting on these waves of destruction, I find myself returning to the teachings I’ve received. Wisdom carries a responsibility. Madre Ayahuasca, in her many forms and whispers, teaches us love, respect, and gratitude—but are we living those teachings? Is the story we’re writing together in this moment one of deep reverence and care, or is it yet another chapter in the long history of taking more than we give?

These reflections have given me pause. They challenge me to approach my work, my writing, and my own connection with the medicine with greater humility and responsibility. They remind me that this path is not one of ease or escape but one that requires massive commitment, respect, and a willingness to listen deeply. And they inspire me to seek a way forward that is harmonious, sustainable, and in service to life—not just for myself but for the generations to come.

To those who have supported me through this pause—especially my paid subscribers—I owe my heartfelt gratitude. Your patience and encouragement have kept this project alive. I’m committed to publish the remaining chapters of the book in the coming weeks, not as a promotion of Ayahuasca or dietas, but as a reflection of a path walked with love, respect, and gratitude.

The story continues, and I look forward to sharing it with you. Together, let’s dream of a wave of healing—a story written with humility, wisdom, and commitment to the sacred.

With love and respect,
Dennis

With just a few days left of preparation before the dieta, Luis decided it was time to give me my Yawanawá name. Most people of the tribe have two names: a Portuguese name and a name in their native language, Yawanawá. To feel into my name, Luis went on a long walk one evening, and when he returned, he sat down on the floor in his living room. We all gathered around him, and there in the shimmer of a few candles I received my Yawanawá name: Vāta Txanu.

That night, Luis told us a story of how the medicines were birthed into life (the story of Puyeihuninhu that I told in a precious Musing), and in that story there appeared Vāta Txanu (pronounced vah-tah-cha-new). Luis was a master storyteller. Whenever he began, people would gather around to listen to his ancient stories of their traditions, their culture. It was always a very special moment. Looking me deeply in the eyes, Luis told me that Vāta Txanu was the name he was giving me.

After Luis told his story, many people in the village congratulated me on my new name, speaking of their honour for the name. That sense of honour was something I saw many times among the Yawanawá. They often celebrated each other, speaking of the virtues of a person, honouring each other’s strengths, speaking about the good things they had done, remembering beautiful moments that had happened with them, really putting into words the good qualities of one another. That expression of gratitude was a special thing to witness, and that night, in particular, was very special for me as I received those words from the people.

A week after our return from Tarauacá, it was time to move to the jungle house. That morning, as always, I bathed in the river. It had taken me a while to feel comfortable with bathing since I thought that the river was full of water snakes, sting rays, and piranhas. The children were always in the water, playing and swimming. Everyone in the village assured me it was completely safe to swim and bathe there. On this particular morning, the water levels were extremely high from the intense rainfall in recent days. The water had come right up to the edge of Luis’s house—at least three meters higher than when I first arrived in the village.

That morning, I stood in the water near Edi’s wife, who was washing clothes. A layer of fog hung over the water and surrounded the trees on the shore; the sunlight shone through the fog. It was just magical to witness the beauty of the jungle. All at once, I heard a sound I had not heard before. I looked around but could not determine the source. Edi’s wife pointed calmly to something in the water. I turned my head and I caught a glimpse of a fin. Could that be right? I looked again and then I saw them clearly: dolphins! Two Amazonian river dolphins were playfully swimming just in front of me. I had never seen dolphins in the wild. I had heard that dolphins are seen as signs of good luck and protection. Seeing them swim put a huge smile on my face, and I jumped and yelped like a boy. The people who saw me all laughed and shared in my joy. I learned later that it is very rare to see river dolphins in the Rio Gregório, as the water levels are normally too shallow. I perceived those two dolphins as a very good sign for our dieta to start, full of protection and confirmation that all was happening in divine timing.

A short while later, we moved into the jungle. While I unpacked my things, Edi and Muca made a provisional kitchen in front of the house. In just an hour they erected a small structure using sticks, some vines, and a few palm leaves. I cheered them on and felt it was a blessing to have those two in the dieta.

When we were all set and comfortable, the sun started to set. We put our hammocks on the porch. I encircled mine with a mosquito net that made me feel like I was in a palace. I have always loved hammocks. That night, we held our first ceremony and drank the Santo Daime for the first time.

While we were putting our hammocks up, I heard some noises coming from the jungle, listening more closely they sounded like footsteps. I looked down the path and saw a flashlight appearing in the darkness of the trees. I was confused. Hadn’t we agreed that there wouldn’t be any more people? In a heartbeat, my doubts from a few days back had returned.

One of the people approaching was Maku, a young man from the village. He emerged from the dark with the flashlight and a guitar, wearing a crown of white feathers. He looked magical. “Pajé original,” Luis said, meaning “original shaman.” The other boy was Maku’s visiting cousin Mana, who was in the village for fifteen days to take flower baths that would help him become a better hunter.

The jungle was full of surprises! I didn’t really know what to do. If I voiced my concern that we had a clear agreement about this, the positive vibes of the moment would evaporate. It felt really special to have a first ceremony happen since arriving in the jungle. So I just let it all happen.

Most of the people in Sete Estrellas hadn’t drank Medicine for a while. In the 60’s the New Tribes Mission of Brazil (MTB) came to try to ‘evangelise’ the Yawanawá community and introduce new Western customs. The missionaries basically forbade the tribe to use their traditional Medicines, speak their language, drink Uni and be in their ceremonies. During this time, most Yawanawá lost the connection with their spirituality; only a few held that sacred wisdom alive. In 1983 the Yawanawá agreed with the missionaries for them to leave their territory. Soon after that, the ancestral land of the Yawanawá community was legally marked out by the Brazilian government; an area of 92,860 hectares. At that time the dieta of Muká hadn’t happened for a good few decades. In 2008 more land was added and marked as part of the Yawanawá Indigenous territory.

Somewhere around the turn of the Millennia, 3 young men of the tribe entered the dieta of Muká: Bira Yawanawá, Matsini Yawanawá and Tio Nani. That dieta of Muká was a very important moment; it might have been the start of the rebirth of the Yawanawá culture.

Since then the spirituality had slowly begun to come back, especially in the villages of Nova Esperanza and Mutum. In some of the other villages, like Sete Estrellas, it hadn’t fully come back yet, and moments of people drinking Uni were rare. In Sete Estrellas, people hadn’t drank Medicine for a long time when I arrived. So when we sat down to start our ceremony, it felt natural to all that I would be leading this ceremony. Luis didn’t drink Medicine, but he was present, always watching me. After saying the opening words of the ceremony, I served the medicine to the others. We sat in our hammocks, which were hanging close to each other. It felt cosy on that porch with Edi, Muca, Maku, and Mana around. Luis sat at a distance, between two trees, balancing in his hammock. I had no idea how this ceremony would unfold. In the ceremonies I had participated in or led, there was always a “noble silence,” which means there is no speaking, no talking, no sharing. I wondered whether it would be the same here. But from the moment the ceremony began, silence was off the table. We laughed, talked, and sang. Everyone spoke about each other, honouring each other: “There is Muca, the great warrior. Such a strong man, such a radiant soul, on the edge of eating the plant that carries the same name: Muka. He is going to be a strong pajé, a strong leader of his village. Later he will have many wives and many children to celebrate his life.” And after that, we all said a big long “IIIIHUUUUUUUUUUUU.”

Like this, we continued for everyone. Hearing all those words made me feel so good. I was drinking medicine with the Yawanawá in Sete Estrellas. It felt magical, it felt sacred, it felt right. What a journey it had already been to get here, and this was just the beginning! This way of speaking I encountered many times in the tribe since. I find it really special to hear so much acknowledgement being spoken from one person to another.

In the ceremony, they also told stories: ancient stories, stories about the plants, stories about the animals, and stories about the medicines they were using. After an hour or so I started to sing. I took my guitar and sang from the heart:

From deep within the mother Gaia

And reaching out, to the father Sun

I am so grateful for this life

And to be serving

The will of the One

Om Hari Om

When I sang these words, tears of gratitude and grace ran down my cheeks. The words resonated so strongly with me. Songs were guiding me all the time—singing was my prayer.

After every song we would all shout together, expressing our joy and elation:

IIIIIIIHUUUUUUUU!

I couldn’t stop laughing during that ceremony. I was rolling in my hammock, laughing it all out. So many things were coming up for me, so many situations and conversations that had happened in the past, the ended relationship with my girlfriend, the hardship of leaving the orchestra world, challenges that had happened in the centre in Peru, all the judgements of people about my path with the medicine: I just laughed them out. I wasn’t laughing at them. I was just seeing the bigger picture, seeing how we all can get caught up in our own little worlds. The previous months of my life, which had been quite challenging, were all coming out of me in deep laughter. It felt so amazing to release all those things lying in the hammock, deep in the jungle.

After that first ceremony, in the middle of the night, Luis came to me and said, “Vāta Txanu, you know Uni.” Uni is what they call Ayahuasca in their native language. You know the medicine and how to work with it. You have a strong connection with her. From now on, you will lead all the ceremonies with Uni when you are here. You have the spirit of Ayahuasca inside of you. She speaks through you, she sings through you, she lives through you. I honour you for the work that you do with her. Thank you for coming to us.”

The three others were standing around me when this happened, and they looked at me with admiration and hugged me. “You are a strong warrior,” they said. “When Luis says something like this, it is true. You have the spirit of her inside.” As they said these words, they each raised a fist in the air and shouted, “Strong warrior!”

IIIIIIIHUUUUUUUU!

That first night was just amazing, full of joy, sacredness, and so much laughter. It was a beautiful start to our time in the jungle together. If the next three months are going to be like this, I thought, then it is going to be beyond my imagination…

The next day, we woke up in our hammocks after just a couple of hours of light sleep. Louisa made us some breakfast, and we bathed in the tiny stream close to our house. This would be a special morning: we would go look for the Muka plant to open our dieta.

Muca and Edi took some rapé, and then we walked into the jungle. We were looking for a very small plant, one virtually unknown to the Western world. It has no Latin name yet; it has been kept sacred and secret for a long time. I had no idea what to look for, so I just walked along, hoping that one of the others would find it. Everyone was looking with full attention.

We walked for hours, but we didn’t find any Muka. I got a bit impatient, and the Indians could feel my tension. After about four hours, Luis announced that we would stop the search. The next day we would continue in a different part of the jungle. A wave of disappointment hit me when he spoke those words. We could all feel the tension and disappointment. That night we didn’t speak much, ate our food and sat around on the porch of the jungle house.

That evening we had rapé, the fine powder made from tobacco and the bark of a tree they call “txūnu.” The first time I had taken rapé was on the porch of Luis’s house, sixteen months earlier. I had puked for at least an hour. During that time, almost the whole village had walked by. Some of them would ask, “Rapé?” Luis would nod, and the people would walk on as if it were completely normal to have a two-meter-tall white Dutch guy puking his guts out on a porch in their village.

I learned that the people of the Amazon have a completely different way of looking at puking than we Westerners. When a person feels sick in the Amazon, someone goes into the jungle and finds a plant to help them with purging. If something bad is inside of the body, it’s good to get it out, I hear some of them say. That night I received rapé for the second time, and although I hadn’t liked it the first time, I was committed to this dieta, and accepted this as being part of it. The rapé hit me hard that second time as well, but at the same time, something interesting happened.

The spirit of rapé spoke to me. It gave me an understanding of what was happening. It focused my mind, stopped the mental noise, and cleaned my body in a way I had not experienced before. The disappointment I felt after not finding the Muka started to disappear, and greater understanding came in. To enter such a strong process as the dieta of Muka, I had to be prepared and patient. How could I enter such a deep journey that would most probably have an effect on the rest of my life, and not be willing to wait for a few days for the right moment to happen? My body and mind relaxed into that understanding. It was a truly humbling moment.

In the next few days, I slowly got used to rapé, which they gave me every day. I threw up after every time they blew the fine powder into my nose, but slowly I grew accustomed to it. The men of the village would take rapé many times a day, even the small boys. I never saw any women take it during my dieta of Muka; at that time, it seemed to be a medicine that belonged to men.

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When the house was finished, we left for Tarauacá on the boat. It felt strange to go back into the world after having just arrived in the jungle. I was impatient to start the dieta and didn't want to leave the jungle and these beautiful people. Sitting on the boat, I did my best to surrender and to remember that it was very important to obtain all the supplies for the dieta.

The journey to Tarauacá took a whole day. The day after we arrived, we went to a supermarket and bought a mountain of food: a hundred kilograms of rice, a hundred kilograms of beans, eighty kilograms of spaghetti, bags full of corn to make popcorn, soap to wash our clothes, and soap to wash the dishes. We bought plates, cutlery, cups, dried crackers, butter, ropes for our hammocks, mosquito nets, hammocks, lighters, and diesel to use for the lanterns we bought. We bought two-hundred litres of mineral water to prepare the caiçuma. We bought warm, fuzzy, cosy jungle blankets with a jaguar pattern. We laughed when we bought them, saying we would connect with the force of the jaguar when sleeping under those blankets! We bought two-hundred litres of gasoline so that we could go on jungle expeditions during our dieta. I bought a mattress after learning that sleeping in a hammock was quite a challenge, especially since I am so tall. I wrote some final emails in a dodgy internet cafe, spoke a last time with my parents, and ate as much food as I could. I knew that food would be scarce in the next few months. I enjoyed some sweets and my last pieces of fruit and my last sips of pure mineral water for a while.

The next day we were on the boat again, going deeper and deeper into the jungle. It had rained heavily in the days prior, and the river’s water level had risen several meters. We saw that some villages were underwater and some houses had been swept away. Luis said he had never seen the water so high in his life.

When the sun went down, I was sitting at the helm of the boat with my flashlight, illuminating the way. We could only see a tiny bit of shimmer on the water, and the river was full of death. Fallen trees were everywhere. Sometimes massive branches would stick out of the water. The driver didn’t navigate the boat any more slowly when it was dark, and sometimes we would miss a tree just by inches. I held my breath in those moments, thinking of losing all our precious supplies when the boat would tip.

When we got back to the village, it was pitch dark. It had been quite a journey. The young guys from the village came to help unload all the stuff, and we piled it up next to my hammock in Luis’s living room. I went to help the boys, climbed back in the boat, and put a big, twenty-litre bottle of water on my shoulders. I picked up the big bottle off the floor of the boat, and as I stood up, I lost my balance. The boat started to move, and after a few wobbly seconds, I landed on my back in the river, the huge bottle breaking on the side of the boat.

It took me a few moments to realize what had happened; then lying in the cool water, I had to laugh at myself. I climbed out of the river and walked to Luis’s house. Almost the whole village was there, and they looked at me standing there soaking wet. I explained with gestures what had happened. It took a while for them to understand, but when they did, the whole house erupted in laughter. For the next few days, people kept teasing me, miming me falling off the boat.

This was all preparation for a journey that I could not yet completely grasp. I had gotten a glimpse of it in my last ceremonies in Peru. I had seen the vastness of the universe and felt the power of that force. In those nights I had connected with the spirit of Muka, and he told me that he was going to take me out of this dream that we call the universe, into a much grander reality. That ceremony had been profound. It had been my last journey in Peru before going into the jungle. Seeing a glimpse of the vastness of the universe had been a very humbling experience.

I learned that this was a big moment for Sete Estrellas, the village of Luis: I was the first foreigner that had come to stay in their community. Sete Estrellas was only the third Yawanawá village in the history of the tribe, that had welcomed a foreigner to do dieta. Mutum, the village I had visited first during the Mariri Festival was one. The other was called Nova Esperanza. Sete Estrellas had not received people to do dieta yet, and we all felt that sacredness and responsibility. Muka is the most sacred plant of the Yawanawá. In their history, only select people have eaten the root of this plant. The dieta of Muka is a rite of passage, an initiation into their spirituality. Muka is taken by men who are on the path of becoming a warrior, a leader, or a healer.

So there I was, preparing for this experience, and at the same time, helping to create a space where people could come learn from the Yawanawá in a beautiful, sacred way. Mutum and Nova Esperanza had blossomed from the foreigners who came. The people in Sete Estrellas had seen that growth in those other communities and were grateful for my presence, hoping this would be the start of a new chapter in their village. Since the first time I visited Sete Estrellas sixteen months before, no other foreigners had come. Hopefully more would follow, as Luis hoped. If more Westerners came for dietas and spiritual knowledge, money would enter the community, along with all the benefits money brought.

I should clarify that the tribe is (and was at the time of my visits) partly Westernized, in the sense that they have a few modern conveniences, rudimentary schools, and other marks of civilization. They all wear Western clothing (mostly jeans and tee shirts) except during their festivals when they wear tribal dress. They have generators to light their homes at night, aluminium boats, and diesel and gasoline. Some have wristwatches, which are a mark of status.

A few chickens can be seen running through the village. Cows are very rare and are regarded as a sign of great wealth. Each family has a field where they cultivate corn, bananas and yuca. The men make the fields, build the houses, hunt, fish, and do communal projects when they are needed, such as keeping the grass low so there is less danger of venomous snakes. It is hard work to live in the jungle. All these things combined make for full days of work. 

The women work hard, too—harvesting from the fields, preparing the food, taking care of the children and elders, keeping the house organized, washing clothes, and doing dishes. The women make bracelets, necklaces, and other artwork that they use or sell. They also help to plant the fields (the men prepare the area in the jungle and clean it, while the woman plant the crops). The woman are very strong physically with all the work they do. 

The tribe was illiterate until the missionaries came and built little schools in every village—imagine just a jungle hut with some rooms. Some of the women in the tribe teach there, and some of them receive a salary from the government of Brazil for that work. But the schools are not so regular. When a field has to be made, everyone is helping, including the children. So then there is no school. 

The children are taught to read and write, mainly Portuguese. All the children are literate, as are most of their parents. Most of the elders are illiterate. 

I felt so grateful to be learning from the Yawanawá—to enter this space of learning, at the original source of the knowledge of the plants. The indigenous people had been passing on this knowledge for thousands of years, from grandparents to grandchildren. Here I was in the middle of an ancient Amazonian tribe, starting my study.

During those early days in the village, while we were building the jungle house, there was a twelve-year-old boy named Qwatsi who was with me almost all the time. Qwatsi and I had a very close connection. We had so much fun together. He was one of those helping to build my house. His mother, the daughter of Luis and Louisa, had left him at her parents’ house when he was three days old, and Qwatsi hadn’t seen his mother since. He had grown into a beautiful, strong boy, full of love and laughter.

One day I was watching the men building my house, with several young boys working alongside them. Sitting on a fallen tree next to the house, I saw Qwatsi coming out of the forest. He was carrying three large trees on his shoulders. He threw the trees on a pile next to the unfinished house. I stood and tried to lift one of the trees myself, to no avail. I am of a slender build and don’t have a lot muscles. Humbly, I sat down again. Qwatsi laughed loudly, on seeing this. I jumped up to run and try to catch him, but he was too quick and disappeared back into the forest, looking for more trees. There was so much fun and laughter happening all the time.

When I sat down on the fallen tree again, I started to wonder if it was right for a young boy to be building a house, carrying big trees on his shoulders. At the exact moment I was thinking that, a father of one of the other boys came to stand next to me. “Look at these boys,” he said. “They are working, carrying the trees, building the house. They are learning now which trees are good to use to build houses. Not all trees in the forest can be used for construction. Here they learn how to use those trees to build a good house. The only way to learn this kind of thing is to do it; this is their classroom. By working, they are supporting and strengthening their bodies so that they can become strong men. In the jungle, you need to be a strong man; otherwise, it will be difficult to live here. When they grow older and marry, they have to take care of their wife and children. They need to know which trees to cut for the poles, which palm leaves to use for the roof, and how to construct the house from the ground up. Nobody will build a house for them later on, so it is important for them to learn how to do that from a young age.” He had answered my question; I hadn’t even needed to ask it.

Soon I found out that the entire Yawanawá tribe knew about my arrival. They had heard that I was in Sete Estrellas preparing to enter the dieta, and several Indians wanted to join in that. It was very rare for a Muka dieta to happen, and Luis had never led one before. He had never even taken Muka himself. We had many conversations around this. I was learning more Portuguese and learning more and more about the tribe. I learned that the village was actually led by Edi, one of Luis’s sons. The first time I spoke to him, we had a nice conversation. He was a few years younger than me, and he already had five children. People in the tribe seemed to marry early and have children at a young age. Edi was very excited about all that was happening, and he wanted to join me in the dieta. One of his best friends from a neighboring village also wanted to join. His name was Muca, almost the same name as the Muka plant.

I learned that Edi and Muca had nothing to support themselves, which meant they would be eating my food and living in my house. This created a bit of a challenge inside of me. On the one hand, I felt that the first intention had been to be only with Luis and Louisa in the jungle for three months, without anyone else around. That appealed to me very much, because it would keep the dieta very pure, and I could feel the depth of that situation. Tuning into two more people entering the dieta gave me quite a few doubts. It could go really well, and it might become a very special unfolding to do the dieta together with two young Yawanawá men. But it could also shift the dieta in a different direction.

With more people around, there would be less silence. Where would they sleep? Would that mean Luis would be less available for me? What would happen with the food and supplies that we bought? Would they be enough? We had bought food thinking of only me doing the dieta. So that would probably mean we would need more food at some point. Would I have enough money for that? Did I want to spend money on that? Did that mean we had to go to Tarauacá in the middle of the dieta? Weren’t we supposed to stay in the jungle for the whole time?

I sat with those doubts for a day. During that time I learned that even more people wanted to join the dieta. When I expressed my concern to Edi, he voiced very clearly that he and Muca were there to protect me and the dieta. No more people would enter the dieta. That conversation gave me confidence, and I relaxed into the situation. It would be difficult for me to say no to them, so I decided to let the two men join the dieta. These two men were showing up for a reason. I needed to trust in all that was happening.

Later I found out there had actually been some fights over who would get to join the dieta. Muca had been in a quarrel with three other men before earning his spot. I learned that for the family of Edi and Muca, these three months would be very difficult. The men would not be there to hunt and fish for their wives and children, and also the men had to be celibate for the whole period of the dieta.

A few days later Muca and his parents showed up for the first time in Sete Estrellas. He was a strong, short man who didn’t speak so much. I liked him from the first moment he stepped out of his boat and walked up the shore and into Luis’s house. We had some long conversations about all that was happening, and I shared a bit of my feelings about having people join the dieta. Muca and Edi were very understanding. They assured me that they would protect and help me and that they would be there for me in any way they could. They had already made sure that no one else would join. They had told everybody that there was not enough food or space to sleep. I felt so relieved, supported, loved, and protected by these men. We would be the first three warriors of Muka in Sete Estrellas!

It was interesting to see that Muca’s, who stayed a few days in Sete Estrellas, was always accompanied by a young lady who must have been around fifteen years old. In the beginning I assumed she was the younger sister of Muca. Later I learned she was the second wife of Muca’s father. I had come into the jungle with the commitment to learn and observe, and not to have any judgements or to try to change things in the tribe. And as much as some things didn’t align with the way I thought about the world, having multiple wives seemed to acceptable in the tribe. Jungle life was different for sure from anything I had seen before.

In those days of preparation for the dieta, I lived in Luis and Louisa’s house, sleeping in the middle of the living room. We were together all the time. We ate every meal together, and I gained an appreciation for how they treated their food. The men would go into the jungle with their guns to hunt. The Yawanawá are hunters; they hunt their food. But they also use the word “hunt” for many other things. When they found out I was unmarried, they suggested we go and hunt for a woman. Lots of laughter accompanied that conversation. We would soon go out and hunt for Muka in the jungle. Hunting was a practice of survival and respect. When they asked if I hunted, I didn’t know what to say. I had never thought of myself as a hunter. But I thought about it, and after some consideration, I told them I was a hunter of visions. They smiled at me—they had never met a hunter of visions before.

Whenever hunters returned from the jungle, the whole village would gather to see if they had caught something. It was a simple life. If someone had caught something, there was food; if there was no catch, there was no food. They lived off meat, fish, dried crackers, and coffee. I saw hardly any vegetables or fruit.

After the men returned from the hunt, the women and children would take over. In Louisa’s outdoor kitchen, the game was laid down. Sometimes the children would play with a turtle or a tatu, a small armadillo, for a few days before it met its fate. Bigger animals that arrived in the village already dead would be prepared immediately.

One afternoon two men returned from the jungle with two black spider monkeys. I had never seen dead monkeys before, and felt quite shocked at seeing them. Louisa put on a big pot of water to boil. She dipped the carcases in the boiling water for a few minutes, then threw them back on the kitchen floor. It all happened without much ritual. The children and the women sat around the bodies and plucked the monkeys’ fur until they were completely bald. The boiling water had loosened the fur. I sat right next to one of the monkeys, and I had to hold myself back from being judgmental. They just had killed these beautiful animals!

After all the fur was removed, they chopped carcases into pieces, and everyone received a piece to take home for dinner. Some pieces ended up grilled over the fire; others ended up in a pot as part of a soup. Every family received some meat of those animals. It was a feast when a few animals arrived after a hunting trip. The whole village had food, and everybody was happy. Bones were used to make applicators for the rapé; all usable parts were salvaged, and little was thrown away.

In those days I learned that the food cycle in the jungle was so pure, so direct. The source was the tribe’s immediate environment. They hunted the animals with a lot of respect, according to the needs of the community. Many people from the community were involved in the preparation of the animal, and children learned from a young age what it took to eat and survive. They knew exactly what they were eating. Though I was a vegetarian at that time, seeing the direct connection the Yawanawá had with their food, I decided to eat with them. In the days before the dieta, I ate monkeys, turtles, lizards, tatus, many different kinds of fish, and eggs from several different kinds of birds. It felt so good to be able to eat everything in the days before my dieta started. I ate as much as I could—and enjoyed all of it.

Seeing the direct connection the Indians had with their food, I couldn’t help but reflect on the relationship we in the West have with food. I remembered a story my father once told me. He was the director of a school in the Netherlands, and one day they started talking about meat in their discussion of food. My father asked, “Where does meat come from?” A boy raised his hand and confidently answered, “Meat comes from a factory.” He explained a whole process that was happening in that factory, ending with the meat coming out of a machine ready to go into the supermarkets. The discussion continued, and my father asked the boy, “Doesn’t meat come from animals?” The boy was very clear: meat had nothing to do with animals but instead came from factories, where it was produced for us.

When I heard that story for the first time, I felt upset, but I was not surprised. In the Western world, we are often so disconnected from the food we eat. Most people have no clue where the food on their plates comes from, when and how it was killed or harvested, what hands have touched it, what chemicals have been added, or how far it has traveled to arrive on their plates. Seeing those monkeys being prepared by the Yawanawá, highlighted how much we in the West are losing our connection with the food we eat. I felt so grateful for what I was going to eat that night.

But in spite of admiring the simplicity of the relationship the tribe had with their food, I felt bad for them. They often knew true hunger. My purchases from Tarauacá were stacked right next to my hammock in Luis’s living room. I had a hard time being in that house with a mountain of food in boxes next to me. Part of me felt like sharing; another side of me knew that if I shared generously, all the food would be gone in a couple of weeks or less. And getting more food entailed a whole expedition of several days and would cost a good chunk of money. It was challenging to be in that position. I was learning that being in a completely different culture—in a different part of the world with people with different customs and habits—was not always easy.

I arrived back in Amsterdam with clarity, confidence, and trust. I decided that I would move to Peru the following summer, and to play in the orchestra until then. In the time in between I would concentrate on two things: spending time with the people I loved and preparing for the opening of the centre.

I stayed in a place of trust and committed to a daily practice of yoga and meditation. I built a website for the centre, designed the programs that would take place there, and looked for people who could come and work there. All while I continued to play in the orchestra.

In May 2013 I flew to the Sacred Valley to find a suitable location for the centre. Looking around in the area of Pisac, I found a beautiful, yellow house surrounded by stunning mountains. It looked very similar to the one I had seen in my Brazil visions the summer before. Seeing the house I had to laugh. I found the owner and made a rental contract for a year starting in August. Heading back home, I spent as much time with family and friends as I could. I knew I was going to be far away from them soon enough.

In July I left Amsterdam for good and moved to the Sacred Valley of Peru. After unpacking all of my things, I took a long bus ride to Rio Branco in Brazil. There I went to visit a Santo Daime community and picked up the medicine that I would use in the centre. Arriving in Rio Branco I could feel the last year's weight in my body. I felt a bit tired and weak, this time not from insecurity or fear, but from working so hard the previous months.

I realized I couldn’t open a centre for healing when I was exhausted. How could I be of service to people when I was not feeling well myself? I decided to take a break and travel a bit through Brazil before heading back to Peru. That was when I shocked myself by coming upon the road sign: CRUZEIRO DO SUL – 650 KM—the sign that started my incredible journey into the land of the Yawanawá. Meeting the tribe, and Luis in particular, provided the energy and guidance I needed for opening the healing centre in Peru. I returned to Peru after promising Luis I’d be back to the rainforest in three months for the dieta.

In Peru, I worked long days to get everything in place. A team of people gathered, and in six weeks all was ready. In the garden of the centre, I set up a tipi, which was going to be our temple. In full synchronicity, everything unfolded that I had foreseen. Soon I was leading one, sometimes two, ceremonies a week. Time flew by, and before I knew it, a year had passed.

The summer arrived, and I closed the centre for a couple of weeks. We had worked very hard that first year, and we all needed a break. I also learned that I was looking for a deepening of my study of healing, being on the lead of a healing centre. It hadn’t been the easiest year. I chose to attend a ten-day Vipassana Meditation retreat not far from the centre. In a Vipassana retreat, you meditate for ten hours in silence each day. During those days I had very deep periods of meditation. In one of them, I received a clear vision of the Yawanawá sitting in a circle. I was sitting among them, right next to Luis.

“Dennis, you are telling the story of our meeting so beautifully,” Luis said, “but this is not just a story to tell. This is a story to be lived. Whenever you are ready to start your study, you have to commit to it and make it happen. You have to come one day.” In the vision, he looked calmly into my eyes. Listening to those words again, I felt the call deeply. I had to make a choice between my commitment to the centre and my commitment to enter a three-month dieta. It was a difficult decision, as I knew that the centre would not do well with me being gone and out of communication for all that time. Yet I felt that I still had so much to learn, and the dieta would be important for my development and growth.

I felt that my ceremonies and healing work would deepen from the dieta, yet I felt opposing pulls between my commitment to the centre and my commitment to my personal growth. What would happen to the centre if I left? What would happen with the team and the people in the programs? Many questions arose in feeling that inner conflict.

That vision had happened on the eighth day of the meditation retreat. I held that vision and decided to make a decision on the last day, before going back to the center. During my last meditations, I came to see that I indeed had to go back to the rainforest. The medicine and my visions had always guided me on my path, and when I followed them, beautiful things unfolded. I had to trust this vision of going back to the Yawanawá as well, and the vision had not appeared just once—it had come several times. I couldn’t disregard a vision that kept coming back; it seemed too important. I felt a surrendering happen around my commitment toward the centre. If the centre was meant to continue, the dieta would strengthen it; if the centre was meant to transform into something else, the dieta would show the direction of that transformation. I had to go back to Brazil to be with Luis and the Yawanawá and to start the dieta of Muka. When that realization came, I bowed my head and took a deep breath. I could feel that a powerful time was coming, but I had no idea what was in store.

Coming out of the mediation retreat, I communicated my decision to my team and started to prepare for my departure. The team reacted with a mixture of excitement and insecurity, but my decision was firm. We had long meetings where we divided responsibilities, and in two months I was ready to leave and make my way to Brazil.

In October, I departed Peru, enjoying the stunning view as the bus wove its way through different landscapes and climate zones. As I rode, I felt the responsibilities of the last year and a half lifting off my shoulders. I built the healing centre with so much dedication, time, and energy. Now I was leaving it behind, not knowing what would happen to it while I was gone. It might be blooming and blossoming upon my return, or it might have crumbled. It had not been easy to leave behind. I decided I would have peace with whatever unfolded there. There was nothing anymore that I could do anyway; there would be no more emails, no phone calls, no decisions, no responsibilities. Slowly I started to feel freedom again. I slept most of the journey. 

Once I arrived in Brazil, I sought out the Santo Daime in Rio Branco. I spent some days with them before I continued my journey on to the Yawanawá. In the weeks before, I had written Tashka, one of the Yawanawá leaders, to let him know that I planned to visit the village. I didn’t receive any response, and after about ten messages, I gave up. I felt some insecurity about this. I had left the centre, freed up my time, and travelled all the way for something I wasn’t even sure was happening. I prayed I hadn’t made the wrong decision to come here. Would Luis still feel our connection? Would he know I was coming? Would he remember me? Would he even still be alive?

I took a car and arrived late at night at the same small harbour village where I had been dropped off fifteen months earlier. This was the place where I had frantically waved my arms at that bunch of strangers of a boat, a boat that magically took me to the Yawanawá territory and Luis. On this second journey to the tribe, I slept in a hammock at the gas station, right on the water. I asked the gas station owner if he knew if Luis was coming. He answered that Luis would be there early in the morning.

When morning came, I sat a long time waiting for Luis, but he didn’t come. I started to grow annoyed, and my doubting mind started to kick in. What was I doing here? Did I really expect all of this to happen just because I had a vision of it happening? What the hell was I doing here in the jungle, leaving my responsibilities in Peru behind? All those thoughts made me ridiculously impatient. I had forgotten how things work on “jungle time”: unexpected things come up, and travel takes a long time.

After a few hours of waiting, I couldn’t sit any longer and went out to find the owner of the gas station again. I asked him where Luis was and when he would be arriving. He looked at me with surprise. “Didn’t you tell me that Luis was coming in the early morning when I asked you yesterday?” I asked in my almost non-existent Portuguese.

When he understood my question, he started to laugh. “I didn’t say that Luis was coming in the early morning,” he managed to say between laughs. “I said that ‘luz’ would be arriving in the early morning.” It took me a while to grasp what he was saying. Then it sunk in. He had said that “light” would be arriving in the morning, with the rising of the sun. He hadn’t even been talking about Luis. In fact, he had no idea who Luis was. I joined in his laughter when I understood what had happened.

I decided to take action and not let my insecurities around the situation get the upper hand. In less than an hour, I was on a private boat, travelling up the river toward Sete Estrellas. The journey, which last time had felt peaceful, felt far too long this time. I was anxious to see my spiritual family. How would they be? Would they be expecting me? Would they even be there? Many questions raced through my mind, and it was difficult to truly appreciate the stunning nature around me. Still, after a few hours, the ride soothed me a bit. And when I started to pay more attention to the surroundings, I could see how beautiful it was to be back on the water again, surrounded by all the trees and plants. The sun was shining; the sky was blue. Here I was again, back in the Amazon. The boat was moving slowly over the water, the noisy engine buzzing along. The river was between three and six meters wide, depending on where we were. Like the body of a huge snake, it curved, curling its way into the forest. The water was brown and shallow. If you stood, your knees would still be above the water level most of the time.

After a six-hour ride, we finally arrived. I jumped out of the boat, full of excitement, onto the shore, and ran to Luis’s house. One of his sons saw me and ran toward me, shouting, “Denni!”

I gave him a big hug and immediately asked where Luis was. My heart was pounding. I felt so many things at that moment, a mix of impatience, excitement, insecurity, and more. Indians gathered around me, and everyone was talking to each other. It was difficult to understand what they were saying, but in a few minutes, I learned that Luis was not there. Had I made this long journey in vain?

Luckily some men got my suitcase and guitar from the boat and guided me to Luis’s house. Louisa came and gave me a big hug, took my hand, and planted me on the only chair in the village. She walked to the stove and poured me a cup of coffee with lots of sugar. It felt so great to see her again. She took my face in her hands and looked at me with her big, toothless smile.

My mind was going in every direction. Many people were speaking at once, and I was trying to piece the story together. My Portuguese was still very limited at that time. Not knowing what to do next, and not wanting to keep sitting there on that chair, I decided to open my suitcase and hand out some gifts I had brought for the tribe—kitchen utensils, watches, and Peruvian bracelets and necklaces. It was a good way to distract myself from my concern and disappointment at not seeing Luis.

When I was almost finished giving out the gifts, people started to shout. There he was! My heart skipped a beat. Luis was walking up from the river. I ran outside and gave him a big hug. A wave of gratitude poured over me. I had no words to speak. I took off my necklace with a precious crystal that I had been wearing for years and hung it over his neck.

We went inside and sat across from each other in his kitchen, the whole village surrounding us. We looked at each other for a couple of minutes, and nobody spoke a word. “I have been waiting for you since our last meeting,” he finally said. “I started to wonder if you would come back.” He looked at me with his sparkling eyes. “God kept telling me you would be back, so I just waited, and here you are.”

“I am so grateful to be here, Luis,” I answered. “It has taken quite some time for me to get back here, so I am sorry for the delay. I very much look forward to this time, and feel so grateful for our connection, for our meeting, for this land, and for the opportunity to learn.”

He explained that Tashka, the man I had emailed countless times, had told him I was arriving on the 8th. He had gone down to the small harbour village and waited for me at the harbour on the 8th and the 9th. “You didn’t arrive there, so I came back, to wait for you here.” It did me so much good to hear those words. I took a deep breath and felt my body relax into the situation. I had indeed written that I would arrive in the harbour on the 8th, but the last days in the centre had been hectic, resulting in me leaving two days later than planned. As I hadn’t received any response from Tashka to my previous emails, I hadn’t sent him another one explaining that I would be arriving late. It felt good to hear that Luis had been waiting for me.

“In the next few days we will go into the jungle and do the dieta with Muka,” Luis said. “We will be in a very special and sacred place. That is where you take the Muka.” Hearing those words I relaxed even more. The last months had been quite difficult and tense. I had made a decision to leave the centre and to come to the jungle, not knowing if Luis would be there and if it would be possible for me to start the dieta. And here I was, it was all unfolding. I closed my eyes for a moment to let that fact sink in.

There was absolute silence in the room. “Wow,” I answered. “I am so happy to hear this. When can we go and see the place?”

He looked at me with a mysterious smile. “We can’t go there yet,” he said. “The place doesn’t exist.”

I was confused. There was a huge language barrier between us, so I was not sure if I understood what he had said. Immediately my feelings of insecurity returned. What was happening? “So what does that mean?” I said. “Are we going to do the dieta or are we not going to do the dieta?”

Luis started to laugh. “Don’t worry. The dieta is going to happen.” Finally, he said, “We are going to clear a pristine piece of jungle, and there, in the middle of the jungle, where no houses have yet been built, we will build a house for you in the ancient tradition. And that will be the place for you to take the root of Muka. You, I and Louisa will stay for three months in total isolation.”

The last few hours had been a rollercoaster of emotions. It had been such an act of faith to come back to the jungle and to fully trust the messages I had received in my visions. To now sit in the middle of the jungle, on the only chair in the village, with a bunch of Indians standing around me, hearing that it would all happen in ways I couldn’t have even imagined, was profound. It was more than I could have ever wished for. I shook my head, stood up, and hugged Luis.

A cry went up from some of the men in the room:

JIIIIIIIIHUUUUUUUU!

I learned that this was a shout Yawanawá love to make when they are excited about something.

We ate dinner together, sitting on the floor of the living room. The energy felt alive and vibrant. After a while I took out my guitar and started to sing. The whole village was cramped inside that little house. I was so happy. The room was full of joy.

Later, I took out my shruti, a small harmonium from India. None of the Yawanawá had ever seen one before. I started to play, and the deep and sacred sounds of India poured into the room. I sang the song that had come to me in the last weeks, my song for Muka:

Muka, Muka

Padre de la tierra

Enseñar me, curar me

Trabajo con me, entra me

The song poured out of me, purely and beautifully. Luis watched and nodded. That first night felt so good, it was so special to be back with all those beautiful people. The jungle was singing, the stars were shining.

The next morning, we woke up, bathed in the river, and prepared to go into the jungle with Luis’s son. We had a breakfast full of laughter, full of love. I was feeling so grateful to be back in the presence of my jungle family. I trusted that whatever was in store would be beautiful and perfect.

We headed out into the forest. The path was almost non-existent. We cleared the path with machetes and made our way into a deeper part of the jungle. It felt like a special place, sacred and profound. After an hour of hard work, we arrived at the spot that Luis had talked about the night before. He showed me the exact location where he would build the house for me. I looked around and felt confused. The forest looked so dense, full of plants and trees. Where would we build a house? I had a hard time imagining it happening. My doubting mind came in again: how long would this take?

I decided to stay silent this time and to trust the whole unfolding. A few minutes later, some more men showed up, and together we began to clear the jungle. In just a few hours, we had cleared a big area; it happened at a speed I had not expected. It was amazing to see how much those Indians could do with a few machetes and a whole bunch of muscles—I guessed these guys had done this before. We worked until sunset and then went slowly back to the house of Luis.

In the evening, we all had dinner together. The Indians ate mostly in silence. I asked some questions during the meal, but the responses were very short. Finally one of the children told me: “First we eat, then we speak, okay?” Hearing that, I had to laugh and nodded my head. I guess I was going to learn quite a few things from the children here.

After dinner, Luis took me to his porch overlooking the river and sat down next to me. The stars were shining, and many animals were singing. We sat there for a while in silence. After a while Luis shared more details of the dieta. Muka required no salt, no sugar, and no women, he said. We both laughed at that part. I could eat only simple foods: cooked green bananas and corn. Later in the dieta, rice, dried bread, and beans could be added, but not much else. Sometimes I would be allowed to eat a certain type of little fish. I couldn't drink pure water for three months—instead, only a special drink called caiçuma, which is made of the yucca root, fermented by the mouth of a woman. Later in the dieta, I could also drink lemon water or some sort of tea. I would take the root of Muka, which looks like a small potato, only once. That would be the beginning of my dieta. During the dieta, we would stay in the jungle, away from the village. We would find the Muka in the jungle on the first day of my dieta—fresh is best.

I was to drink Ayahuasca at least every fourth day. Luis told me I had to prepare the medicine myself. With a big smile, I went inside, opened my suitcase and placed a bottle of Santo Daime medicine next to us on the porch. He took the bottle, looked at it, opened it, and smelled the medicine. He nodded, put his right thumb up, and said, “Muito bom!” I started laughing. “You are a quick student,” he said and then joined in the laughter. There was so much joy and connection between us. It all felt so good, all that was unfolding.

He said we would use rapé to supplement the Muka. Rapé is a kind of powder, made from the tobacco plant, that you blow up your nose. I remembered the first time I had taken rapé on Luis’s porch during my first visit. It had been a very strong experience. I didn’t feel a great connection to this medicine yet, but I had committed to this dieta, to Luis, and to Muka, so I would accept every aspect of the process. We would prepare the rapé over the following days.

The dieta would require quite some preparation: making the rapé, building the house, and getting all the supplies. It would take a little while before my dieta could start. And because there are no shops in the jungle, we had to go to the city of Tarauacá to buy all our food and supplies for the next three months—hammocks, candles, mattresses, tools, machetes, plates, cutlery, rice, beans, corn, and many other things. It would be a three-day journey to Tarauacá and back.

Luis also explained an important aspect of his role in the village. Many people counted on him for food and support. People dropped in all the time asking for things, and he and his wife Louisa were generous and kind, always sharing. Louisa reminded me so much of my grandmother, who knew that giving is the true receiving. 

Luis explained that he was building this house for me from his heart, because he believed in me and loved me, and because he believed our stories were coming together into something sacred. He was hoping to build four houses in total in the future, plus a temple space so he could receive more people. He asked if I could help.

He asked whether I could pay the men building the house and also to pay him for opening and leading the dieta. That comment resulted in a long conversation around money. I had come in with a good stack of money in my pocket, so I was prepared for all that was to come. It was interesting to learn that money had not been really part of the village yet. In that conversation, we agreed on a wage for him, for the men who would build the house, and for the women who would cook for us and wash our clothes during the three-month dieta. For the amount of money we agreed on, and an aluminium boat for Luis thrown into the bargain, all else would be included in the dieta. Luis would be fully available and organize all the things that were needed for the dieta to happen in the right way.

The agreement we made felt good. There was not a lot of money in this small community, and they sometimes visited Tarauacá to buy soap, salt, clothes, and other necessities. This was one of the first times that money from outside the village was coming in, and everyone felt happy about that.

We also talked more about the house and the place in the jungle that we were going to build. The plan was to continue to open that spot in the jungle and then to build a traditional house there for my dieta. Only Luis, Louisa, and I would be permitted in that space since a dieta is so sacred. No other people would be allowed to enter. He would communicate all that to the village to assure all would go well. All would be set up so that the dieta would be really sacred, held in the traditional way.

It felt as if we were entering a sacred alliance together. They were creating a sacred experience for me, a place to go deep, to learn, and to receive their most sacred plant Muka. This time was an opportunity for the community to share their vast knowledge—knowledge of the plants and the wisdom of the jungle. My job was to help create a space for that to happen and to make sure that all people involved would be honoured on the way. That evening, I went back to my hammock in Luis’s living room with a lot of gratitude. I felt so blessed.

Early next morning we went back into the jungle to continue our work. When I offered my help sharpening a machete, I immediately cut my finger. Everyone laughed, and someone took the machete from my hand and politely told me to sit down. They were more experienced and could work very fast together. There I was, excited to be in the jungle and wanting to help out, sitting on a fallen tree and watching everyone working hard to build my house. It seemed like patience and surrender was one of the first lessons of the jungle. One day trees were cut; the next day the structure was erected. The house was around five meters high, eight meters long, and four meters wide. We covered the roof with palm leaves. They made the floor from the bark of a tree and created a veranda where we would hang out and play the guitar. These men were masters of the forest: with just machetes, they created a beautiful, complete house in just a few days.

Hi All,

This week I would like to share a part of the Yawanawá creation story ‘Puyeihunihu’—the story of Ruá and the birth of the plants of power. This story is about how, a long time ago when there was yet no death and disease on the Earth, through the great Serpent, the creator came in and brought in the first death, and with that, the plants of power were birthed into being on our planet.

Puyeihuninu is a part of the Creation Stories of the Yawanawá, and, as I shared before, there are some instructions that are offered regarding how to listen, and how to attend, to the sharing of this story:

• So that you can fully receive this story, choose to listen at a time when you can be fully present.

• Mark the moment that you are going to listen, and commit to being fully with the story.

You’ll hear in the introduction that these stories are based in the Spiritual Force, and that when this Force sees you paying full attention, it will show up. As I mentioned in the first Musings post, there is a Yawanawá saying that goes:

“Listen well, open your ears, and listen to what is inside of this message.”

With your full attention on the story, it is possible for a deeper message, or perhaps a new layer of understanding, to come through.

It’s also good to understand these stories completely, so if you have any questions, please feel free to ask me! I would love to hear how this story landed for you. Personally, it is my favourite story that I heard while spending time with the Yawanawá.

I have been contemplating what the proper reciprocity of sharing these stories should be; wanting to honour both the time and energy I’ve put into learning and studying these stories with the tribe over the last decade—and want to ensure that something is given back to the tribe, in acknowledgement of their generosity in allowing the sharing of these ancient, and profound, stories.

What feels most appropriate is to make these stories available for paying members of this Substack. As a paying member, you will receive four more parts of the creation stories in the upcoming months. Next to Tetepāwā Tukaini, and Puyeihunihu, I plan to share Shuvini, the story that tells about the birth of the Indigenous tribes. I also plan to share the Prophecy of Mukaveini, the story that tells of a great leader of the Yawanawá, Mukaveini, that had a vision on his deathbed of a tribe that would be coming to their territory from the other side of a Great Water, and speaks about an alliance between the Yawanawá and those people in the future, a time that we are living in this moment. And, I plan to share the vision of Kairao that pajé Tatá had a few decades ago. In this vision, he is asked to go back to his tribe and reignite the knowledge of his people. It is really precious to see how this vision of Kairao has come to fruition in the last few years.

For every Founding member that subscribes, one Ayahuasca vine will be planted in the Yawanawá territory. In the last decades, with an increasing amount of Westerners visiting the tribe in their territory, and more and more people drinking Ayahuasca, the territory of the Yawanawá is almost fully depleted of vines. With so many Westerners receiving so much Medicine and wisdom through the Amazonian tribes at this time, I think this is a small reciprocity that we can give to the tribe.

So, if you want to plant a vine (which could be a beautiful gesture for all of us who have received the Medicine and the wisdom of the Vine), and listen to some special stories, you can do so by becoming a Founding member. We began planting when this Substack was launched, and 300 young vines and 100 Chacruna bushes have already been planted in the Yawanawá territory.

I believe that these stories hold a lot of teachings and value for humanity at this time.

Thank you so much for being here, much love,

Dennis

PS: You’ll see at the top of the post that I have included a portion of the audio of Puyeihuninhu that is available for all. This is not the full version of the story. The full version of the story is available for paying and Founding members and is 1 hour and 20 minutes long.

PPS: A gentle request to learn from this story with respect. I share these stories with permission, and with the intention for them to be listened to with reverence, and in a respectful way. These stories are not shared to be learned and re-told in other places.

I am so grateful to Matsini, my brother, friend and teacher from the tribe, for giving me permission to share these stories. One traditional path of receiving these stories, and receiving permission to share these stories, is to enter the path of dieta with the tribe. To deepen the connection with the people, study their stories in-depth, learn some of the deeper meanings and receive permission from your teacher to share. I feel deeply grateful and blessed for my connection with the tribe and the time we spent in study.

I share these stories with the utmost respect for the Yawanawá and their rich culture.

I hope that by listening to these ancient stories, there is the potential for a string being plucked inside of us. A vibration we have maybe never felt or heard before, one that resonates so deeply it can remind us of a calling…a calling home. A calling into a time of great alliance. Because, if that time of the great alliance is really here, as the story of Mukavuine will reveal to us in future musings, I believe it is very important to honour these practices and the cultures they come from.

Let’s respect these stories, and respect the instructions that come with them. When you honour the instructions, you are showing your respect. The spiritual force is watching, remember… and you might miss the gift that is waiting for you inside this message ;-)

So, I request that you please respect these stories and the instructions that come with them.

Please do not share these stories without the appropriate permission of the tribe.

Thank you.

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The time in Brazil ended, and I returned back to the Netherlands, to my life, to my relationship, and my job in the classical music world. The time alone in Brazil had given me so much clarity around my relationship with my girlfriend, that the moment I walked into our apartment in Amsterdam, we sat down on the sofa and in a conversation closed it. In one of my last ceremonies in Brazil, I received a vision of a center in Peru, so I told her that I was moving to Peru in the next year and that I would move out of the apartment as soon as I found another place to stay.

Within two weeks I was sharing another house in Amsterdam with a stranger, was back playing in the Radio Orchestra, and had five litres of Santo Daime in my fridge. Things had shifted quickly. Many of my closest relationships—my family, my colleagues, and my friends—did not understand what was happening to me. When I shared some of my experiences in Brazil and the plans I had to move to Peru, I could feel the judgement and doubt in people, quite a few people took their distance from me.

That unfolding reminded me of the time when I was young and people had told me that Ada was not real. That judgement of people had been really difficult, since for me she was one the truest things in my life. I had felt really lonely at that time, and now I felt a similar loneliness. I had hoped for understanding and excitement from the people around me, hoped for support and encouragement, but instead, people distanced themselves, and I could feel my old life falling apart. I started to doubt all the visions I had received, and all the things that were to come. The breakup made me feel heavy and insecure. The confidence and trust I had felt in Brazil were disappearing quickly. Unsure what my next steps ought to be, I decided to hold onto all that had happened in Brazil. I had to keep my focus on trusting, and not get lost in fear and insecurity.

I looked on the internet for venues where I could hold ceremonies, and quickly found pictures of a country house in the east of the Netherlands that strongly resembled the place I had seen in my visions. Was I going to hold my first ceremonies there, exactly as the medicine had shown me? My body was tingling with excitement upon seeing those pictures. I called the owner, and we spoke on the phone for a while. “Normally I wouldn’t allow ceremony to happen here,” she told me, “but with you, I feel a clear yes. Why don’t you come here in the autumn?” Her trust was such a beautiful sign in a time full of turmoil and insecurity.

I started to reach out to people, and naturally, a group of six formed itself. At the same time, I learned that Padrinho Alfredo was coming to the Netherlands. Hearing that did gave me a boost. It would be great to connect with him again. In full synchronicity, he was holding a Santo Daime work in Amsterdam right before my first ceremony, and a few other ones two days after my ceremonies in Belgium.

I attended his Amsterdam ceremony and told him I had planned two ceremonies of my own, had prepared everything as well as I could, had found a venue and a small group of people had opted to come and join. He gave me his blessing for the upcoming ceremonies. That night in Amsterdam, I took my bassoon into the Santo Daime work for the first time. It felt so good to play along with everybody singing and dancing. There was so much joy and celebration. While I was playing, the medicine kept teaching me, preparing me for the ceremonies to come.

Prem, a dear friend whom I had met during my time with Norberto, came to assist in my first ceremonies. My mother, my sister, and my cousin attended the weekend, just as I had seen in my vision, and some other people had signed up as well. We arrived at the venue and started setting things up. Even though I had no experience holding ceremonies, things seemed to flow, and the communication with Prem was beautiful. The people arrived, and finally, it was time to open the first ceremony. My heart was beating quickly, but I focused on my breath and kept it deep and slow.

The first weekend unfolded beautifully, and everything went well. I learned that when I stayed open and listened to my intuition and to the medicine, I could easily tune into the people and the ceremony. When my mind started to kick in, I lost track a bit. I knew I had a lot to learn in the realm of ceremony, still, it felt like a familiar place to me, almost as if I had done this many times before.

When the two ceremonies were over and we sat in a circle with all the participants, my mother shared something very special. She said that she had been a bit worried over the last year, with me going into ceremony, and seeing all the changes that came with it. “But now,” she continued, “having seen you lead a ceremony and having felt the medicine, I have to say that now I completely understand what you are doing. I have never seen you so in your element. I think this is the reason why you were born; this is what you came to share this life.” Those words touched me deeply, coming from my mother. I stored those words deep in my heart. I knew that there were still many steps to follow, but her testimony gave me a lot of courage and trust to keep walking.

After completing those ceremonies, I attended the ceremony with Padrinho Alfredo in Belgium. I reported on all that had happened and communicated many details with him. He listened with full attention and told me he was happy to hear about it. I could continue holding the ceremonies, and whenever I needed more medicine, I could let him know, and the church would help me. Everything was unfolding naturally, and although it was also a challenging time in my life, it felt so good. That night I drank a good cup of medicine, and the sounds of the bassoon were singing my songs of gratitude to the medicine. It felt so good to be playing again with all the other musicians. Those moments really helped me to feel that it was all worth it.

The weeks after, I felt great and felt a lot of trust. I played in the orchestra, and although I could still feel the tension from some of my colleagues, it felt good to play music again, confident in all that was unfolding. I enjoyed those concerts tremendously. I could see that my inner state greatly affected whatever I was doing. When I felt insecure and feared the future, things started crumbling down; when I felt trust, confidence, and surrender, things unfolded in full synchronicity. The waves between the trust and the insecurity were tiring, and I was not sure what do to about them. I went from feeling great and full of confidence after the ceremonies to feeling weak and insecure a couple of weeks later.

I had some extra concerts planned at the opera in Valencia that winter. I was looking forward to being out of the Netherlands for a while and enjoying a few weeks of great people, good food, and sunshine. Unexpectedly, I received a message that my participation in those concerts had been cancelled. It was very unusual in the classical music world for an orchestra to cancel a contract. My trust and confidence started to crumble again.

Within a few days, I felt lost. I remembered my very first ceremonies in Peru, and how they had felt. I longed to go back to that place, to be in ceremony again, receiving the medicine as a participant. Feeling that, and seeing the open period in my calendar, I shifted my perspective. What if this all happened for a reason? What if that period opened up in my calendar so that I could go to Peru again and receive? With those questions coming in, I jumped onto my computer and in no time found that a retreat was happening in the same place where it had all started a year and a half before in the Sacred Valley. I signed up, and within a week I sat on a plane to Peru.

It felt so good to be back in those stunning mountains. The first ceremony was gentle, allowing me into the space and to go back to the trust I felt in the medicine. In the second ceremony, very strong medicine was served, and people went into deep processes. Some were crying, others shouting, and others were moving uncontrollably. It was the wildest ceremony I had ever attended. I was lying on the floor under a blanket, my body shaking. At one point I felt that I needed some assistance, but all the assistants were busy helping other people. It was pure chaos in the temple. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

At that moment, Madre Ayahuasca appeared again very clearly. When I saw her, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was so grateful to see her; immediately I felt safe. I closed my eyes to receive some of her gentle words of encouragement, but instead of feeling my body relax, I felt a bolt of energy moving through. I opened my eyes and looked straight at her; her eyes were penetrating my being. “What are you doing?” she asked fiercely. “Why are you lying on the ground shaking? Didn’t you say you wanted to be of service? Didn’t you say you wanted to help people, to serve humanity?”

Her words took me by surprise, and it took me a while to find my focus. “Yes,” I thought, nodding my head. “Yes, I want to be of service.”

“Then why are you lying on your side, under a blanket, shaking like a baby? Get up and help people. Don’t you see there is help needed right here and now?”

I sat up, still deep on the force of the medicine, a bit shaken up by her words. But then I saw the truth of them and started to giggle. I got my act together, stood up, and started to move around in that pitch-black darkness.

One of the people I assisted that night was a German man, named Mike, who was in his late thirties and new to the medicine. I took him outside; he was in a deep state of fear and anxiety. As I was one of the only people who could speak German, I stayed with him for several hours and helped him as much as I could. I sat next to him, holding him, making sure he had water, reassuring him with my words. At the end of the night, when the ceremony was closed, I helped him back to his room, tucked him in, and stayed with him until he was calmer and ready to fall sleep. The next morning at breakfast, we had a long conversation. Mike thanked me for my help and said that it had been a very rough night. “Thank you so much for staying with me. I am not sure if I’d have made it through without you. Your presence was so grounding and reassuring.”

Our conversation continued, and I learned that he had just travelled around the world and written a book. Together with his wife, he had plans to open a center for healing in Germany. He and his wife were still debating the final steps. He shared that something was holding them back from making the final decisions and that he hoped to receive more clarity while being in Peru.

He showed me their business plan, which looked very professional and well thought out. Seeing such a well-organized plan for the first time, brought a lot of clarity to the vision I had received of a center in Peru. I hadn’t really thought about all the steps it would take to open such a place. Mike walked me through their plan step by step, giving me many insights into what such a venture would entail. I was soaking it all up and felt much gratitude and admiration. While he explained details about their plan, I felt the Peru healing center shaping up in my head. I stayed silent and just listened. I felt it was not the time to share my vision just yet.

Later that night we sat in a circle around the fire in the living room. It was very cosy, with delicious food and everyone laughing and talking. I just sat back and enjoyed listening to all the stories and things that were shared. Could I imagine living here in Peru? Could I imagine having a center here in Peru? Was I ready to share that vision with the people here? My heart felt warm and cozy, but I decided to stay silent and enjoy the night.

The next morning Mike and I sat outside in the sun, overlooking the dramatic mountain range. Hummingbirds were flying around. Mike and I had gotten quite close, and feeling our connection, I felt I was ready to share a bit of the vision I had received just a few months earlier in Brazil. I told him about a yellow house I had seen in my visions, and how it felt to me like a healing center in the Sacred Valley. I voiced that I had a feeling to move to Peru the following summer to open that center.

Mike listened attentively, and when I finished sharing, he was silent. “Interesting,” he said, after a while. “I came to Peru to find guidance around the next step in my life, and with the center in Germany. These days have made me feel that a German center might not be in my future. What you are sharing here touches me, and having seen your work with me in the ceremony here gives me a lot of confidence in who you are and what you are capable of. Let me speak to my wife. Maybe we can support you in creating your vision.”

I received those words feeling my whole body tingle, and waves of warmth moved through. When Mike returned home, he and his wife made the decision to make a generous donation toward the opening of my center in Peru.

All the uncertainty I had felt in Amsterdam was lifted, and I was granted a renewed trust. As money was involved this time, it made all my ideas more real and tangible. I had asked that all the funds necessary for that vision to be manifested would be available, and Madre had said yes to me. This first donation coming in was an incredible confirmation of my intuition and my visions. That gesture by Mike and his wife gave me a lot of strength to keep walking and to keep following my dream. Strength was coming in. The insecurity was going out.

Share Walking with the Serpent

Just a few weeks later, in the summer of 2012, I set off for Brazil with my girlfriend and a dear friend Jeroen. We stayed for a few days in Rio de Janeiro and had so much fun, eating delicious food, laughing together, and visiting all the sights. It felt so good to be in happy energy again after all the insecurity in the orchestra and the relationship challenges with my girlfriend.

A few days later, we travelled northeast to Saquarema. Norberto had connected us with a Dutch man named Reinier and his Brazilian wife, Myriam. We were going to stay in a garden house on their farm where they grew Ayahuasca vines and Chacruna bushes. Our little house was completely surrounded by the forest. There were hundreds of different species of trees, vines, bushes, and flowers all around. Being so immersed in the jungle felt really special. We spent our days with Reinier, walking through the stunning jungle.

It was there that I saw an Ayahuasca vine for the first time, curling around a tree and climbing to its highest branches, where it would spread its shiny, green leaves and tiny, white flowers. The flowers slowly turn red, and eventually, the seeds fall to the ground, twirling like helicopters. I was honoured to meet the strong and powerful vines twisting up through the jungle. “How can it be, that this plant has already had such an influence in my life?” I thought many times while walking through the forest with Reinier for hours. Reinier taught me that the Ayahuasca brew is made by boiling the vine together with the leaves of the Chacruna plant.

Another plant he showed me was a tiny vine called “Abre Camino,” which can be translated as “to open the path.” It was a flowerless, minuscule vine with small, green leaves that grew all over the jungle floor. It looked very simple, and its little stem would curl around other plants, sometimes many meters long. Reinier taught me how to distil the essence of that tiny plant and how to take a floral bath with it. “If you do that for five mornings,” Reinier told me, “the plant will open your path and will show you the next step. Maybe you will see that step in a dream, maybe you will receive it as a thought while walking through the forest—but the plant will find a way to show you something.”

Intrigued by this story, I did as he said. In the evening I would walk through the forest to collect the Abre Camino. Then I would take a big pot, fill it with water, and cook the vines for fifteen minutes. Next, I would put the pot outside, to let it cool down overnight. After my morning shower, I would pour the liquid over my whole body, then go out in the sun to dry off. In that way, the essence of the plant would enter through my skin. I repeated these steps for five days.

On the fifth day, we harvested an Ayahuasca vine for many hours, and afterwards, I went back to our room, completely exhausted. I fell asleep next to my girlfriend, and almost immediately I dove into a very deep dream.

In it, I saw an elderly woman walk toward me. She took my hand and brought me to a place I hadn’t seen before. In that new place, I saw myself receiving permission to start to work with the Medicine—to begin using it to help heal others. It was a very short but precise vision. When the dream ended, I woke up with a shock. I stayed with my eyes closed for a moment and could feel my whole body tingling. The dream felt so real, so full of truth. It was pointing in a direction that slowly had been calling me: holding ceremonies in the future. Up until that moment, I hadn’t shared that feeling with anyone, I wanted to wait for some kind of sign or confirmation before voicing it to anybody else. This dream felt like a very clear sign. Full of excitement, I woke my girlfriend and shared everything that happened. I felt so sure that the future would unfold exactly as I had seen it. There was not a trace of doubt inside of me at that moment.

Enthusiastically I told her about my dream and the woman that had come to me to bring me to the place where I would receive permission to start working with the Medicine. And while I was hoping for a positive and encouraging reaction, I saw my girlfriend’s face contracting. She looked really shocked at what she was hearing. “Who do you think you are?” she responded. “You just started this work, and now you think all this is going to happen, just because of a dream? Get real.” She looked at me with disgust and disbelief.

Hearing her doubts and disbelief hit me strongly. I felt very hurt that my partner didn’t support and believe in the path that was unfolding for me. I looked her straight in the eyes and stopped talking. I had felt so much truth in that dream. There was no need to defend it or to convince anyone of that truth. I stood up from the bed and walked away to take a shower. Standing there, the water pouring over my body, I felt the beginning of the end of our relationship. It was a difficult moment, but I stored the memory of the dream inside of my heart and kept my mouth shut. The vision had been too precious to cast aside. In that moment I learned that keeping and cultivating a vision inside of your heart, without speaking about it too much, is a wise decision.

After that conversation, we continued to be in the same space, but at the same time, there was a huge distance between us. A few days later, in those beautiful gardens surrounded by hundreds of Chacruna plants, I was sitting with my guitar in the grass, playing some songs. A group of women had come to harvest some leaves of the ‘Rainha’ as she is called in Portuguese: the Queen. It was a sunny day, and we all sang and picked leaves together.

When I had just finished a song, Viviana, one of the older women, approached me and said, “The Queens are talking to me. They are telling me that you have a long path in front of you with the Daime. They say that you’re going to work with the Santo Daime and that you are going to help many people. They are telling me to take you to Rio de Janeiro to meet with Padrinho Alfredo. You will stay a few days with him, and those will become very important days in your life. So tomorrow I will come and pick you up, and we will drive there together. Okay?” She spoke with calmness and confidence.

I just sat there in the sun, receiving those words. What happened was exactly what I had seen in my dream. I stayed silent and looked her straight in the eyes. I trusted this woman, and I trusted my vision. I nodded my head, letting her know that I would go with her. My girlfriend sat right next to me and witnessed it all happening. I turned my head and looked at her; I could see the confusion and disbelief on her face. I raised my eyebrows and nodded at her. She didn’t speak a word, but I could tell the moment had hit her hard. She stood up and went back to the house. I spent the rest of the afternoon praying, singing, and laughing with all the other people present. I was looking forward to all that was to come.

Viviana picked me up as promised, and our ride together to Santo Daime was hilarious. She was full of stories and jokes. Her humour was sceptical, sarcastic, and full of love. She told me she was the leader of a Santo Daime church in Saquarema. I didn’t know much about the Santo Daime—only that they were a spiritual community in Brazil and that they worked with Ayahuasca. Luckily Viviana was eager to share, and I was happy to learn more.

The Santo Daime movement started in the early twentieth century in the Amazon forest in Brazil. A man named Irineu, later called “Mestre Irineu,” was working as a rubber tapper in the forest. He connected with the shamans of the jungle, who gave him ayahuasca. One day he went into the forest to do a dieta, and drank the medicine for seven days in a row. On the last day, he was looking at the full moon, deep on the force of the medicine. The moon came down in front of him, and he saw Clara, the Lady of the Moon, in the shape of the Queen of the Forest, stepping down from her throne. While she stood in front of him in that vision, she instructed him to open the Santo Daime church and to share the wisdom of Ayahuasca. “How can I spread teachings and wisdom?” he asked. “I can’t write. I can’t read. How will I be able to pass on the teachings?” Mother Clara answered him with a lot of love: “There is no need to know writing or reading. You will be singing the teachings into the world.”

There and then, Clara gave Irineu the first song of the Santo Daime: ‘Lua Branca’. In the years to come, Mestre Irineu received many more songs, called Hinos. When Mestre Irineu died, Padrinho Sebastião took over as the leader of the Santo Daime. He spread the Santo Daime all over Brazil, and when he passed, his son Padrinho Alfredo became the spiritual leader and spread the Daime all over the world. We were on the way to Rio de Janeiro to participate in a Santo Daime ceremony—a “work”—led by Padrinho Alfredo. It would be a nighttime “work of healing”: a Trabalho de cura.

In the afternoon we arrived at Jardim Praia da Beira Mar, a Santo Daime church in Rio do Janeiro. We walked into the house, and I was introduced to Padrinho Alfredo, Nilton Caparelli, and some other people. Many people were sitting around and watching television. I had just learned a bit about the Santo Daime, in the car and I knew very little about what to expect. I sat down and patiently waited for the work to start.

The work was supposed to begin at 6 pm. But time went by, and at 6:30 we were still sitting in the living room watching documentaries on the Discovery Channel. No one was dressed for ceremony. No one even mentioned that the designated time had come and gone. At 7 o’clock, nothing, at 7:30, nothing. At 8 o’clock, the wife of Padrinho Alfredo finally casually mentioned that maybe it was time to prepare for the work. Slowly everyone got up to get dressed. Three hours late, we walked up from the house to the church together.

The church was a beautiful building with open walls and a thatched roof standing on the top of a hill. About four-hundred people had gathered that night. Seeing so many people was an intimidating sight for me, as I had only been to small, intimate ceremonies. Walking in, I took a deep breath and surrendered.

White, plastic chairs had been put in concentric circles. We were all given a spot, men on one side, women on the other. In the centre stood a table in the shape of a six-pointed star. Around that table Padrinho Alfredo, Nilton Caparelli, Viviana, and some other people took their places. Most of the people had a star pinned to their chest. The people closest to the table were long-time ‘fardados’; people like me, who were totally new, sat in the back. I was in the last row.

The work started, and I drank my first cup of Daime. I went back to my chair and sat down. Once everybody had drunk the first cup of medicine, we all stood up, and the work started with some prayers in Portuguese that people collectively spoke out loud. I just stood there with my eyes closed, receiving all that was happening. After the prayers, people started to sing all together. I had gotten a small booklet with the words of the songs. Several musicians around the table in the centre accompanied the songs with guitars, drums, and wind instruments. I sat with my eyes closed and let the music sink in. After twenty minutes the force of the medicine came in very strong, making me a bit nervous.

My stomach started to feel uncomfortable, and many things started to move inside of me. Slowly the visions came. The first thing the medicine showed me was my relationship with my girlfriend. I was taken back to the beginning of the relationship, where there had been so much love and passion. I could clearly see why we had connected with each other. Then the perspective changed, and it was almost as if I saw the beginning of our relationship through my girlfriend’s eyes. I could see which parts of me she had felt attracted to and which aspects of my life she had resonated with. Then the Medicine took me through the last months. As if through the eyes of my girlfriend, I could see clearly that I had gone through a big change since our first ceremonies in Peru, just a year before. I could see that I had shifted my interests, that I had put aside my aspirations in the classical music world. And instead of practising the bassoon, I was now singing mantras and medicine songs and playing the guitar. I could even see that I had judgements towards her, for not connecting with the medicine in the same way I did, and could almost feel how she had received those judgements. I could feel her insecurity around my path and how it was unfolding.

As I sat there, the visions floating by, feeling it in my inner world, a lot of calmness came into me. And with that came a lot of clarity and healing. Internally I was apologizing to my girlfriend, giving her my gratitude, forgiving her, and sending her my love. At the same time, I could see that the relationship would not last and that the end was coming soon. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and a tear rolled down my cheek.

As the session continued, I saw several relationships pass by me in the same way. I could observe myself through the eyes of my colleagues in the orchestra, and how it must have felt for them to see me turn from a strongly committed, professional musician to a man drinking some kind of weird, ancient substance, singing mantras and playing “Kumbaya” on a guitar. Seeing that I had to giggle. I was actually not playing “Kumbaya,” but I could see the comparison they would make.

Seeing myself through the eyes of others, softened me. I had felt the need to justify my new path to so many people. But there the medicine showed me a path of understanding and compassion. Internally I was apologizing to people, saying thank you, forgiving people, and saying things I should have said a long time ago. Some things were clearly shifting out of my life, and instead of feeling sadness or the need to prove that my path was the right one, I was inundated with gratitude, humility, and forgiveness. When the force of the first cup of Daime slowly started to weaken, I was struck with a wave of awe for the medicine. How wise of Madre Ayahuasca to guide such a shift in my life so gracefully!

While all those things had been happening in my inner world, a man had been sitting right next to me with a tiny, green hummingbird, lying perfectly still in his hands. The bird’s tiny feathers were so shiny, so vivid. It was amazing to see such an animal up close. The bird looked like it was almost dead, its feathers were very messy and ruffled. When I asked the man what happened, he told me that the sleep of a hummingbird is very deep. Because they move so quickly and use so much energy when they fly, they fall into a coma-like state when they sleep. Their heartbeat almost disappears. Their breathing slows to the point where it looks like it has stopped, and their body temperature drops to the point of hypothermia. He said this bird must have fallen out of a tree while sleeping. It hadn’t woken from the fall, and lying on the ground there were insects and ants trying to eat it, so he had picked it up and brought it here. It sat so still, resting on his hand. It was a beautiful sight.

An hour into the ceremony, the bird woke up and slowly started to move. Using its long beak, it smoothed its feathers. In the beginning, it was moving very slowly, and after a while it sped up, moving its feathers more quickly. The bird was so close to me; I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. After twenty minutes, its feathers at last in perfect order, it flew straight up out of the man’s hand. It hovered there a little bit, surveying the crowd, and then flew straight out of the temple. Not much later, it came back, circled three times above the head of the guy sitting next to me, and then zoomed out once again. And that was it; the hummingbird was gone. The guy and I looked at each other in awe. It was such a beautiful moment. Witnessing that hummingbird on the force of the Medicine, while so many relationships of the past had been in my visions, felt really synchronistic.

I’ve always felt a strong connection to birds. I often look toward the sky to see what birds are flying around. I regard birds as amazing messengers that show up at special moments. Seeing this tiny bird in a deep sleep, almost dead, with ruffled feathers, held and protected in the hand of that kind man, then seeing it wake up in the middle of a Santo Daime ceremony, felt like a beautiful analogy of what was happening with me. I saw the journey of that hummingbird as a metaphor for what was happening in my life. It was time to wake up, organize my feathers, wipe off the dirt, and prepare to fly.

About an hour and a half after the first cup, there was the second serving of the Daime. We stood in long rows, waiting for our turn to drink. Some people were talking, but most were in silence. The first part of the work had already been quite profound. Was I ready for a second cup? When it was my turn in the line, I took the glass and stepped back. I stood there and felt a lot of resistance in my body. I walked to the side of the Salão, as the temple is called in the Santo Daime, to sit down with my cup. I was dreading to drink, knowing that the second cup would take me very deep.

I sat there for at least twenty minutes. A few of the people from Saquarema who had been picking leaves the other day stood next to me, talking me through the process, telling me to relax and breathe. Whatever they said, I just couldn’t get myself to drink that cup. I sat there with a hunched back, my shoulders were closed off, and I was looking toward the floor. I had just begun to teach Kundalini Yoga and one of the men who had joined my class in Saquarema walked up and said, “Look here, our yoga teacher, forgetting to breathe while sitting here. What kind of a yoga teacher is that, if he even forgets to breathe?” Then he burst into deep laughter.

Listening to those words, I first got very annoyed with him, and looked at him with disbelief—had he really just said that? But then seeing all the other people laughing along, I snapped out of my insecurity and resistance and joined in the laughter. Then I looked at the cup, nodded my head and drank the second cup of Daime in one swift gulp. I stood up and gave that man a big hug. We all stood there laughing together. What a wonderful moment!

I returned the empty glass and sat down in my place. Music had been going on since the first cup, and sitting down, I joined in the hinarios of the Santo Daime together with all the other people. In traditional Santo Daime works, every person in the ceremony has a book of songs, and everyone sings in unison. It was a completely different ceremony than I had participated in, in either Peru or the Netherlands. The songs were all in Portuguese. The musicians played in the centre, and almost everyone had a maraca in hand. It was a powerful feeling, and it created a strong, high-vibrational energy current with a very specific rhythm. We must have sung around fifteen songs after the second serving when a period of silence and concentration started. The shift from the music to the silence was a powerful one. It almost felt as if the music had prepared for the silence. And when the silence came in, everything stopped. I could feel my heart beating in my chest, my breath was slowly calming down. I closed my eyes. The force of the medicine was really strong.

My body relaxed, and sitting there on that plastic chair, I closed my eyes. My breath deepened, and I entered a place that slowly was getting more familiar to me. I was seeing a country house in the Netherlands. It had cosy rooms and was surrounded by gardens with big, old trees. Inside the house, I saw a group of eight people sitting in a circle. When I moved closer, I could see myself sitting in that circle speaking to the others. The vision kept unfolding. I was watching from a distance. I was watching the opening of a ceremony, and I heard myself speaking the opening words and prayers. Then I saw myself serving the medicine to the people. I could see everything very clearly: my mom was there, my sister, my cousin, and some other people. I witnessed the whole ceremony until I heard myself speak the closing words. By watching all of that happen, I received a lot of information about how to hold a ceremony, how to set it up, and how to be there for the people. It all floated by like a movie that was playing in front of my eyes. I was watching in full concentration, and the sight filled me with humility, gratitude, and awe. I was soaking it all up. Tears were rolling down my cheeks; my body was shivering with truth.

As I was receiving this vision of my first ceremony still to come, Padrinho Alfredo stepped into the vision. I was still sitting on my chair with my eyes closed, and he was still in the middle of the salão. When I saw him in my vision, he looked me straight in the eye and began to speak: “I see who you are, I see where you’re going, and I see what you’re going to do. You asked for a sign in your first ceremonies, do you remember? You asked for a sign to let you know when it would be the right moment to start. I am here to give you that sign. It’s time for you to start, and I am here to help you. You have your own vision, and it is a clear one. Follow your vision. You don’t have to follow the vision of the Santo Daime. Follow your heart, follow your intuition, follow your way. We are here to support you. Hereby I give you the permission to work with the medicine of the Santo Daime in an open and free way.”

I was sitting there, receiving all that had just been given, in complete silence and with closed eyes. I opened my eyes and looked at the centre of the circle where Padrinho Alfredo was sitting. Had this really just happened? At the exact same moment, Padrinho turned his head and looked straight at me. When our eyes met, he nodded in calm confirmation. Then he turned his head again, took up his guitar, and the music started.

I was stunned with all that had just been revealed. A huge wave of energy was raging through my body, and I felt sensations I had never felt before. I just sat in my chair in awe of it all. My heart was beating out of my chest from amazement. Was this all really happening? Did I just see a glimpse of a future yet to come? And although I didn’t know the answers to all those questions running through me, I felt that a piece of my future had just been revealed. I felt so much excitement, gratitude, and joy. All the things that had happened in the last year—meeting the medicine, the slow shift out of the classical music world, and all the challenges in my relationships—started to make more sense. Seeing where it might be going, brought a lot of clarity and purpose to it all. It all felt true and right. I felt strength pouring into my body, and excitement for the future. And although I still had very little idea of what was coming, I felt ready.

The singing had started again, full of celebration. My whole body wanted nothing more than to play along with the music, even though I was hearing it for the very first time in my life. I didn’t bring any of my instruments, so I decided to use the only instrument I could think of: I whistled along with the melodies as I had never whistled before. Energy was moving through me at high speed. For the last part of the ceremony, the chairs were removed, and we all danced together, standing in circles. We danced like the waves of the ocean, back and forth, all of us together in the same rhythm and direction. The whistling was my expression of all that I was feeling. My body was dancing, celebrating. I could feel a new chapter opening, and I was welcoming it with an open heart, full of gratitude.

The ceremony continued for several hours, and during those hours I received more guidance and information. When the ceremony was over, I went outside and sat by the big fire. I stared into the flames and let the experience sink in; I wasn’t ready to speak yet. The force of the medicine started to diminish, and slowly the feelings of euphoria and excitement started to shift into doubt and insecurity. My mind kicked in, and I began to doubt whether it had happened, or if it had just been my imagination. In my first ceremonies, I had asked Madre Ayahuasca for a sign in 3D reality, not a sign in my visions. Sitting there, I started to question the truth of it all. Was I really going to hold ceremonies in the future? Was I ready for something like that? Or was I just making up stories? My mind was going wild, and soon the euphoria and strength were replaced by anxiety and insecurity. I didn’t really know how to interpret these visions I had just received. How true were these visions received while on the medicine, anyway?

After a while I saw a man walking around, looking for somebody. He came up to me and asked, “Are you the guy from Holland?” I nodded. “Padrinho Alfredo is looking for you,” he continued. “Come with me.” I stood up and followed him inside. I had no idea what was going to happen, but instantly my body started to radiate again. Was this really happening? Could it even be that Padrinho Alfredo was calling me to confirm what had happened in my vision? I was engulfed in a tingly feeling, and with that shift, the doubt started to vanish.

I was brought back to the house where Padrinho Alfredo, Viviana, and Caparelli were all sitting on the sofa. They gestured for me to sit down next to Padrinho Alfredo. He took his time and started to speak. “Who are you?” he asked. “Tell me a bit about yourself and where you come from. Why are you here?” I was not sure how to answer those questions, so I took a moment of silence to contemplate. Then I told him I was a classical musician from the Netherlands and that I had drunk Ayahuasca for the first time a bit more than a year ago. I told him about Norberto and the ceremonies in the Netherlands and that I had received a vision of working with the Daime, and that the vision was still very new and evolving. I was speaking in English. and Viviana was translating all of this to Padrinho Alfredo and the people sitting around.

He listened quietly to the translation and started to speak again: “You know, we spoke about this during the ceremony, but it’s always good to speak again in this reality. What I want to tell you is that we are here to support you. I hereby give you five litres of Daime. I want you to keep me very informed about what you do with this medicine. I give you permission to work with the Daime in your way, with your vision. After you have held some ceremonies, come back to us, and let us know how it goes. After that, if things go well, you can keep carrying the Daime. Step by step, okay?”

I listened to all those words and was speechless. I could hardly believe what was happening. Some of my visions had just come into 3D reality. The sign that I had asked for in the beginning, was given. To feel the trust and confidence of Padrinho Alfredo was a true blessing. My body relaxed, and I could feel my mind dropping into more trust in the visions. I don’t know if I fully grasped what had just happened. But what I did understand was that I had been given a precious gift, one that would continue to unpack itself for many years to come. In that moment I committed fully to be in service to the medicine. Whatever it would take, I would show up for it. The Santo Daime was such a pure and powerful medicine. What a blessing!

That single act of trust from Padrinho Alfredo gave me the courage to move on—from my life as a successful classical musician onto another path. I didn’t know exactly where that path would lead, but I felt that all that had happened in my life until then had prepared me for the journey to come. That moment confirmed that my visions and dreams were real, and gave me courage and strength to move through all the challenges and obstacles ahead of me, and to keep following my dreams and visions.

I stayed a few days with Padrinho Alfredo and his crew, then went back to Saquarema, where my girlfriend was still at the garden house. When I told her about the things that happened in Rio do Janeiro, the distance between us became only greater. Feeling the coldness between us was on the one hand difficult; on the other hand, it only clarified what was happening.

When we discussed our remaining time in Brazil, I voiced that I wanted to go and learn more about the medicine. I had received an invitation to take part in a feitio, the cooking of the Daime, and I wanted to go there. My girlfriend had no desire to be part of that, and I had no desire to let that opportunity pass.

After a couple of days, we went our separate ways in Brazil. It began to feel like I had two women in my life: one in flesh, the other in spirit. My relationship with Madre was growing, and I felt like the commitment to the medicine came with a huge purification. Not just in my inner world, as things in my outer world were also slowly shifting, changing, and falling away. I was learning that a relationship with Ayahuasca was not necessarily an easy one.

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Hi All,

The story I am sharing with you this week is that of ‘Tetepāwā Tukaini’—which roughly translates to The Eagle that Died. This story is about how, a long time ago when the Earth was largely baron, the birthing of the plants, the trees and the forests came to happen.

Tetepāwā Tukaini is a part of the Creation Stories of the Yawanawá, and so there are some instructions that are offered regarding how to listen, and how to attend, to the sharing of this story:

• So that you can fully receive this story, choose to listen at a time when you can be fully present.

• Mark the moment that you are going to listen, and commit to being fully with the story, through to its completion.

You’ll hear in the introduction that these stories are based in the Spiritual Force, and that when this Force sees you paying full attention, it will show up. As I mentioned in the first Musings post, there is a Yawanawá saying that goes:

“Listen well, open your ears, and listen to what is inside of this message.”

With your full attention on the story, it is possible for a deeper message, or perhaps a new layer of understanding, to come through.

It’s also good to understand these stories completely, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask in the comments—or even say hi! Would love to hear how this story landed for you :)

Thank you so much for being here, much love,

Dennis

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PS: Just a note to inform everyone that, following this post, the 'Musings' posts will be exclusively available to those who have kindly chosen to become paid subscribers. If you are already a paid subscriber, thank you so much for your support. Rest assured, all chapters from Walking with the Serpent will continue to be accessible to all subscribers without charge.

Moreover, I am currently considering the idea of initiating a WWS Gathering, where I would create a monthly space on Zoom specifically for paid subscribers. In this gathering, I envision sharing some concise stories, addressing your questions, and engaging in collective discussions about medicine work, Yawanawá culture, and any other topics that may resonate.

Is this something that interests you? I would love to hear your thoughts…

PPS: Just a gentle request to learn from this story with respect. I share these stories with the intention for them to be listened to with reverence and in a respectful way.

I am so grateful to Matsini, my brother, friend and teacher from the tribe, for giving me permission to share these stories. One traditional path of receiving these stories, and receiving permission to share these stories, is to enter the path of dieta with the tribe. To deepen the connection with the people, study their stories in-depth, learn some of the deeper meanings and receive permission from your teacher to share. I feel very grateful and blessed for my connection with the tribe and the time we spent in study.

I share these stories with a lot of respect for the Yawanawá and their rich culture.

It is my hope, that by listening to these ancient stories, there is the potential for a string being plucked inside of us. A vibration we have maybe never felt or heard before, that resonates so deeply that it can remind us of a calling… A calling home. A calling into a time of great alliance. Because if that time of the great alliance is really here, as the story of Mukavuine will reveal to us, in future musings, I believe it is very important to honour these practices and the cultures they come from.

Let’s respect these stories, and respect the instructions that come with them. When you honour the instructions, you are showing your respect. The spiritual force is watching, you remember… You might miss the gift that is waiting for you inside this message ;-)

So I request that you respect these stories and the instructions that come with them.

Please don’t share these stories without the appropriate permission of the tribe.

Just a week after we returned from Peru, the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra called me, asking if I was open to come play with them for a few programs. Hearing those words, I wanted nothing more than to jump off my chair in excitement, but I had to hold back and remain calm and serious on the phone. I answered with a stern voice that I had to look on my calendar and see if it would fit into my schedule. The woman listed the dates they were inviting me to play, mentioning that the program would include “The Rite of Spring,” by Igor Stravinsky.

When I heard those words, it was as if time had just stopped. I couldn’t believe my ears. As much as I had fully trusted the visions in Peru, for this to happen in 3D reality, just a few weeks after was wild. I stayed silent for a while, not really knowing how to respond, until the woman on the other end of the line said, “Are you still there?”

“Uh … Just looking at my calendar,” I answered politely. “Can I call you back tomorrow with a final answer?” I had learned to play the game so well over the years and didn’t want to sound overly enthusiastic. The next day I confirmed the program, and a new chapter in my classical music career opened up. Everything seemed to be happening in full synchronicity, unfolding just as I had seen in my vision. That moment was an affirmation of my trust in the medicine. It was unbelievable, and at the same time it felt completely natural: of course it was happening!

The fulfilment of that vision made my time coming back to Amsterdam full of magic and joy. The invitation from the prestigious orchestra was another step up the ladder of the classical music world. My initial concerts with “The Rite of Spring” went well, and I was invited to come back and play more programs.

At that point, the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra was testing out several different people to fill the position of my former teacher, Guus Dral who had passed the year before. He who had appeared in my visions in Peru, flying through the sky. With these concerts opening up, there was a possibility to secure a permanent position in one of the best orchestras in the world. That for sure would mean fulfilment, I thought! So with a lot of gratitude and eagerness, I accepted the other concerts offered to me and prepared for them as best I could.

One of the concerts was on Christmas Day, 2011. The Christmas matinee, as that concert is called, is one of the most important concerts of the year for the orchestra. It is broadcasted live on television in many countries, and along with the New Year’s concert of the Vienna Philharmonic, it is probably one of the most famous concerts in the classical music world. I was thrilled and proud to be part of that performance, and was very much looking forward to the experience.

At that matinee, we performed a magnificent piece of music, “A Symphony of Alps,” composed by Richard Strauss. That piece puts into music the beauty of the Alpine Mountains of Central Europe. It begins with the rising sun, builds up to a spectacular peak at its highest summit, and then decrescendos down with the setting sun. The conductor leading the orchestra was Bernard Haitink, a musical genius. He was in his seventies and regarded as one of the great conductors of our day.

Here’s a video recording of parts of that concert on Christmas Day 2011. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, conducted by Bernard Haitink. Can you spot where I sit?

That day, everything I could have ever dreamed of, came true: I was playing in one of the best orchestras in the world, performing a magnificent piece of music, led by a world-class conductor, sitting in a world-famous concert hall, being broadcast live all over the world. I had arrived at one of the highest steps of the classical music ladder.

When I walked onto the stage wearing my black tails, I was in a high state of concentration and focus. I felt the importance of the moment, with the possibility on the horizon of getting tenure, which would allow me to play there for the rest of my life.

We sat down, the orchestra tuned, and “el maestro” walked down the steps to the rostrum, the audience applauding. He turned toward the orchestra, and the concert hall became silent. I was observing my feelings closely, and it almost felt like I was looking at myself from a distance. It was an interesting sensation. “What are you doing?” I thought to myself. “Keep focused! This is one of the most important concerts of your career.” When I had that realization, I snapped out of it. Haitink lifted his baton, and the gentle sounds of the strings and woodwinds started to fill the hall. I was back at the edge of my seat in full concentration.

But twenty minutes later, it happened again. While my body was still playing the bassoon, sitting in the orchestra, my mind went back into observation mode. After a while it was as if I was floating above the orchestra, watching the whole scene, just like it had happened before in Peru. I observed the orchestra sitting on a stage, the audience below listening. I could see the distance between the musicians and the listeners. I could see the games of the ego at play between the musicians. I was observing that some of the people in the audience were there more for the high-society vibe, than for their love of music. Seeing that, I felt a coldness enter my heart, and tension coming into my body. I felt so much sadness and loneliness in that moment. Was it really my destiny to be part of this for the rest of my life? Had I really practised all my life to share music in this way?

Inside of me, things were shifting on a deep level. For so long I had believed that the level of excellence of the orchestras I played in, was directly connected to my feeling of fulfilment. For years that feeling compelled me to keep improving and advancing in the classical music world. And there I was, playing in one of the best orchestras on the planet. There was not much further to go. Floating there over the orchestra, I could see that the calling to excellence had led me to this moment, but being there didn’t make me feel more fulfilled. What I saw actually made me really sad. Slowly I started to contemplate why I had started playing music in the first place.

And while that might seem a very obvious question to ask, I had simply never tuned into that question before. The answer came very clearly and naturally. It felt so true that I had to smile at the realization: I wanted to touch people’s hearts with music.

All of this was happening, while I was still sitting on the stage, playing the bassoon. In the midst of the concert, it became clear to me that I was not on the right path. A new understanding of the vision in Peru started to pour in. Instead of showing me that I would be playing in the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra for the rest of my life, it was showing me that playing here would deepen my understanding of what music meant to me, and bring clarity to my future. Guus must have known it all the while; his laughing took on a completely different meaning at that moment. With that realization, I felt a rush of warm sensations moving through my body.

I felt a deep respect for the medicine at that moment. For sure I would have not believed Madre Ayahuasca if she had told me in Peru that I was going to quit my musical career. She had guided me masterfully to this insight. A deep respect for her wisdom was coming in. My body relaxed, and I started to experience a new feeling of freedom. All the possibilities of my future were opening up. I felt certain that my time as a professional classical musician was ending. A new path was opening, one I had already been exploring in my travels and in the realm of healing. Although I had no idea where that path would lead me, I felt full of trust and excitement for a future yet to come.

Understanding at last why I never felt complete fulfilment in my classical music career, I finished playing the concert and returned home, full of both insecurity and excitement.

Despite my initial fears of bad music in Peru, some of the songs there had stuck with me—so strongly in fact, that I bought a guitar, learned some simple chords, and started to sing. I never really had sung in my life. My career as a professional musician had made me a bit of a perfectionist, used to very high levels of music and many hours of practice. With my voice not being at that same level, I felt a lot of apprehension. But my love for singing became stronger, and over time, the songs I learned became more and more meaningful to me.

Upon leaving Peru, I felt that my ceremonies were a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I hadn’t felt a calling to return to that space. But with all the things that were slowly unfolding, my curiosity was again piqued. I started to look around, found some ceremonies in the Netherlands, and signed up. I received a very warm response, and the last part of the email said, “Aren’t you a musician? If so, why don’t you bring your instruments, and maybe you can play some music in the ceremonies.”

Those words brought me back to my experiences in Peru, lying under a blanket, unable to move. How could I ever play music in that state? But the emails were very reassuring, letting me know that there would be no pressure at all, only an open space to play, if and when I might feel like it. The communication softened me, and just a few weeks after the Christmas concert, I showed up with my bassoon and my guitar, ready for another journey into a world that was so new to me, yet at the same time, that felt so familiar.

When I unpacked my instruments in the temple, my heart was beating with excitement. The space was open and big, with a mattress for each participant circled around the room. A man from Brazil, Norberto, was leading the ceremonies. I liked him from the first moment. I could feel his gentleness and peace.

I had been so busy preparing my spot, unpacking my instruments, and making sure they were protected later on from puking people, that I missed my initial conversation that was supposed to happen with Norberto. When he finally walked into the ceremony space, ready to start, he walked up to me and said, “Ah, you’re the guy with the flute. Welcome! Why don’t you play the first song tonight? We will drink the medicine, leave some silence, and then whenever you feel the calling to play, you can start. Okay?”

We looked each other in the eyes. I was remembering the last time I had been in ceremony—when I couldn’t even move my fingers. The first sounds that had broken the silence had been so precious and had set the tone for the whole ceremony. How could I ever find the right way to start? How could I play music in that state? Once again my mind was full of doubts about “performing,” but I kept silent. Feeling into my body, I detected warm, tingling sensations. I had to trust. Gently I nodded my head to Norberto and went back to my space.

The ceremony opened, and we all drank the medicine for the first time. The opening was very different from the one in Peru. And as the experience in Peru had been so profound, I noticed my mind comparing the two situations. I kept reminding myself to trust and to let everything unfold. The lights were dimmed, and a few candles stayed lit. That candlelight stayed with us throughout the night. I curled up under my blanket like a baby. In less than twenty minutes, my body relaxed and my breath started to deepen: I was back on the force of the medicine. The patterns and the colours came in, and I felt my body tingling with electricity. Life was breathing through me. I felt so, so good to be back in that space again.

After a while, I could hear music very clearly inside of me. Tuning into it, I noticed it was the sarabande of the first Cello Suite of Johann Sebastian Bach, a piece of music I love dearly. Bach’s music carries so much depth, so much profundity. I listened to the piece of music in my vision until the words of Norberto came back to me: “Whenever you feel the calling to play, you can start.”

I came out from under my blanket, sat up straight, and put my glasses back on. I scanned the room and saw Norberto calmly looking at me. I nodded at him, pointing to my bassoon, to ask if it was time to play. He nodded back in quiet encouragement.

I took my instrument and placed the bamboo reed in a small glass of water. It took me a while to get ready. The medicine was very strong inside of me, making it difficult for me to focus. It required a lot of concentration to move with the care and precision needed to get everything ready while at the same time not making too many sounds and disturbing the silence. I clicked the bassoon into my shoulder strap, inserted the reed, and was almost ready to start. My hands felt strange—as if water was running down my fingers. I tried to dry them by rubbing them on my clothes. But after a few times, I realized it was just a sensation and that they were not wet at all. I pulled myself together, took a deep breath, closed my eyes and started to play.

Sarabande, 1st Cello Suite, Johann Sebastian Bach
Dennis Notten - Bassoon, 2008

From the first sound that came out of the bassoon that night, I could feel that the music was just flowing through. It felt if as my body had become an instrument, and that something, or somebody, was playing through me in that moment. My body was trembling, and it took a lot of concentration to stay focused, but as I had practised many hours a day for years, I was in top shape. My fingers and lips knew exactly what to do. The deep sounds of the bassoon filled the room. It was incredible to feel the music in that space; I had never played music like that before.

I played with my eyes closed, and the visions became more and more intense. Between the colours and the patterns that were becoming more familiar, I started to see a woman in her forties and, farther off, an elderly man. I kept playing with all my concentration, focusing on those two people. In a way, it felt like I was playing music just for them. They came closer together, and I understood that they were father and daughter. They were in the middle of a terrible fight. Seeing their struggle, I started to play with all the love and peace I could find within myself. I played with the intention of calming them down and bringing them back to love.

As the music progressed, their fight started to soften, and slowly their energy settled. I could see that their words became gentler, and when the piece of music was close to ending, they embraced each other in a big, long, loving hug. Then they let go of the hug, said their goodbyes, and each went off in their own direction. When I stopped playing I couldn’t see them anymore; they had disappeared into the horizon.

I sat there with the bassoon in my hands, eyes closed, feeling my heart beating in my neck and chest. I sat there for a while, replaying all that had just happened. It had been such a profound and new experience. My body started to tremble, and I couldn’t sit any longer. I opened my eyes, put my bassoon back in the corner, and curled up under my blanket. My journey continued.

Five hours later I sat up again. The ceremony had closed. The force of the medicine was still strong inside me, and I was trying to grasp what had just happened. People started to move around, and some conversations were happening. I stayed on my mattress, not ready to engage just yet. From the other side of the room, I could see a woman coming toward me. I reached for my glasses and put them back on. When she sat down in front of me, I saw she was the same woman I had seen in my visions earlier in the ceremony, the woman who had been in a fight with her father.

To see her sit in front of me there, was unreal. She gave me a long hug and asked if she could tell me something. I nodded but didn’t say a word, as I was so astonished to see this woman from the vision. As it was a group of around forty people, I hadn’t met everybody before the start of the ceremony. This was the first time I saw the woman consciously in 3D reality.

She took a moment, and after a while, she began: “I want to tell you something. I decided to come here just a few days ago. My father passed away earlier this week. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a good relationship. A few decades ago we had a bad fight, and since then we haven’t spoken. We were both too proud to ever contact each other again.” I listened with full attention.

“When I heard of my father’s passing,” she continued, “I decided to come here to see if I could find any resolution within myself. I feel so sorry that I never had contacted him again.” She paused, and I could see she was very emotional. “When the medicine came in tonight,” she followed, “I saw my father clearly in my visions, and when we came closer, we immediately went back to the fight. He was furious. It was almost as if we were reliving that same fight we had so many years ago.”

Listening to those words, still being under the influence of the medicine, I felt dream reality and 3D reality come together in a way I had not experienced before. “When you played your instrument, it was as if the music was lifting us up. The higher we went, the softer we became toward each other, and the clearer the situation became. In that space, we communicated about many things, and we were able to find peace, forgiveness, resolution, love, and compassion for each other. We closed with words of gratitude. Then we separated in full understanding, in full love and appreciation for each other. It was a beautiful closure after his death. Your music made this all happen,” she said. “It lifted us up from the heaviness into the light. Thank you so much for your music.”

As I listened to her words, tears rolled down my cheeks. I just couldn’t believe what was happening. Goosebumps rose all over my body, and my heart was so warm and tingly, that I had to do my best to sit still and listen. Perplexed, I couldn’t do anything else other than give her a hug, I was sobbing. We stayed in that hug for a long time.

Her sharing touched me deeply; it felt so true. Exactly as she had experienced it in her vision, I had seen it in mine. I felt so much gratitude for music and its healing power at that moment. It was my first glimpse of what was possible in the ceremonial space. I that moment I felt strongly that this way of sharing music was in my future. All the years of study, practice, and experience in music started to make more sense. A new phase was opening up for me.

Music had always been my first love, and at that moment I understood more deeply why.

My girlfriend had not been with me in the Dutch ceremonies. Her experiences with Ayahuasca had been completely different from mine. She had a bit of an adverse reaction, and it had been difficult for her to let go of control. So when I felt called to return to that space, she was very clear that she didn’t want to join me. In the beginning, she let me do my thing without many comments, but in time the ceremonies became a tense subject between us: “Why do you need to go back? Didn’t you receive already enough from the time in Peru? Isn’t it time to continue our lives in Amsterdam? When are you going to stop?”

These questions were very difficult for me. My ceremonies had been some of the truest experiences of my life. They brought me so many insights, so much understanding, and so much connection. I could feel for the first time a sense of belonging growing inside of me. My perspective on my career in the classical music world had changed profoundly, opening up a completely different way of making music. The medicine helped me to see why I had felt unfulfilled in my career and maybe even in my life. To me, the medicine was such a gift.

To feel those questions and judgements from the woman I loved so dearly was very difficult for me. Tension started to build between us and in our home. Things started to shift. I lost my interest in classical literature and started reading more inspirational nonfiction books, and with that, the common love we had felt for poetry and classical literature started to fade. The same started to happen with music. She was an amazing classical violinist with a huge level of dedication. Every day she studied for many hours with a lot of discipline. I felt not so drawn anymore to the classical music world, and although I was still playing in the Dutch Radio Orchestra as my day job, I found myself spending more time with the guitar and singing ceremony songs. And although these seemed like superficial changes in the beginning, in time they had a deep impact on our relationship. Slowly the disconnect was becoming more obvious.

On top of the tension in our relationship, her family started to question whether I was becoming a drug addict, and if it would be a good idea for me to look into rehab. Those comments made me furious, and as I loved her family very much and had a good relationship with them, they hurt me on a deep level. Hearing them speak about the medicine as a drug made me feel sick to my stomach. Couldn’t they see the gifts that came with the medicine? Couldn’t they see the truth in all that was unfolding? I started to feel less comfortable at home and could notice that I was really looking forward to the ceremonies coming up.

After a few weeks of tension at home and in the orchestra, I went back to ceremony. It felt so good to be surrounded by like-minded people that shared a love for Ayahuasca. They helped me to find my centre again. Quickly I regained trust in the medicine and the path that was revealing itself to me. It was so good to be with Norberto again in those days. I was so grateful for his encouragement to share music in ceremony, and he continued to be a teacher and a guide for me. Soon I was regularly attending ceremonies, and the visions and teachings continued to come.

In one of those ceremonies, lying under a cosy blanket, deep on the force of the Medicine, I received three clear messages. It was not a conversation: it was as if Madre Ayahuasca started by just repeating a word:

“Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá…”

She whispered that word into my ear for about half an hour, very calmly, very gently, and at the same time crystal clear. I asked her what that word meant, but she just kept whispering the word, repeating it over and over. When she finally stopped, I had a vision of a man with one arm. He looked down at me from above, watching me. I saw him in my vision, almost like being in a dream. He didn’t say anything or make any sign or gesture. He just stood and watched me. In that space, it seemed clear that inside he held a lot of knowledge and wisdom.

After a while, Madre Ayahuasca started to whisper in my ear again: 

“Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul…”

She repeated that phrase into my ear over and over.

When she finished, there was a pause. Then I heard one word. I didn’t understand it as well as the others, and it was voiced just one time:

“Muká”

The word was pronounced deeply, strongly, unlike the gentle whispers that had preceded it. It carried a force, a vibration, that I couldn’t remember feeling before in my life. The strength of the word, in a language I didn’t know, shook me up a bit. 

After that particular ceremony, when the weekend came to an end, I stood outside the ceremonial space, talking with Norberto. When I told him about the messages, he responded that Cruzeiro do Sul was a city in Brazil. The Daime that we had drunk that weekend had come from Cruzeiro do Sul. There was no mention of Yawanawá. “Why don’t you come to Brazil this upcoming summer?” he said. “I can connect you with some people there, and you can travel around a bit. It would be a great opportunity for you to learn more about the medicine and see where it comes from.” My body tingled upon hearing those words, and in that moment I just knew where I would be going the following summer.

Share Walking with the Serpent

When I returned from Tibet, I moved to Berlin, and less than a week later I had my first bassoon lesson with my new teacher, Klaus Thunemann, a living legend of the classical music world. He had taken on five new students that year, and we would be the last people taken into his class before he retired. Students from all over the world auditioned to study with him, and it was a huge honor to have been accepted.

I hadn’t taken my bassoon to Nepal or Tibet, and with my move to Berlin, I hadn’t played much since my trip. It had been several months since I had practiced regularly, and ten minutes into the class, Klaus asked me what was going on. I was not playing nearly as well as during my entrance exam. I apologized, feeling ashamed, and explained that I had just come back from a two-month trip to Nepal and Tibet and that it had been several months since I had played. I promised him I would be practicing again, but then he stopped me. “Watch out,” he said with a big smile. “One day you will be a guru, but not able to play the C-major scale anymore,” and he burst out in a burst of big laughter while slapping his knees. That was the start of a great friendship between us. I could feel that he respected my travels, and I felt a lot of respect for him calling me out without contributing to my feeling of shame.

I lived for seven years in Berlin, and during the summers I continued traveling without any clear, set plan. Every time I would choose a country and sometimes a region, buy a ticket, and then let the circumstances and the people I met guide my journey. Through those travels my intuition was getting stronger and stronger. I learned to look for the signs, then feel which ones were true, and then follow them. Every journey opened me up for another one, tickling my yearning to discover more and more of the world and to learn the lessons other cultures could teach me.

For years I spent all my free months in the Far East, exploring, learning, and searching. I flew to a beautiful island in Thailand and ended up on a juice fast and practicing yoga for the first time. Afterward, when I returned home to Europe, I began practicing yoga regularly and studied everything I could learn about juice fasting. Another trip took me through the countryside of Laos for a training course in massage. Traveling brought many gifts into my life, but it was almost as if I led two lives: Dennis the classical musician, and Dennis the traveler, searching and entering a spiritual path. Very few musician friends knew about that other side. My love of traveling was growing deeper, and slowly I was preparing myself to go to India, the place that had been described as only for the most experienced of travelers.

I arrived in Delhi on my first trip to India in the summer of 2006. Nothing could have prepared me for what was there. Too many people, too much noise, too many cows walking inconveniently everywhere, too many cars driving like total morons, too many hustlers hassling me for a commission in some hotel of their friend/uncle/brother/sister/aunt/best friend/grandmother/brother-in-law/daughter’s boyfriend/best friend’s mother or somebody else. I was completely overwhelmed. By the second day, I was puking my guts out, having gotten food poisoning from some street food. I had decided that was it for me and Delhi. I fled on a bus to Jaipur, in the province of Rajasthan. Some travelers had told me that Rajasthan would be easier to bear.

Jaipur is known as “the pink city” on account of all its architecture being painted pink. It is a place of opposites: spectacular landscapes and filthy, polluted rivers; temples and palaces beside open sewage; cruelty next to kindness; dark ignorance adjacent to the highest wisdom. People completely devoted to prayer walk along the river, together with people making the most disgusting sounds you can imagine. Side by side one finds overwhelming noise and deep serenity. India itself is one of the most extreme places in the world: so many religions, so many rituals, so many people bothering you, so much filth and squalor, so many holy people. The best and worst of humanity and everything in between. A vast land of paradox, India is difficult to grasp and impossible to understand.

One thing many Indians love to do is clear their throats, loudly. Everywhere, as loud as they can, people would make extreme bodily throat sounds and afterward spit what come out onto the ground, just at the place where you were walking barefoot. I really couldn't get used to it. In the two months I was there, I continued having a repulsive reaction in my body when I heard that sound, sometimes a couple of hundred times a day.

One day I’d had enough of all the chaos and decided I needed some rest time. A quiet bookstore drew my attention, and I walked in. In the travel section, I glimpsed a book: Blinding Light, by Paul Theroux. I was not sure why the book called to me, but I trusted my intuition and bought it. Wrestling myself back through the busy streets, the book firmly in my hand, I went back to the hotel. Once I settled in, I put on some calming music and made myself comfortable on the bed. For a few days, I stayed in my little air-conditioned bubble, immersed in the book.

The story opens in Peru, in the jungle city of Iquitos. The main character travels there to participate in an Ayahuasca ceremony, and Theroux describes traveling into the jungle and staying in a remote village with indigenous people. There he participates in a ritual where he drinks the sacred brew of the Indians, a sacred medicine that is supposed to bring dreams and visions. Theroux paints the experience as truly horrible and characterizes Ayahuasca as a drug for rich people who are lost and don’t know what to do with themselves. 

Despite this unfavorable, satirical description, something about it stuck with me; it plucked a string inside of me whose sound I had never heard before, a vibration that resonated deeply. I saw the potential of beauty and truth in the Ayahuasca experience. I knew, somehow, that one day I would have to go to Peru and do a ceremony like this one. My intuition was talking to me again.

Looking back, I realize that reading that book, and the reaction it invoked in me, was the first calling of Ayahuasca that I received. At the time, holed up in the middle of India in my air-conditioned room, I was surprised by how deeply the calling resonated within me. I had never taken any drugs, and in my twenties, I stopped drinking alcohol. I had never felt the need to use substances. So feeling that first pull towards Ayahuasca felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. I was confused and worried: was I going to take a drug? What was happening to me?

Unable to find a clear answer and uncertain of what to do with those feelings, I put them aside, along with the rest of the overwhelming feelings I had experienced in India. But something new had been awakened. I had heard a deep calling. The day would come when it would return. 

Back in Europe, I had finished my studies and was climbing the professional ladder of the classical music world. I began receiving invitations to play in some prestigious orchestras. After a few years of freelancing, I got my first position in the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra as a second bassoonist. I was so proud to get such a good position in an amazing orchestra at such a young age. Being recognized for my talents as a musician reinforced my belief that I would spend the rest of my life as a classical musician.

The first few weeks playing with that orchestra were exhilarating. I was impressed with the skill of the other players; they had so much experience and routine. I reveled in my first few concerts with the orchestra, feeling very much in tune with my colleagues, and enjoying great vibes between us. But after just a few months, that energy started to shift. I sensed that some of the players had lost their love for music. This came as a shock to me. For so long I had aspired to a position like this one, and after a few months, I was feeling much less fulfilled than I had expected.

Feeling that emptiness, I wondered what was wrong. I had always expected that as I improved on the bassoon, and as I played with better orchestras, I would find more happiness. “I’m playing second bassoon, so maybe when I am playing as a principal bassoon, I will feel more fulfilled,” I thought to myself. So I kept climbing the ladder of the musical world, and within a couple of years, I was playing as a principal bassoonist in some of the leading European orchestras.

I was very grateful when the opportunity came up to play some programs at the opera in Valencia. There I met a beautiful, accomplished woman, and we fell deeply in love. She lived in Spain while I was still living in Germany. She joined me on some of my travels to the Far East. Then, just before the summer of 2010, I was awarded the position of principal bassoonist for the Dutch Radio Orchestra. Having been together for a couple of years, we took the leap to move back to my home country, and found a beautiful apartment in Amsterdam. It felt like a momentous homecoming after seven years of study and hard work abroad.

Settling into our apartment in Amsterdam, we spent weeks painting and decorating, making our apartment really cozy and beautiful. Just when the apartment was feeling settled, I sat down on our living room sofa and opened my computer. A post on a Dutch news site caught my eye. The article reported that the Dutch government had made a massive cut in the funding of the arts. A popular politician in The Netherlands had declared the arts as “hobbies for the left-winged people”. His statement had opened a whole discussion on the funding of the arts, and in response, the government had decided to fully erase the Dutch Radio Orchestra. “What the hell is happening here?” I asked myself frantically. I had just moved to the Netherlands, thinking that I would play and live in Amsterdam with my love for the rest of my life. And the moment we finally settle into our new home, this message comes? It was as if the ground beneath my feet had been ripped away. All had been perfectly orchestrated up until that moment, and now it all seemed to fall apart.

The glorious homecoming I had hoped for turned instead into a draining and insecure time. The year that followed was one riddled with protests, petitions, and the heavy stress of an orchestra whose days are numbered. I thought I had found home, but reality was showing me something different.

During every travel, I received a gift. Tibet had given me the gift of meditation, Thailand had given me my first yoga classes and my first juice fast, and in Laos, I had dived into massage. All these gifts had become great tools that became more and more part of my daily life. Several times a week I would go to a yoga class, juice fasting had become a yearly ritual, and I had already done one ten-day Vipassana Meditation retreat in Belgium. Being in silence and meditation for ten days deeply affected me.

So when I traveled to India again, just before I moved to Amsterdam, I stayed a while in Dharamsala, the resident city of the Daila Lama, a city perched high up in the Himalayan Mountains. There I signed up for my second ten-day silent Vipassana Meditation retreat. For the first nine days, we stayed in absolute silence, meditating for ten hours a day. On the tenth day, we broke the silence, and from that moment on we could go outside of the meditation hall and slowly start to speak to each other. I took some time to transition, choosing to stay in the meditation hall for a while. I could hear the people outside talking. Slowly, I rose from my seat.

As I walked to the door, my legs and knees hurt from the countless hours of sitting in a cross-legged position. I stood at the door for a time, looking out into the gardens where many people were talking loudly. It felt like observing a coop of chickens, all running around on the grass making noise. It was quite difficult to come from nine days of deep silence and walk into a herd of people chitchatting on the grass. I laughed at the sight, as internally I prepared myself to engage with them. I looked around, feeling who I was drawn to talk to. Two guys were sitting and talking calmly. I sat down next to them and nodded silently. I decided just to listen for a while.

One of them was telling us about his trip to Peru just a few weeks before. He had just come from Iquitos to India and had done over twenty Ayahuasca ceremonies in the Peruvian Amazon. He shared some of the things he lived through in those ceremonies and how profoundly it had changed his life. I listened with full attention to every word he was sharing. His story brought back something that I had long forgotten: how Ayahuasca had called me when I read Blinding Light several years before in Rajasthan.

Feeling this calling come back a second time, my body was covered with goosebumps, and a wave of warmth and tickling sensations rushed through my system. I had learned during my travels that those were crystal-clear signs that something was happening that was very true. Sitting there feeling those things, I knew one thing for sure: the next summer, I would go to Peru.

As I prepared for my trip to Peru, it seemed I had been waiting for this moment for years. I researched rigorously everything to do with Ayahuasca—testimonials, websites, books, and articles. Several of those said it could be beneficial to have clear intentions going into the Ayahuasca ceremony, so I had a long list of intentions. I knew exactly how my ceremonies were going to be, exactly which places I wanted to visit in my visions, and on which topics I wanted to receive insights and wisdom. Ayahuasca was going to be a life-changing experience for me. I was sure about that.

With all the insecurity that was present in my life in Amsterdam, I had lost a bit of my trust in the classical music world. I slowly started to get the feeling that I was not in the right place, that I was not yet doing what I was meant to do. The feeling that I wasn’t in the right place was not new; what was new was that I started to question if climbing the classical music ladder would lead me to the fulfillment I was looking for. In my travels, I learned that some ancient cultures have a tradition of whispering into the ears of newborn babies:

In those traditions, these words are the very first sounds to enter the ears of a newborn. I thought about this as I prepared myself for the Ayahuasca ceremonies. I hoped they would help me with that remembering, bringing me closer to understanding why I was here on Earth, who I was, and what I was supposed to do.

I had searched online for Ayahuasca ceremonies in Peru and sent a message to a Dutch website that I found, asking for recommendations. I told them I wasn’t looking for something in the Netherlands, but for a place in Peru that would take care of us and foster spiritual growth. I hoped for a small group and skilled, experienced facilitators. The person who wrote back was very kind, and very helpful, giving two recommendations. One of them had a retreat near Cuzco at the exact time my girlfriend and I were hoping to travel, so we decided to go. It all happened in full synchronicity.

On the plane to Peru that summer, I sat beside my girlfriend with a lot of excitement and anticipation. We arrived at a beautiful retreat with stunning gardens bursting with flowers and trees. We were in the Sacred Valley of the Incas, where the mountains rise like kings high up into the blue sky. It was here that we were going to participate in our first ceremony with Ayahuasca, the ancient brew of the indigenous people of the Amazon.

For the first ceremony, we gathered with ten other participants for a round of sharing in a circular temple. Everyone was invited to tell their story and why they were there. During the sharing, people came into the temple carrying guitars, and I learned that they would be playing music during the ceremonies. I began to worry that these hippies would ruin my experience with terrible music. As a professional classical musician, having played in some of the best orchestras in the world, I was sure that those people would not play quality music. My mind was full of judgments, but I didn’t say a word.

After we received a lengthy explanation of the proceedings, the ceremony started. The temple had a few small windows. The sun had already set, and the room was dimly lit with just a few candles. We sat with our backs to the wall; the night was quite chilly. We had a bunch of thick blankets piled next to us. I had chosen a spot that happened to be next to one of the musicians, and when the first serving of the medicine (Ayahuasca) was offered, I was one of the first people in line to drink. I walked toward the place where the medicine was served and sat cross-legged on the ground. I could feel excitement and also a little bit of fear. Diego Palma, who was leading the ceremony, poured the light-brown liquid into a stone cup and did a small ritual with it, breathing into the cup. He handed it to me with an open face and a huge smile.

I took the cup in my hands. My heart was beating fast. I closed my eyes and remembered all the intentions that I had so carefully crafted in the weeks before. I sat there for a while, focusing and placing them one by one into that cup. This took a few minutes, and as one of the first people drinking, I didn’t know that I was supposed to drink the cup quite soon after receiving it. Diego must have felt I was going on a bit long, so he gave a little cough. That cough shook me out of my concentration. I laughed a bit, understanding his message, and drank the cup in one swift gulp. The liquid was very bitter, and it was not easy to swallow. Why would a medicine that was supposedly so sacred taste so bad? When I swallowed, my whole face contracted, and it took me a while to get back to my center. Then I looked at Diego, still sitting there with his smile. I returned the cup to him and settled back in my place.

Sitting there, I was so excited about all that was to come. I felt I knew exactly what was going to happen that night. After everyone had drunk, the candles were blown out and the temple was covered in complete darkness. I sat there and waited, beside my girlfriend, in anticipation. I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my neck. Energy was raging through my body. My mind was going wild. There was silence for around half an hour, and then the music started. The gentle sounds of a guitar filled the room: beautiful, warm bass lines combined with tranquil melodies. The sounds of the guitar helped my body relax. After a short while, a warm voice followed, singing a mantra. The sounds were so beautiful, so tranquil, so soft. They made my body relax even more, and I lay down, still eagerly awaiting the experience to come. I didn’t feel any effects of the medicine yet. My mind was racing and going to all the places that I wanted to visit so eagerly. It was working at top speed. Lying there, I expected the colors and the patterns that everyone described in their testimonials, to appear. I awaited the visions, the teachings that would be bestowed upon my being.

But nothing happened. After an hour and a half, Diego announced that we could come forward to drink a second cup. I was the first one to be in front of him and asked for a bigger dose. Again I went back to my place with a lot of excitement, but after another hour of lying there in full anticipation, there was nothing. During the course of the night, I drank two more full cups, eagerly waiting for the medicine to do its magic.

After several hours, the ceremony was closed, the candles were lit again, and some people started conversing together. I had drunk four big cups, and nothing had happened. I had to purge once, but there had been no visions, no teachings, no growth. I was devastated. Was this what I had been waiting for all those years? I left the temple very quickly and went to my bed. I didn’t sleep at all that night. My mind continued racing.

When the sun finally rose, I wanted to give up and go home. Early in the morning, I went to see Diego. I told him about my disappointing experience the night before. I told him it wasn’t working for me, and that I wanted to leave.

He looked at me with his big smile and radiant eyes and said: “Dennis, you have so many expectations. You have read about so many other people’s experiences. And you know what? This is not about their experience. This is about yours. Those expectations can hold you back from going deep into your own experience. Tomorrow, for the second ceremony, consider coming and putting just one intention in the cup. Not a whole list, just one. Then, when you go back to your spot, you’ve done all you can. You’ve done all your work. There is nothing more to do, so you can just relax. That way, you can open up fully to your experience. Without any expectations, you can just be completely open, and see what comes from that. Do you think you can do that?”

I fell into the situation for a moment. I was so sure that this all was a scam, that it didn’t work for me. Nothing had happened during my first ceremony; why would I try it again? Diego looked at me and said: “You have come all the way to Peru. You have signed up for the whole retreat. You are here now, so why not give it another go? The medicine called you for a reason, don’t you think?” As I looked into his eyes, I started to calm down. The tension and frustration were slowly fading away. I started to feel that I trusted him. So I agreed to stay and try again. The next night, as we sat in ceremony for the second time, excitement was once again rushing through my body. I accepted the cup and put just one intention into it: to reconnect with the truth I had felt as a child.

I drank the cup, returned to my place, and inwardly kept repeating to myself: “Relax, relax … Open, open … Let go, let go.” My body felt quite tense, my heart was beating fast and wild, and my mind was running in many directions. It was not so easy to open up and let go. Again, all the candles were blown out after all people had drunk. There we were again: in the silence, in that dark temple, waiting for the medicine to come in, for the music to guide us.

Maybe half an hour into the ceremony, when the room was still silent, I had a conversation with myself. “What if I really surrender here now? What would be the worst thing that could happen?” I felt that the worst thing would be that I could die. Feeling into that, and looking back at my life, I felt that I could be at peace with that. If I died that night, I could look back on a life that I was happy with. Feeling that answer come through, I decided to fully let go of control and fully surrender to all that would come in that night. I took a deep breath and decided, very consciously: this was the moment that I was going to open. Whatever came from that, I would accept. If it was an amazing journey, I would be so grateful. If I were to die on the spot, I would completely accept it. Whatever happened after opening up, I was ready.

So I opened up as I had never done before in my life. At that moment, I took a deep breath and fell on my left side, lying on the ground like a baby, in the fetal position. I grabbed a blanket, and my breath started to deepen. Just then, the journey started. Beautiful colors and patterns overwhelmed my vision. I felt so at ease. I was in awe of all I saw and felt. It was as if something had taken over my breath. I was breathing so deeply like I had never done before.

The temple was totally dark—not a single candle was burning. The music started, and with it, the colors and the patterns started to move. I was seeing colors I had never seen before, a beauty that I couldn’t describe. It was hypnotizing my mind to let go more and more. What I saw was so beautiful, so profound, and unlike anything I had ever seen. I was in complete awe of all that was happening. From afar, I saw something moving. Guided by the rhythm of the music, a huge serpent was slithering toward me. The snake had amazing colors and patterns on her long, thick body. As she came closer and closer, I saw that she had the face of a woman, a stunningly beautiful woman, full of grace, wisdom, gentleness, and power. I had never seen anything like her before, but at the same time, I felt that I knew her.

She brought her face very close to mine. Her nose was just a few inches away from mine. She looked me in the eyes. I looked back, holding eye contact. That moment was so beautiful. I felt as though we were connecting deeply. After a while, I asked her: “Who are you?”

“I am Madre Ayahuasca,” she said (Mother Ayahuasca). I could feel her wisdom, her power. And even when we were not communicating in words, I could tell that she had an infinite supply of truth, of healing, of teaching. She asked, “Can I come in?”

Feeling her power, wisdom, and sacredness, and trusting her completely, I said yes. At that moment, she began to enter my body. She came in through my fingers, my hands, my feet, and my face. Wherever she was, I felt her presence like tingling electricity. When a bit of fear would come up inside of me, she would back away gently, and as I relaxed again, she would come in deeper. My arms filled up with her energy, then my legs, my chest, and my stomach. These were sensations I had never felt before.

When her energy had fully immersed me, I was breathing so deeply. I had never felt anything like this ever. It was as if my chest was expanding in ways I had never thought possible. My breath became deeper and deeper, slower and slower; it was as if all of life was breathing through me. When she had filled my body with her presence, she started to speak to me. It was as if she was whispering into my ears from inside. Hearing her voice, I relaxed even deeper into my body. The voice was like the voice of a grandmother, whispering into the ears of her grandchild.

One of the first things she told me was that, if I chose to accept, we could work together. “You have the opportunity to help many people,” she said. The visions showed me how that could take shape. I could see how I would use music, my first love, to heal. Hearing the music in the background, and feeling how it was moving so many things inside of me, I started to feel more clearly why I had chosen the path of music. There was so much depth in the music at that moment. I was not sure if I had ever experienced such depths in a concert hall.

How could anybody ever tell you

You are anything less than beautiful?

How could anybody ever tell you

You are anything less than whole?

Madre Ayahuasca showed me that this gift would be an essential part of my path. I could use music to help people in ceremony. She showed me this potential, revealing the effects of these teachings and awakenings, as I lay on my side, unable to move. It was incredible to receive her words and see the visions show me examples of what could be at the same time. It was like a multi-dimensional symphony combined with a multi-dimensional movie. I don’t even think I could have spoken a single word in that moment. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs—or even my fingers. I was lying paralyzed on the ground. Sometimes my mind would question what was happening, and a small wave of fear would come in. Then a deep breath would come through again, helping me to fully surrender.

“How can I help people if I cannot even move?” I asked myself. “I don’t know what I’m doing or what’s happening. I can’t help anyone if I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Don’t worry,” she said reading my mind without any veil, “You’ll be taught. I will teach you, other people will teach you, step by step. All will unfold naturally. Can you trust that?”

I felt into my body, into my heart. My heart was singing. My body tingled with warm, beautiful energies. On a deep level, I felt that something very special was happening. The signs were clear. “Okay. Teach me. Guide me. I am here, and I want to serve. But I am not ready, and I don’t want to start anything when I am not ready. So I want to ask you for something,” I continued, my breath coming deeper and deeper. “I am asking for a sign. When it is time to start the work, I want you to give me a clear sign telling me it is time. But I don’t want a sign in my visions. I want a sign in 3D reality.” I knew my mind was powerful and could make anything up, so I asked her to give me solid proof when it was time to start the work. “When the sign is there,” I promised, “I will begin, I will commit, I will serve. I will stop whatever I am doing, and start to walk a different path.”

I could feel her move through my body. It felt so true, so pure, so right. “You will get your sign,” she answered, “When the time is right, the sign will unmistakably reveal itself to you. If that is what you ask for, that is what you will receive.”

At that moment, the seed of the vision for the future was planted. It had no name, no shape, but the idea was there: to create a space of healing with the support of Madre Ayahuasca, music, and much more. Lying on the ground, I marveled at the truth and beauty of it all. I felt so humble, so grateful. A song just ended and a period of silence followed. I let that message sink in, all the while she was still moving inside of me.

After a while a new song started, and it seemed as though the man playing had silver fingers. The sounds of his guitar floated in the room with so much grace and beauty. I had never heard anything like that before. My breath deepened even more, and it was as if air poured inside and outside of me like huge waves of an infinite ocean. How could I have been so wrong about those people walking into the temple with guitars on the previous night? This music was something else.

As I reveled in the beauty of the music, my visions started to shift again, and still feeling Madre inside of me, I saw a beautiful woman appear. I realized it was Ada, someone I knew so well but hadn’t seen for many years. Suddenly she was right there with me again.

That sight brought me straight back to my childhood. From the time I was just a toddler, Ada had always been by my side. She was my most beloved friend, and the two of us would speak for hours. I told her everything: what was happening with my family, what had happened at school, about my other friends. She told me many things as well, and we laughed hard together. Our bond grew with the years, closer and closer. Sometimes she woke me in the middle of the night to tell me something, and my mother would have to come to my room to get me back to sleep.

Ada was so beautiful, so wise, so funny. All my friends and family knew about her. They would often ask how she was doing or what she had told me that day. I would pick up the phone and speak to her for hours until my mother called me for supper. At school, in our sharing circles, I would talk about her and what we had done together. She was an essential part of my life and in the lives of my family and friends.

She had been one of my truest companions when I was young. But at the same time, nobody else really knew her. Nobody else had ever seen Ada. Ada was what the psychological world calls an “imaginary friend.” To me, she was one of the most real things in my life. Our connection was so strong, so direct. She guided me and protected me. She was always there for me with love and care. She was a true angel.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Ada for years, since I was about twelve. Around that age, I was changing schools, and people started to tell me I was too old to have an imaginary friend, that she didn’t exist, and that it was time to grow up, to be a big boy. Listening to all those people, I had closed that connection and stored the memory of it deep away. There in that temple, deep on the force of the medicine, I saw her again. I cried deeply for the loss of her in my childhood. I had missed her so much over the years. Why had people told me that she was not real? Why hadn’t I trusted myself enough to believe my own experience?

But there she was again, in the middle of that dark temple in the mountains of the Sacred Valley of Peru. Slowly she started to transform from a woman into a baby. Tears were rolling over my eyes, and I could feel truth moving in my body. What a reunion that was. There and then I knew it was true. I felt who she was. She had never been just in my imagination. She had been as real as I was seeing her in that moment.

She was lying like a newborn baby in the middle of the temple. The music surrounding her was so perfect, so beautiful. I was so deeply touched by what I was seeing. That moment became engraved deeply upon my heart. It rekindled my trust in my intuition, in my connection and communication with other realities. Seeing Ada built such a foundation of trust in me, that I trusted the medicine from that moment onward. I felt reconnected with the truth that I had felt as a child.

The beauty, the love, the magnificence, and the magic of that night seemed beyond words to describe. It felt so deep, so profound, so sacred, so true. I felt I was getting a glimpse of a future yet to come. Ada, lying in the body of a newborn baby, was an answer to one of my deepest prayers: that one day I might hold her in my hands. What a moment would that be, reunited again!

ISVARA PARAMA KRISHNA

SAC-CID ANANDA VIGRAHA

ANADIR ADIR GOVINDA

SARVA-KARANA KARANAM

JAI GOVINDA

GOVINDA JAI

That night was the start of my relationship with Madre Ayahuasca. The vision of Ada felt like a seed being planted deep into my soul. I didn’t know what was going to come from that seed, as I lay there in that temple. I knew that seeds sprout and grow in their own timing, and in their own way, and that many influences on a seed can even prevent it from sprouting. In that moment I just reveled in the bliss and truth of that moment. The ceremony closed, and I stayed in the temple for hours.

After such a profound night, I wasn’t sure what to expect of the third and final ceremony, but I entered the space full of anticipation. In the third ceremony, I received a very different kind of vision. Once the colors and the patterns started, I saw myself playing in the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam, one of the most respected orchestras in the world. Playing in that orchestra had been a dream of mine since I was very young. Two of my teachers played in the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, and one of them, Guus Dral, had died of cancer just a few weeks before. In his last weeks, I had visited him several times. He was a very special person who had taught me many things over the years. We shared a deep connection. He had been a big, strong man who lived on a beautiful, wooden sailboat in the canals of central Amsterdam. In one of my favorite photographs of him, he stands with a huge smile at the wheel of his vessel, looking out onto the water, radiating joy and contentment.

Lying on my side in that third ceremony in Peru, I saw Guus Dral high up in the sky. He was looking so good and strong—as if his soul was shining like a star. His big smile and twinkling eyes radiated toward me. Seeing him, while deep in a ceremony, was so special. I saw him as he had always been before he was sick and fragile: a strong man with a big smile, glowing with love and joy. He seemed completely at peace. He reached his hand toward me, I grabbed it, and he pulled me up into the sky.

We soared upward together. It was incredible to have such a view from above. And as we flew, we laughed at so many things we were watching together. At one point we saw the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra from above. The orchestra was sitting on the Amsterdam stage, one of the most beautiful concert halls in the world. I recognized a few of the musicians, all dressed up in their tails. They were playing a wonderful piece of music, "The Rite of Spring,” composed by Igor Stravinsky. I looked closer and I saw myself sitting there, playing in that orchestra. I was playing in the position of my former teacher, Guus, who was right next to me in my vision. I was sitting in his chair, playing the bassoon with the rest of the orchestra. I turned my head and looked at him in amazement and joy. He nodded his head and we laughed together.

When the vision ended and I returned back to the ceremony, I felt a deep knowing inside. I was going to play in that orchestra—I did not have a single grain of doubt. Whatever was happening with the radio orchestra in the Netherlands, this was the solution: I was going to play in the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. There was no more need for any doubt or insecurity about what would happen with my job in Amsterdam. This was the solution to all the things that were happening.

That vision gave me so much clarity and confidence. It was only my first time with Ayahuasca, and I had no idea how I could trust my first vision under the influence of the medicine. At the same time, the vision of Ada had instilled a deep faith in me, and from that deeply felt sense of trust, I was clear: I was going to play in that orchestra.

In the afterglow of those ceremonies, my girlfriend and I toured on a motorbike through the Andean Mountains, rode the infamous Death Road in Bolivia, visited some mines, and went on a five-day excursion through the Bolivian Amazon. It was incredible to be in the magical Amazon that I heard so much about my whole life. Those days were my first footsteps into the home of Madre Ayahuasca.

On the plane home, I felt gratitude for the weeks of travel. All the doubt of the last year about my future in the classical music world had disappeared like snow in the sun. We were going to have an epic life in Amsterdam, that was for sure. Feeling into the ceremonies, I felt a deep sense of awe and gratitude. But I didn’t feel any calling anymore; I felt completion. I was sure those ceremonies had been a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me.

In the upcoming weeks, I plan to share some parts of the creation story of the Yawanawá. These stories are part of the bigger creation story that has been passed on by the tribe for many generations, maybe even since the beginning of time.

I would like to start by expressing my deepest gratitude. First of all, gratitude to our Creator, called Sheni in the language of the Yawanawá, for giving us the opportunity to learn, explore, and realize who we are, and where we came from—so that we all are able to remember the Creator and this magnificent creation.

Second, I want to thank the Yawanawá—this beautiful tribe that called me in my dreams, my spiritual family, my brothers and sisters, dear friends sharing the path of truth—for allowing me to learn with them, for opening up their study to me, and for giving me the permission to share these sacred stories.

I also want to thank all of you for being part of this journey and reading this substack.

Through many ages, and many different levels of time, these stories have survived and been passed along. The Yawanawá have only learned to read and write in the past few decades, in the schools founded by the missionaries. Before that, all the stories, all the wisdom, all the teachings, and all the history were passed on orally, from grandparents to grandchildren, from generation to generation: sitting around the sacred fire, sharing sacred space, and telling sacred stories. It is a huge blessing and a gift that these stories have been passed on over centuries, maybe even millennia—and that the lineage has not been broken. Many other tribes have lost their tradition with the arrival of the white men, and much knowledge has been lost. Much gratitude for all the people that guarded this sacred knowledge, and these sacred stories, and passed them on throughout time.

Several times in the history of the tribe, the Yawanawá were at war with other tribes. There was a time of a Great War, one of the greatest in the history of the tribe, and this war lasted for a very long time. There was a small break after that war. The leader who had started and lost the war had a son, and the son, wanting to avenge his father’s defeat, started the second Great War. Even through those times, amidst many deaths, much hunger and thirst, and much sorrow and loss, where there was not much time and space for telling sacred stories, the stories were passed on and kept inside the tribe. Much gratitude for all the people who lived through the great wars for preserving these sacred stories.

When the white people came, the rubber tappers entered the territory. The tribe was said to be around 4000/5000 people strong. Mukaveini, a great Yawanawá leader from the past, lived in a time when the tribe was only aware of some neighboring tribes. On his deathbed, he received a vision that another tribe, living on the other side of a great water, would come and enter their territory through the river, and look for the seringueira, the rubber tree. I plan to share the story of Mukaveini and his vision later here on substack.

The Industrial Revolution in the Western world had demands that only natural rubber could satisfy. For example, cars and planes needed rubber for their wheels. At that time, rubber was found only in the Amazon forests of South America. The rubber industry, which grew rapidly in the Amazon, called for a high amount of local labor. As the industry grew, labor shortages increased. What happened is that the Indians were basically enslaved by rubber barons. Abuse, killing, and systematic brutality were widespread. In some areas of the Amazon, the rubber tap industry wiped out 90% of the indigenous population. The Yawanawá were forced to work in those times in exchange for being able to meet their own basic needs. This is a massacre that is hardly talked about in modern history.

The time and the wealth of the rubber barons in Brazil started to end when an Englishman smuggled a box of rubber-tree seeds out of Brazil in 1876. The English then planted rubber trees in their colonies in Malaysia, Sri Lanka, and tropical Africa. On the new plantations, the rubber trees were more easily accessible, with the trees standing in rows on large fields. In the Amazon, the rubber trees are scattered across the forest, wherever Mother Nature has planted them, and the workers have to walk long distances in the deep forest to find and tap the trees. The forest is full of snakes, jaguars, and many other dangers. The new plantations were far more effective and productive, which resulted in much lower harvesting costs. The Amazon’s rubber industry fell, and the regional economy stagnated. The Yawanawá came out of this time decimated by disease and abuse, mired in poverty, and teetering on the edge of losing their tradition and wisdom. But even through those hard times, the ancient stories survived, thanks to all the elders of the tribe passing the stories on to the next generation.

Around this time, missionaries came into Yawanawá territory with the goal of converting souls to Christianity. They held the belief that these Indigenous people were savages and forbade the Yawanawá to use their language, tell their stories, use their medicines, and hold their ceremonies and rituals. The missionaries considered all of these practices to be pagan, and the church preached that they came from the devil. The missionaries played a clever game. They built schools and provided health care for the tribe, but when a tribe member would not live by church rules, the missionaries would exclude their children and family from schooling and health care. The result of those decades was that the tribe almost completely lost its traditions, language, wisdom, connection with the plants, medicines, ceremonies, rituals, and stories. In the 1970’s, the tribe had only a shocking one-hundred-twenty people left, showing very high rates of alcoholism, as well as social and cultural breakdown. 

During the time of the missionaries, just a few elders held the knowledge inside of them. It is because of Tatá, Yawá, Raimundo, and some others that we can now tell these stories. Much gratitude for those elders who kept those stories inside their hearts, understanding the truth and importance of them, and passing them, sometimes in secrecy, on to the next generation.

Just before the turn of the millennium, there was a big shift in the tribe. In the nearly forty years before the year 2000, not a single person had entered the dieta of Muka, a rite of passage, a deep study of the spirituality of the Yawanawá culture. This dieta has always been a breeding ground for leaders, warriors, healers, pajés, for people holding the tradition and the lineage of the Yawanawá not just through their words, but in their actions, becoming living examples of what it means to be a spiritual human walking this planet.

Around the year 2000, three strong men decided to take the root of Muka in dieta. They felt the calling to reconnect with the ancient wisdom and lineage of the tribe. Around the same time, the missionaries lost their ground in the Yawanawá land and were thrown out of the territory. Slowly, the tribe came out of the era of decline and loss and rebirthed itself into a New Time. This new era of growth and alliance had been prophesized by a vision of Tatá a few decades ago. Tatá was one of the elders of the tribe that died at age 103 in the year 2016. In this vision, he received the instructions to plant the seed of Kairau in the territory. It was transmitted to him that when the seed of Kairau was tended to well, and it had grown and was blossoming, the culture, the stories, and the songs of the tribe would be known throughout the world. It seems that we are living in that time, right now. It is a gift that the tribe has survived these last 2 centuries. I plan to share about this vision and Kairau in one of the upcoming musings.

Even through these times, the ancient stories were not lost and were passed on and on. The tribe has now grown at least 10 times in size compared to a few decades ago.

These stories are normally told in very special and sacred moments. Sometimes in a ceremony, while being with the force of Huni (Ayahuasca), these stories are shared.

These stories require some instruction in terms of how to connect with, receive, and read them. When listening to, or reading stories like these, it is important to be completely concentrated and not distracted by anything else around you. There is a Yawanawá saying that goes:

“Listen well, open your ears, and listen to what is inside of this message.”

This expression indicates it’s important that you pay attention when you connect with the creation stories. If you are not paying attention, how are you connecting? Why did you ask to listen if you are not paying attention? When the story is being told, you have to be focused. You cannot be walking, doing something, or paying attention to someone else. To receive these ancient stories, it is advised to be fully present.

These stories come through and are very connected to the spiritual force. That force is aware of everything, all the time. The way this force sees things could be likened to a million cameras that are looking at everything, all the time. Not only from the outside but also from the inside. That force sees all of you, every thought, every intention, all your actions, even the most secret ones that you do when you are all by yourself and think nobody is aware. The spiritual force sees all. These stories are like living scriptures, ancient books, that are kept in this great force, and only those who are prepared to receive them can open those ancient books. To receive these stories, it is important to be fully present while reading or listening to them.

When reading or listening to these stories, the spiritual force will be observing you, going inside of you, and working with you. If you are fully present for these ancient stories of creation, you can discover many more things. Many lessons are hidden inside.

Therefore, you need to prepare yourself and respect these stories when you read or listen to them. Be aware of this, and only listen to the Yawanawá creations stories that will be shared if you are really present. If you are not fully present, then it is better to continue with the other chapters and to come back to these stories at a later moment.

Another thing that is good to know about these stories of creation, is that every spiritual leader will tell the story as he or she studied it, and learned it. The person telling the story uses their own knowledge of the story—it is inside of their heart, and they pull it out. Two people telling the same story will not tell it in the same way; they each will have their own version. They all have the same pieces as a basis, but their heart gives them the power to choose the words.

That doesn’t mean that the person telling the story is changing the story, or that one version is better than another. It means that the heart of one person is not the same as the heart of someone else.

This is important to appreciate. This truth might help explain why so many of the indigenous people of this planet, who have carried so much knowledge and wisdom through the ages, never learned to read or write for so many centuries. They understood that stories have a consciousness. They understood that the teller of the story has a consciousness. They understood that the listener has a consciousness. And consciousness is always shifting and changing on different levels and at different depths. Consciousness filters the story, and the story that is heard today might differ from the story that was transmitted in the beginning. A story that is told by the same person this day, and told by the same person 10 years earlier might differ, as the consciousness of that person has shifted over those years. Tatá, with his age and a tremendous amount of study, told these stories differently than a younger person, as his consciousness is different, and his level of study is different. A good storyteller also highlights certain passages or events in a story, or explains them differently, depending on who is listening.

One of the first reasons people learned to read and write thousands of years ago was to record business transactions. In the beginning, writing was not used to record stories. When people started writing stories down, they began forgetting that the story has a consciousness. A story can be seen as a being that is shifting, changing, and evolving. Also, they might have forgotten that the writer of the story has a consciousness—and that this consciousness filters the story. By writing a story down, you lock the story into a certain form, and in a way inhibit the evolution of the understanding of a story.

We have seen what can happen when a story is written down, and when the written form is perceived as the ultimate truth. Especially when people hold onto that truth. Wars have started, nations have fallen, and millions and millions of people have died and suffered as a result of people defending “the word”. This happens even today.

When looking back in time, we see that the great masters, prophets, and enlightened ones have rarely ever written down stories. They were oral storytellers who used stories as powerful tools to express their teachings.

Jesus was an amazing storyteller. So were Mohammed and the Buddha. But none of them wrote the Bible, the Koran, or any other holy scripture. Those scriptures were written down by their disciples, almost always several generations later.

Indigenous people and wise masters might have understood this a long time ago and thus never looked for a way to record their stories. They passed them orally from generation to generation, from grandparents to grandchildren, sitting around the sacred fire, being together in sacred ceremony.

Learning this these last years, I have wondered sometimes who are the savages… The people who learned to write and read, or the ones who didn’t.

The true depth of these stories can possibly only be studied and perceived while being in dieta, in the jungle, out of communication. Being in dieta is very powerful. It calms the mind and the body in many ways. The dieta weakens the body, allowing you to connect more strongly with your spirit, your soul. The dieta process is like putting a glass of muddy water on a table and leaving it there for a period without shaking it up. The mind slowly settles down and goes into deep layers of clarity and connection. In dieta, the mind can become crystal clear. Being in that state to receive these stories is very special. In dieta, it is possible to connect with deeper layers of these stories.

I am sharing this, just to let you know that the stories I will share in the upcoming weeks are just basic versions of these stories. I will share the stories as voice recordings, and most of them will be recordings that have been made in ceremonial spaces, on the force of Huni.

Listen to them, connect with them, study them, and see what they bring to you.

If you’d like to learn more about the history of the Indigenous tribes in the Amazon, and the influences of the rubber industry and the missionaries I would recommend you to watch the movie/documentary Embrace of the Serpent. It gives a clear view of the effect of European colonialism on the Amazon, and might bring a deeper appreciation of which times these stories have survived.

Voice note around Tibetan Sky Burial

Since I was young, two things have always been very present: healing and music. Music has been a presence in my life since I was born. During my childhood in the Netherlands, my mother played the radio for me, surrounding me with music from all over the world. She hummed and sang to me, and from an early age, I joined in. The vibrations soothed me, and music came naturally to me. From early on I knew that music was in my future. Music has always been my most natural language for communicating. And looking back, music has been a bridge between the material and spiritual realms for me.

I began music lessons when I was six, starting with the recorder. I was a quick student and excelled in my class. A year later I began playing the flugelhorn, a kind of trumpet. My father would often tag along to the music lessons and stand right next to me as I practiced, helping me in many ways. I went on my first international tour when I was twelve. It was exciting to travel abroad without my parents, and as the youngest member, I was taken under the conductor’s wing. We travelled for weeks in Italy, and he taught me many things about music. Walking through the cathedral of Venice, I learned about the physics of sound. In many ancient places, he explained about the history of music, and so many other things. I treasure those lessons in my heart to this day.

When I was eighteen, I moved to The Hague, studying bassoon at the Royal School of Music. It was great to be studying together with so many other talented musicians from all over the world. In those years I heard the Concertgebouw Orchestra for the very first time in Amsterdam. I was inspired by their music and passion. It was a childhood dream of mine to play with that orchestra one day.

It was during my early studies that my journey as a healer began. I received my first initiation into Reiki, a kind of energy healing, from a woman who held weekly meetings for healers. For several years I attended her meetings and learned about different modalities of healing and spirituality. There were group healings, studies of the energies of crystals, and we practiced different methods of energetic healing. It was there that I learned for the first time about reincarnation.

I had sensed from a young age that there was more in life than just what I could see with my eyes and touch with my hands. I was strongly drawn to these new ways of understanding things. It was a time of great learning for me, progressing in my music at the Royal School and learning about healing and spirituality in those weekly meetings. But while the meetings were an important part of my life, not many people knew I was part of them. I kept them separate from my life as a musician. 

During those years of study, I continued touring during the summers with an international youth orchestra. One summer we played “Parsifal,” an opera by Richard Wagner. Claudio Abbado, a living legend, conducted the orchestra. It had been an honor to work with him for several weeks in a row. With a full orchestra of young, talented musicians from all over the world, we had travelled in luxury and stayed in some of the best hotels.

After four years of study, I was preparing for my final exams in June, 2003. I planned to continue my studies in Berlin with a grandmaster of the bassoon, Klaus Thunemann. My classes would start in the beginning of October. I began thinking about the four months of freedom I had before this new chapter of studies would begin. I wanted a break from music and from playing the bassoon. I wanted something completely different. I started to think, “Where am I going? What do I want to see? Where do I want to travel?” 

Touring with the orchestras, I had seen much of Europe and travelled to Japan and northern parts of Africa. This time I wanted to go to a place where I could learn something different, where I could experience something new, and meet other kinds of people. I wanted a shift from what I had already seen. And I began wondering to myself, where should I go? Much of what I had been studying in my free time was birthed in the Far East and I felt drawn to some of the ancient practices that originated there, like meditation and yoga. I had not really tapped into these things yet, but they were pulling on me strongly. Something was calling me. Feeling into that question, two destinations came to me: India or Tibet.

I began asking around, and my cousin connected me with a friend of hers, a real adventurer who had traveled to many places for years. When I asked her about India, she said that India is crazy. “If that’s going be your first travel to the East …” she said, her voice trailing off uncertainly. She told me it would be mind-blowing, that it would be too overwhelming. “Don’t do that,” she said. “It’s too much. Go to a place that’s easier, more accessible. Go somewhere you can learn how to travel, and then afterwards go to India.”  

And when I heard that, I thought, “Yeah, good.” It felt right to me. I asked her where she had been, what places she could recommend.

She began telling me about Nepal, the tigers she saw there in the wild, the incredible trails she had hiked in the massive, Himalayan mountains, and Katmandu, a magical city full of temples, with gentle, open people. She told me enthusiastically about the people she had met, and how easy it was to meet other travelers. The way she spoke, I felt sure this was what I wanted to do. And I asked her, “Have you been to Tibet?” 

“No, I didn’t go there,” she said. “It’s difficult to get into Tibet because of Chinese communist entry restrictions, but if you’re in Katmandu, then you’re in a good place to find an entry. Officially you can only enter Tibet with a group and a group visa, but—”, she paused, “some people will help you. Spend some time looking, have some cash, and you can find a way.”

Those last words gave me the final nudge. I knew that my next destination would be Tibet, the roof of the world. A country with tales of magic, ancient wisdom, and people with open hearts and an incredible, deep spirituality. China invaded Tibet and nearly destroyed its culture. The world had let the destruction happen.

It was said that the last remnants of ancient Tibet were rapidly disappearing, so felt an urge to visit the country, to be able to catch any glimpse of the old I could find. I regretted that I never went to Berlin when the wall fell, that I was not there at that magical moment of a shift in human history. I had seen how it had changed Berlin and Germany. Maybe Tibet is the same, I thought. There were plans to build a train which would open up immigration, bringing in a flood of Chinese people so that China could take over still more of Tibet, destroying its culture in another way, more slowly but more steadily.

I read about Lhasa, with the palace of the Dalai Lama, the Potala Palace. I read myths about Mount Kailash, one of the most sacred mountains on the planet, where Mother Ganga (the Ganges) and three other major rivers are birthed. I saw pictures of the turquoise Himalayan lakes, the yaks in the snow, and beautiful, gentle, open-hearted people with big eyes and genuine smiles. I wanted to meet those gentle people, walking with their prayer wheels. Some of them would bind pieces of wood to their knees and elbows and travel for hundreds and hundreds of kilometers, prostrating themselves on the ground every third step for weeks, months, or even years to get to the Jokhang temple, and then stay there, pray, and receive the blessings from that place.

Where in the world can you find this? I thought to myself. A completely different culture, and one on the edge of extinction. To get a glimpse of that! I felt that I needed to go, that time was short.

I began planning my trip. I would fly to Katmandu, the capital of Nepal, and from there I would find a way into Tibet. I would travel for two months, and work for six weeks beforehand to make money for my trip. I could get work at a laundry factory that was close to my parents, which specialized in cleaning linens from local hotels and hospitals. I had already worked there several summers to earn a bit of money, so I had good connections there.

One weekend, a few months before summer, I went to stay with my parents to tell them about my plan. It was always nice to take a break from my studies in The Hague and spend time back home. Saturday evening we sat down at the table for dinner, and I broached the subject slowly. 

“This summer I decided not to go on tour with the orchestra,” I started. “I think instead I want to go on a holiday.”

“Oh, how nice,” my mother said encouragingly.

My father asked, “What kind of holiday are you thinking of? Where are you going?”

“I want to travel two months through Nepal, and see if I can get into Tibet,” I said.

Those words were the overture of a long silence at the table. My mother’s face turned cold. She looked at me in fear. I could sense that something was boiling up inside of my father.

My mom wanted to say something, but she was holding back. After a few minutes she burst out: “Why do you want to go to these kind of places? You always want to do something different. Can’t you just go to a normal place? To a place where all people go?”

“It’s dangerous there,” my father joined in. “A Third World country. You have no connections there and you want to go all by yourself?” He looked at me sternly. “How can you do something like that? You always have these ideas to be different. Go to a normal place!” There was anger in his voice, and I could feel tension and fear in both of them.

They kept talking, and as their words continued, I felt sad and upset. It was clear that they would need more time to understand what was happening. At the same time, I knew that they would eventually support my plan.

I tried to make them see how special a time this was, and why I wanted to do something different. “I have this time now. When do I have a summer where I have three, four months free? I can work a bit, earn some money, and then just go and be free and see these places! And this will be after my final exam, after finishing my bachelor’s degree and before beginning a whole new chapter of studying for my master’s in Berlin.” 

My parents were quiet. The tension at the table was palpable.

I spoke slowly, carefully. “I understand and hear that it’s not your choice, and that you wouldn’t go there,” I said to them. “But I’m going.” I let my statement hang in the air for a moment.

“I’m going there,” I repeated. “I’m going to see what’s there and find out what it is. It’s calling me, I don’t know why, but it is. Maybe in a few years, Tibet will be not so special anymore. I don’t want to go years from now when everyone else is going, when it becomes just a tourist attraction and a kind of Disneyland. I would like to see it now, while it’s still authentic, and meet those people.”

The rest of the dinner was silent. In the weeks that followed, my parents continued trying to change my mind, to no avail. I started work at the factory, looked for tickets to Katmandu, and began reading up on Nepal and Tibet. The more I learned about those countries, the more I relaxed into my decision. Tibet was calling, and I had to listen and find out what was there for me.

A few weeks later I was on a plane to Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal. I planned to stay at the Katmandu Guest House in the middle of the old city, a popular hostel where I could easily meet other travelers. I had read that rooms were about two dollars a night for a simple, single room with a shared shower down the hall. I brought a sleeping bag, as I had read that the sheets were not super clean, or even changed for every new person that came.

Looking out the window when the plane was close to landing, I saw beautiful, green, round hills and quaint, tiny villages. In the distance, snow-packed peaks pierced the sky. The atmosphere in the airport was laid-back. The guy at the counter had a huge smile, and the first thing he said was, “Welcome to Nepal!” What a change from the usual grim-faced border-control people I had encountered at other airports. I was through customs in a breeze.

Outside, many cab drivers tried to pull me in their direction. Soon I was seated in a taxi, explaining that I wanted to go to the Katmandu Guest House. We pulled away from the curb and almost immediately swerved to avoid another car. My driver honked and forced us into the merging traffic. That shocked me, and I sat petrified in my seat. Traffic got worse, and he swerved again, leaning on the car horn. I had never seen such chaos on a road. We were surrounded by cars, and every one of them seemed to be driving totally out of control. It seemed that where Western drivers would hit the brake, Nepali drivers would lay on the horn. I held onto the back seat tightly, expecting a collision at any moment.

The taxi driver spoke to me over his shoulder, saying in English, “Don’t worry, sir, nothing is going to happen.” His reassuring tone, and his big smile, contrasted starkly with the chaos around us.

Magically, nothing happened, and all the while my driver talked to me calmly in the midst of the noise and commotion. I learned that he wasn’t taking me to the Katmandu Guest House after all. “No, no, the guest house is full!” he said. “You can’t go there. I will bring you to the hostel of a friend. Very good, very close, and much cheaper.”

I had read about taxi drivers in Nepal, and how they would try to take you somewhere else where they would receive a commission from the facility. “No, it’s not full, I made a reservation,” I said with as much certainty as I could muster at the moment. The truth was, I had not made a reservation at all.

He insisted that he could not take me. “Didn’t you hear me? The Katmandu Guest is full!”

But I stayed firm. “No, please take me to the Katmandu Guest House. I won’t go anywhere else.”

With a lot of reluctance, and after driving me around and stopping at two other places, he finally dropped me at the Katmandu Guest House. I had learned that they didn’t give commissions there, so it was not a popular place for taxi drivers. Perhaps because he had run up the bill by all that driving around to places I didn’t want to go, the driver took off in good spirits after I paid him. It had been such a wild ride, and it took me a minute to collect myself.

I walked into the guest house, and the first thing I saw was a guy sitting on the terrace with a tee-shirt reading: “Ik ben toch zeker van Eindhoven!” (I’m proudly from Eindhoven!) That put a huge smile on my face: Eindhoven is a city in my homeland.

“Hey, you’re from Eindhoven!” I said.

“Of course,” he said, in Dutch. “Otherwise I would not be wearing this shirt.”

When I told him I had just arrived in Nepal, he invited me to go touring with him and his friends through the valley. They were planning to visit local temples and villages.

“I would love to join you!” I said. A history teacher in his late thirties, he had read an incredible amount about Nepal and proved to be an amazing travel buddy. At one point I told him I wanted to go to Tibet.

“That’s really difficult,” he said. “Many people come to Katmandu with that wish, but not many actually make it. But maybe if you look around you can find the right people.” 

“Where do I look around?” I asked.

“Go to all the travel agencies and talk with people,” he said. “Post papers on the notice boards, and look at notice boards because other people might also want to get there. You probably won’t get a visa by yourself. That’s very difficult and expensive. But with a group, who knows? You seem to be a smart guy who knows what he wants and gets what he wants, so go for it.”

I spent a few days going from one travel agency to another, talking to people, browsing the notice boards all over Kathmandu, and telling everybody I met that I wanted to go to Tibet. “Do you know a way into Tibet?” I asked over and over again. Many times I ended up in a long conversation, but the usual answer was usually, “No, it’s not possible.” Sometimes I was told “We don’t have a date now, come back in a few days,” or “Our group is already full,” or “It’s very difficult to get a visa.”

After many days and many disappointments later, I was still determined to find a way into Tibet. “Whatever happens, “ I told myself, “I’m going to do it, even if I have to cross the border walking through the mountains.” Nothing was going to stop me.

One night in a bar, I met a guy in his fifties. He had a British accent. He looked very relaxed and had a big smile on his face. He was telling some other travelers about his trips to Tibet, and when I heard him speak, I sat down next to him. He had been to Tibet six or seven times.

“How do you get there?” I asked him.

He was quite forthcoming, even though his answer sounded vague. “I know this Tibetan guy,” he said. “He’ll meet you at the border, will prepare your visa, and will take you through the country and show you all the places. You have to go with a group of about ten people in a minivan that will drive you all the way to Lhasa. If you want, I can connect you. He has a friend here that will bring you to the border, and from there, this other guy will take you.”

“I would love to be connected,” I said.

The next day I went with him to a travel agency in a tiny back alley in a part of Katmandu where I had not been yet. I would never have found that place by myself. He introduced me to a guy in the travel agency, and left.

The agency questioned me about my plans for a very long time. But in the end they said “Yes, we can take you to Tibet. We can leave in a couple of days. We just need a few more people. You might be able to help us find some, and when we have ten people, we can go.”

They already had six people signed up, so I went out and talked to other travelers about joining us. Surprisingly, I didn’t get many positive reactions; it seemed that not many people were as anxious to go to Tibet as I was. Luckily the travel agency found some more people, and a few days later I got a notice that we would leave the next morning.

We had to be at the agency at five in the morning. From that moment on, we would be in a minivan for four or five days straight, driving through the mountains over really bad roads. With my height of almost two meters, I really wanted to get one of the spaces in front with some more legroom. If I ended up somewhere in the back, it would become a very challenging trip.

Knowing that, I had gotten up super early, packed my bags, and walked to our meeting place an hour early. When the van pulled up, I put my backpack on one of the front seats and was happy that I had secured it.

After a while the travel agency people came around to check our passports. When I opened my backpack, I looked everywhere, but it wasn’t there. Then I remembered: I’d left my passport in the guest house! My heart skipped a beat.

I jumped up, leaving my backpack on the van seat with all my money in it, and ran as fast as I could back to the hostel. It was a long, fifteen-minute run. When I got there, I rushed up to my old room, and in a drawer next to the bed, found my passport. I breathed a sigh of relief, then raced back to the van, where I found the travel guide freaking out.

“You just left all your papers and all your money here?” he cried. “What are you doing? This is Katmandu! Are you crazy? Your backpack could have been stolen!”

I didn’t know what to say. I was out of breath and speechless. I looked at my seat, and luckily my bag was there exactly as I had left it. I apologized, gave the guy my passport, and sat down in my spot. A few minutes a later, they closed the door and we left. I was sitting in the front of the van, feeling my heart beating in my chest, still grasping for air, sweating and full of adrenaline. “Wow,” I thought, “I made it!” 

Once we were outside of Kathmandu, we drove steadily upward, and the beautiful lush, green valley started to shift into a different kind of landscape. Deciduous trees made space for tall pines, and we came closer and closer to the snow-peaked mountains.

In the late afternoon, we arrived at the border in a little village called Kodari. There, something ironically called “the friendship bridge” connects Nepal’s border with Tibet’s. It is easy to cross physically. The problem comes in having the paperwork the communists require to get in.

Why were the Chinese communists so opposed to tourists? I believe because they wanted to hide from the world the destruction they caused to Tibet. Today it’s easier to get into the country than at the time I attempted it, but tourists today can only visit certain spots. Those places are like Disneylands, with a very fake feel. They are not the genuine Tibet and present a false image.

We were met at the border by the Tibetan guy that the older Englishman had talked about. We took our backpacks from the van, walked over the friendship bridge into Tibet, crossed through customs, and got into another van that was waiting for us on the Tibetan side. Once we were all settled, the van slowly started to move. My body was tingling. I felt super exited. It was a dream come true.

In a single day we climbed to an altitude of over four-thousand meters, the aggressive Himalayan peaks towering around us. In a few hours we all felt really sick from the altitude. It was a wild ride, but I was so happy to be there in that van. Most of the time I was silent, listening to the other travelers talking about their wild ideas of escaping the group and going onward by themselves. As we had only a group visa, we were supposed to stay together all the time. Our guide had taken our passports and told us that we would get them back on the way out to Nepal. He wanted to make sure none of us would leave the group and go off by ourselves. As a tour guide, he was responsible for us and could get in big trouble if one of us escaped. He guarded us every step of the way, making sure we didn’t go off on our own.

The visa rules of the Chinese government were very strict, and traveling into Tibet without an official Chinese travel guide was forbidden. It was very dangerous to travel through Tibet without a proper visa. There were stories of people who had spent time in Chinese jails for doing just that.

After four days in the van, and stopping at some sites along the way, we finally arrived in Lhasa, the legendary Tibetan capital. The landscape had been mind-blowingly beautiful, but the trip had been hard on our bodies. It was difficult to breathe and walk at the same time because of the altitude, and we hadn’t slept a lot. Most everyone had vomited several times during the ride, and the last two days the van had been quiet. When we finally stopped at our hotel in Lhasa, we were all utterly exhausted.

When we lined up at the hotel to check in, our travel guide handed us our passports. We would have to hand them back as soon as the check-in was completed. I stood last in line, looking at my passport, knowing this was a moment of opportunity. I looked up, and my eyes met the gaze of an English/Malasian guy who had been silent in the van for the whole journey. It was if we were reading each other’s minds. We glanced around the room and saw that everyone else was busy with the check-in. Silently we turned and walked away.

As soon as we were around the corner, we started to run. It was difficult to run in the thin air, and we were already exhausted. But we kept running with all that we had until we arrived at an older part of the town. Finally, we slowed down. Outside a restaurant, a woman saw us running and waved to us. We had no clue what we were doing, but when we saw her waving, we looked at each other, nodded, and ran toward her. That’s how we found our first refuge in Tibet.

The woman who let us into her house must have felt intuitively what the situation was, and let us sleep on the hard sofas in the room behind her kitchen. Staying with her was the first profound experience I had in Tibet, and it has always stayed with me. The Chinese had invaded her homeland, killing and torturing Tibetans, bringing in alcohol, militarizing Lhasa and other peaceful areas, and giving jobs of locals to Chinese “immigrants.” This woman had seen so much. Yet here she was: calm, happy, and serene, working diligently in silence, taking care of us so well out of the goodness of her heart. I felt great respect and admiration.

A few days later we carefully left the woman’s house and found a place to rent two motorbikes for six weeks. A few hours later we drove out of Lhasa and into the vast Tibetan plateau. Neither of us had driven a motorbike before, but after a few hours we felt like kings of the road. 

What followed was an epic trip that took us to many monasteries, through spectacular landscapes, and meetings with very special and humble people. For two weeks we had a couple of Tibetan nuns traveling with us on the backseats of our bikes. They showed us many sacred sites that we would have never found alone, and one of them introduced me to my first meditation. I had never given much thought to meditation, but once I started to connect with it, I felt it was something I would carry with me for the rest of my life. 

Six weeks later, just before re-entering Lhasa, we were stopped by the police. We had been fortunate not to come across any police during our weeks of travel. When the police saw our passports, they immediately took us to the Lhasa police station. They separated us and began interrogating us. The officer that questioned me was rude and aggressive and kept shouting at me in Chinese. After several hours I broke down in tears, and then a new guy came in who spoke perfect English. Scared and exhausted, I told him exactly what had happened over the past six weeks. 

After twenty-four hours in a tiny cell in Lhasa, we were released to return to the border, out of Tibet and back into Nepal. We felt quite heavy on the trip back; our encounter with the police had shaken us up. After a day of driving in silence, our driver stopped the car and pointed out the window. My buddy and I got out of the car to take a leak. I looked at the ground, feeling dejected from our recent experience. 

When I looked up, I saw that we were standing in front of a majestic view of the Himalayan Mountains. Everywhere up to the vast, distant horizon, majestic snow-peaked giants stood before us. The sky was light blue, and the sun illuminated the whole mountain range. And there in the middle stood the king of them all, a snowstorm crowing its peak: Mount Everest.

My friend and I looked at each other, then started shouting and jumping up and down. Energy raged through my body, chasing away my dejection, as feelings of euphoria, freedom, and victory poured through me. I felt amazing! We stopped jumping, collected ourselves, then gave each other a big hug. Our situation sank in. Yes, we had been caught by the Chinese police, but we had just completed an epic trip through one of the most difficult and beautiful countries in the world. This vista before us was like an award, a diploma acknowledging that. We had made it!

Standing there with that view, the clear blue sky in the background of those awe-inspiring mountains, I could feel the seed that had been planted inside of me. Meeting those gentle, silent people that were so intuitive and wise, who knew how to live so simply, had touched something deep within me. A desire for more travel and for meeting different people had been born. I knew there was more for me out there, I just didn’t know exactly what. My call to travel came from a deep place—to learn things, to see places, and to meet people, but it was more than that. I felt called to seek out something deeper in life—something I always felt was possible. Looking back now, I understand why I felt the call to travel since a very young age: I was looking for home.

Below are graphic pictures of a Tibetan Sky Burial, please view respectfully, and with caution

The powerful echo of my heartbeat pounded in my ears. Three strange men stared at me without expression, the river shore behind them slowly receding, taking with it everything familiar to me. I had called to them from the river bank a few minutes ago, pleading with frantic arm gestures for them to return to shore and bring me with them. To my delight, they had turned around and let me onto their boat. Now I was with them in the middle of the Brazilian Amazon, on a small aluminum canoe headed up a river whose name I didn’t know, with no clue where we were going. 

I sat in the front of the canoe on a metal bar shifting my weight, but no matter how I shifted, I couldn’t get comfortable. With each passing minute we floated further away from cell reception, from civilization, from the life I’d known, from anything familiar to me. I sat in silence with a growing sense of isolation wrapping around me, and my body began to tremble. Could these men sense that I was panicking? I tried to read their faces, but couldn’t tell. Composing myself, I ventured a smile. They stared at me and then looked away, saying nothing. I didn’t speak their language, and they didn’t speak mine. The trees of the Amazon towered over the river, closing around us. Layer upon layer of greenery enveloped the boat, like waves of forest crashing overhead, each one taking us deeper and deeper into the jungle. The hum of the engine was blanketed by birdsong and vibrations of insects, the calls of animals I didn’t recognize and couldn’t see, the sounds of the jungle. 

I reminded myself that I was here by choice—and providence. I had put myself in this situation. For two days I had been following only a vague notion of where I was going, remembering an echo in my mind, a vision I once had and then tucked away in memory. Where would that vision lead me? I didn’t know, but I trusted the memory. And now, sitting on this boat with these stoic Indians, traveling deeper into the rainforest and towards an unknown destination, my only choice was to surrender. 

Surrender to that trust, and to the thousands of choices, small and large, that had brought me here.

In foreign places I usually traveled this way, following my intuition, trusting the path opening before me. I had always landed on my feet. But this trip felt different, and motoring deeper into the vast Amazon jungle on this barren skiff with these stocky strangers felt more foreign and unfamiliar than anything I could remember. My body trembled again, taken with excitement and apprehension, an anticipation of strangeness and the unknown. I took a deep breath as we puttered slowly, inexorably up the river. 

I felt strange and awkward next to these strong, compact Indian men—I, a gangly, scrawny, two-meter-tall Dutchman sitting uncomfortably at the front of their boat. How strange and out of place I must look to them, I thought. I had only an empty water bottle, a small backpack with a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a piece of soap. I began to feel terribly unprepared for such a trip into the Amazon. What the hell was I doing there? With no food or water, I was entirely dependent on these men, and whomever I would meet where they were taking me—which I could not even ask them because I did not speak their language. I began to feel thirsty. I realized I was baking in the sun. I turned to the Indians and gestured, asking if they had something to drink. One of them pulled a cup from his bag, dipped it in the river, and handed it to me. I stared at the cup in my hands, looking into the murky river water, considering all the tiny life forms teeming within it. I looked at the man in apprehension, and he nodded in approval, indicating that I should drink. I hesitated, but what other choice did I have? I was parched. Besides, there wouldn't be any filters or plumbing where we were going. Slowly I realized that the moment I stepped onto the boat, I had chosen to drink this cup. The river would be my only water source for a while, so I might as well start drinking it. Another surrender. Holding the cup of muddy brown water to the sky, I made a toast, saying out loud: “Welcome to the Amazon!” I took a huge gulp, swallowed, and then laughed. Relief poured over me, as welcome as the water quenching my thirst. Just let go, just let go. I laughed again, and dipped the cup into the river to take another huge gulp. The Indians smiled, seeing that I was starting to relax.

The gentle, low hum of the engine soothed me as we skimmed along the dark waters. The stress of the last few months began slipping from my shoulders, as though the life I had come from was being carried away downstream. Our small skiff continued up the river, angling between mighty, breathtaking trees. The surrounding jungle felt pregnant with possibility, full of an unknown and undiscovered depth. Colorful birds flew high against the blue sky overhead, and flitted between the trees as we passed by. A symphony of insects and birdsong echoed through the trees and across the river, washing layers of sounds and pulsing vibrations over me. Leaves in a million different shapes and sizes surrounded the river, revealing themselves in more shades of green than I had known possible.

The trees, plants and leaves slid past me, wrapping me in a vibrant and energizing cacophony of colors and sounds. My skin felt burnished and new and my senses seemed restored to a vividness long forgotten. New feelings began to surface from within: freedom, gratitude, joy, and a visceral appreciation for life. My words came back to me: it felt like the Amazon was welcoming me indeed.

I had been staying with a friend in Rio Branco, a city in the Amazon in Brazil a few hours from the shoreline where I stepped onto the boat. The previous year had been rough, a difficult and challenging year that had unraveled my life in ways I never anticipated. I could feel the weight of those months inside of me. 

A few weeks ago I had moved from Amsterdam to Peru, from one of Europe’s most affluent cities to a third-world country full of untamed jungle and indigenous people practicing ancient traditions and living off the land without power or running water. It was a stark change from the luxurious urban existence I was accustomed to, and the high society circles that surrounded my professional music career.

By the time I was thirty years old, I had played in some of Europe’s most acclaimed orchestras and with some of the finest classical music conductors. My girlfriend, a gorgeous and accomplished violinist, lived with me in a beautiful apartment in Amsterdam, the capital of my homeland. We were surrounded by friends and family, and orchestra life had brought me to the leading cultural cities of the world, to their most beautiful concert halls and their circles of wealth and power. Touring with orchestras meant all-expense-paid trips to the best hotels and the richest enclaves all over the world, and all to play music for the cultured class, and to bask in the afterglow of stardom and admiration at the cocktail parties and receptions that followed. Friends of mine, reflecting on my home in Amsterdam and my professional career touring the world, had said that it seemed I had a perfect life.

But there was something missing. I had always sensed that. Touring with the orchestras did not satisfy a deeper thirst and curiosity for a different kind of travel, and for years I had spent my long summer breaks backpacking in parts of the world that many of my musician colleagues would never visit and could scarcely imagine. I had toured through Cambodia, visited the backlands of Laos, traveled again and again through remote parts of India, and explored Tibet with a Buddhist nun on the backseat of a motorbike.

And then my first trip to South America two years ago had planted the seeds of change that transformed my life in the most unexpected of ways. In the previous six months I had ended my relationship, closed my professional music career, abandoned my life in Amsterdam, and moved to the Sacred Valley of Peru to open a center for healing. And now, just a few weeks after having arrived in Peru, still in the midst of setting up my healing center, I was on a boat in Brazil in the middle of the Amazon with a bunch of Indians. 

It grew dark. The Indians steered the boat toward the shore, pulling up to a tiny village made up of eight or so simple wooden houses with palm roofs. The sun was setting, painting the sky a fiery red. Helping me out of the boat, the Indians led me toward one of the houses. I watched their every move, observing them closely. I did not know what would happen next. They invited me to sit and rest after the long boat ride. Sitting on the porch of that house, I watched them gather sticks from the shore, and then quickly make a fire and begin to prepare some food. It all happened naturally and seemed effortless. When food was ready, they motioned for me to sit next to them and handed me a plate. 

As I ate the simple meal they served me, I remembered the woman in Tibet, perhaps the first indigenous person I ever met, who introduced me to a seemingly effortless and intuitive way of being. It happened at the beginning of my trip to Tibet, and I was running through the streets of Lhasa carrying a heavy backpack with no clue where I was going, and with a stranger I had barely spoken to. I smiled to myself; my current situation in the jungles of Brazil was not so different.

The Tibetan woman had appeared out of nowhere, motioning for us to come in off the streets. She escorted us into a back room behind her kitchen, where we set down our bags and began catching our breath. We were full of adrenalin. We had just run away from our group tour, sprinting from the hotel and breaking the rules of our tightly-controlled visas. We knew what we had done was illegal, and that our tour guide and the Chinese authorities would be searching for us. The Chinese government had been jailing and punishing tourists who broke the rules by traveling outside of the licensed tour groups.

She must have known this too. The Tibetan people had endured horrors since the Chinese invasion of their country, and yet this woman radiated a calm peacefulness. She gestured for us to sit down on the sofas, and then went to the kitchen. I couldn’t believe what had just happened and sat silently, my heart pounding and my breath slowly calming. After a while she came back, and with the same deliberate calmness and silence, served us two bowls of delicious, hot soup.

We stayed with the woman, out of sight and gauging our situation. Over those few days I grew to love her presence, her calmness, her gentleness and hospitality. Although we didn’t share a language and could not speak to each other, our communication happened in the silence. We used simple gestures and a focused attention that communicated a mutual respect and a way of honoring the other person, even in the simplest of exchanges. She seemed to have a deep wisdom inside, and a strong, confident connection to her intuition. She lived simply, without many of the comforts of the Western world, and yet I felt she was ahead of modern life in many ways. That time in her home planted a desire inside of me to learn more about the kind of intuition and way of communication she had shown me. 

And here, on the shore of a river on the other side of the world, these Indians were showing me a similar kind of effortless and intuitive communication. They radiated a calmness and open generosity that seemed to rise up from a deep well of wisdom and a strong, confident connection to self.

When dinner was finished, the women cleaned up the dishes and the men stayed around the fire, talking and laughing. We could not communicate with words, but I started to laugh along with them, feeling their energies. The tension I had felt all day on the boat and when first arriving to this small riverside village had transformed into an evening of laughter and enjoyment. The Indians were open and generous, helping me with simple things I was unfamiliar with, and sharing their food and their company with me. My anxiety melted away, and I began to trust my strange new situation more and more. 

After a while the men and women started hanging hammocks in a big open space inside one of the houses. Gesturing, they asked if I had a hammock to sleep in. I had nothing but my backpack. A woman walked out of the house and returned a few minutes later with a hammock for me. With help, I hung it across the room and climbed in. As I settled into the hammock and toward sleep, I started to think back on how this all had begun. 

With all of the activity leading up to my move to Peru, I hadn’t prepared for my trip to Brazil beyond visiting a friend in Rio Branco. That completed, I had no plan—no guidebook, no maps, nothing. Rio Branco is a big, filthy city and one of the doorways into the Amazon, and so I decided to just walk in no particular direction, and began wandering through the town. Then I came upon a road sign: CRUZEIRO DO SUL – 650 KM.

I stopped in my tracks. My heart skipped a beat. I had forgotten about that name, Cruzeiro do Sul. I first heard it while deeply immersed in one of my Ayahuasca ceremonies. The memory of the ceremony in the Netherlands, not far outside Amsterdam, came rushing back. A few months before leaving the Netherlands, lying under a cozy blanket, deep under the influence of the Medicine, I had received three clear messages. It was not a conversation: it was as if Madre Ayahuasca started by just repeating a word:

“Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá, Yawanawá…”

She whispered that word into my ear for about half an hour, very calmly, very gently, and at the same time crystal clear. I asked her what that word meant, but she just kept whispering the word, repeating it over and over. When she finally stopped, I had a vision of a man with one arm. He looked down on me from above, watching me. I saw him in my vision, almost like being in a dream. He didn’t say anything or make any sign or gesture. He just stood and watched me. In that space, it seemed clear that inside he held a lot of knowledge and wisdom.

After a while Madre Ayahuasca had started to whisper in my ear again: 

“Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul, Cruzeiro do Sul…”

She repeated that phrase into my ear over and over.

When she finished, there was a pause. Then I heard one word. I didn’t understand it as well as the others, and it was voiced just one time:

“Muká”

The word was pronounced deeply, strongly, unlike the gentle whispers that had preceded it. It carried a force, a vibration, that I couldn’t remember feeling before in my life. The strength of the word, in a language I didn’t know, shook me up a bit. 

After the ceremony I talked with the man who had led it, and learned that Cruzeiro do Sul was a city in Brazil. The Ayahuasca we had drunk that night had been prepared there. As for the rest, it didn’t leave a strong impression inside of me, and the memory faded to the back of my mind. I had no clue what Yawanawá was, and despite being initially shook up by hearing “Muka” I forgot about that word.

And then my life went on. With all of the changes and preparations around my move to Peru, I had mostly forgotten about those messages. And now here, six months later, walking randomly through an unknown Brazilian city, I saw one of them printed on a road sign right in front of me.

I stood still. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I had to collect myself for a moment. My life had been busy and full with moving from one continent to another, and for months my mind had been preoccupied with planning and communications. Seeing that sign brought me immediately out of my mind into the present, into my body. I took a deep breath. There were no questions. I knew that I had to go to Cruzeiro do Sul.

The next morning I boarded a small plane from Rio Branco to Cruzeiro do Sul. I gazed down from the plane onto the mighty Amazon Rainforest, a carpet of green covering the earth. Rivers curved through the trees, winding snakelike through the forest. I felt like a little boy, my nose pressed up against the airplane's window. This place was called the lungs of the planet. Here there was said to exist a remedy for every disease—the Earth’s own pharmacy. From above, it seemed pristine, untouched by industry and Westernization. My body vibrated with excitement. I didn't know what my arrival in Cruzeiro do Sul would bring me, but I felt a deep confidence and trust that I was headed in the right direction. I was in the home of the great Madre Ayahuasca. 

I faced my first test when I walked out of the airport in Cruzeiro do Sul. What was I doing here? I asked myself. I didn’t speak a word of Portuguese and had no clue what to do next. I wandered around the airport for a while, hoping for a kind of sign. Soon I saw a man, the only Western person in sight. I approached him cautiously and struck up a conversation. I told him I had come to Cruzeiro do Sul very unexpectedly and that I didn’t know anything about the area. I hoped he could give me some guidance on what to do and where to go. He told me he worked at the local university and knew the area quite well. What a relief it was to hear those words! He asked me if I wanted to visit a Santo Daime religious community. I thought about it, but then felt strongly that I was not there to visit the Santo Daime. I had already visited several other Santo Daime communities in Rio Branco and other parts of Brazil. I loved my time with them, and I felt I was in Cruzeiro do Sul for something else.

I told him as much, and he replied, “Okay, would you like to visit some indigenous communities?” When he said that, my heart leaped inside of me. I knew this was exactly what I wanted to do. 

“Yes! That would be great!” I answered, excitement coursing through me.

He called over another man, a Brazilian, spoke to him briefly in Portuguese, then said to me: “Go with this guy. He will take you in his car for a few hours and drop you off in a small harbor village. There, take any boat going upstream. There are several indigenous communities upriver. All of them are safe and will be good to visit. If you are up for a little adventure, go with him and see where you end up.”

This seemed surprisingly casual and vague, and my excitement now felt mixed with anxiety. But looking into the eyes of this man, I felt that I could trust him. I nodded my head in approval. An hour or so later, I was sitting in a car next to someone I didn’t know and couldn’t speak with, as he knew no English. We drove in silence. I spent the hours in the car much in the same way I had on the plane: nose pressed against the window, eyes glued to the incredible Amazon forest, taking it all in. I had heard so much about the mighty Amazon in my childhood, the place with countless undiscovered species of plants and animals, one of the most biodiverse places on this planet. I wanted to ask a million questions, about every plant and animal, every turn in the road, but I had no words to communicate with my traveling companion. It was a special lesson in patience. I just had to wait and see where he would take me.

Four hours later we arrived in a small, dirty town next to a mighty river. There were street dogs running around, trash strewn everywhere, vultures circling. A group of people sat together under a big tree. I got out of the car and walked immediately to the river. It was wide, with a powerful current, and full of dead trees. A boat was just leaving the muddy shoreline headed upstream, with three Indians on it. I shouted to them to come back, and they returned to shore. There was no easy way for us to communicate. I motioned with my hands to ask if I could go with them. They asked me a question in a language I didn’t understand, and in full trust and without a clue what question I was answering, I said, “Sim!” Yes! I just wanted to get on that boat, no matter what. I ran back to the car, put some money in the driver's hand and said my goodbyes, speaking in a fast and excited English; the poor guy had no clue what I was saying to him. I stepped into the boat and waved goodbye to my driver as we disappeared around the river bend. 

I replayed all this as I fell asleep in my hammock, in that tiny simple jungle hut, awestruck by where my path had taken me. What could possibly be in store, I wondered, as I drifted off to sleep, a thousand animals singing in the background.

Early the next morning the Indians woke me up. After a simple breakfast we continued on, motoring our boat up the river into the vastness of the Amazon. The jungle grew more and more beautiful. A few hours later we arrived in another small, jungle village. The boat landed on the shore. We all got out. Again, the Indians were kind and helpful, placing my bag on the shore and helping me to get out of the boat. I walked up the shore seeing a few wooden structures with palm roofs, much like the house we had slept in the night before. I could also see a bigger, open structure that seemed to be some kind of temple.

As I inched closer, I saw that there were hundreds of people walking around. The men wore feather crowns and skirts made from dried leaves, and some were holding hands and dancing in a circle together with women whose breasts were bare and painted red. Many of their faces were painted black and red with artful designs. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. It looked like a scene straight from a Discovery Channel documentary. I sat down, mesmerized. There was a big fire burning brightly, a group of Indians sitting around talking and laughing. I saw some of them using small pipes and blowing something into each other’s noses.

One of the Indians from the boat put my bag next to me; I had completely forgotten about it. I looked at it, then closed my eyes for a second. These people had been so generous and welcoming to me, I thought. I stood up, giving him a big hug of gratitude. When we let go I gave all my attention to him, put my right hand on my heart, and bowed my head gently. He looked steadily at me, receiving my attention and gratitude without moving an inch. No words were needed. In that moment, we understood all that we wanted to communicate.

I sat down again and continued watching everything happening right in front of me. At one point one of the Indians with a feather headdress walked up and asked me in plain English: “Who are you? What are you doing here?” I was blown away to hear somebody speak English, and took a deep breath. It took me a while to respond.

“So glad to speak to you. I haven’t spoken English for days. I am Dennis,” I answered him. “To be honest I have no clue what I am doing here.”

The guy looked at me in disbelief: “What do you mean you have no clue what you are doing here? How did you get here?”

“How I got here is quite the story, but I would love for you to tell me where I am?”

“You don’t know where you are?”

I nodded my head from side to side: “I have no clue where I am.”

“You are in Mutum, one of the villages of the Yawanawá Indians.”

Upon hearing that word — Yawanawá, one of the words from my vision—a huge wave of warmth rushed through my body. I closed my eyes, tears welling in my eyes and running down my cheeks. I couldn’t believe my ears. Here I was, in the middle of the Amazon, as far away from my world as I could get, in a place that I didn’t know, yet somehow I had been guided here. I felt that finally, I understood the message that had come to me in the Ayahuasca ceremony in the Netherlands. It, and all the synchronicities since, had led me here, to the Yawanawá, an indigenous tribe in the Amazon. It was miraculous, unbelievable. Energy was rushing through my body. 

I sat there for a long time, overwhelmed with gratitude. Tears continued running down my face. I could barely grasp what just had happened, and what was happening right there and then. The path I had been on for months, which had seemed so uncertain and risky at times, now seemed fated, and guided by a pearl of masterful and unfathomable wisdom. Madre Ayahuasca had been leading me down this path. My trust in the Medicine suddenly seemed immense, boundless. Could I compare the level of trust I now felt for the Medicine with anything else in my life? Having been led by a vision, and now arriving at the Yawanawá in this way, I felt propelled by a higher purpose beyond anything I had imagined.

With my emotions running so high, it took me a while to get up and join the festivities. When I did, I learned that I had arrived in the middle of the first Mariri Festival in Mutum. There, all the Yawanawá got together to dance, sing, and perform their ceremonies with their sacred Medicines. It was an amazing sight. The women danced in circles, sang songs, and painted each other’s bodies. The children were running around in their skirts, full of joy, playing and laughing. The men were sturdy and strong, most of them with short, muscular bodies. I thought I must look bizarrely strange to them, a skinny, white Dutch man, nearly twice as tall as some of them. But they welcomed me into their celebration with smiles, singing, and an open, gracious joy.

Next to the temple, a big fire burned, and closer to the fire, men were playing music. It was high-energy and full of celebration. Some of the women danced in rows in front of the musicians. I got up from my seat and joined in the celebration, dancing to the powerful music of the Amazon.

For two days I celebrated with the Yawanawá, learning about their customs and enjoying the company of these beautiful, open people. At certain times during the celebrations, the Yawanawá held their sacred ceremonies with Ayahuasca. On those days I watched, but I did not drink their Ayahuasca, what they call Uni. Although I had started to lead Ayahuasca ceremonies in the Netherlands before my move, and I would be leading ceremonies at my new healing center in Peru, I had decided to take a little break from Ayahuasca for a few weeks. This abstinence was part of re-centering myself following the enormous changes and shifts I had been undergoing as I relocated from Amsterdam to Peru and prepared to embark on my new path of running a center for healing. I had not expected to have the opportunity to drink medicine with the Yawanawá, with an indigenous tribe during one of their own festivals deep in the Amazon itself, where the medicine originated. But I kept my commitment to myself, and observed their Uni ceremonies without participating.

After two days of celebrations, I decided to leave the crowd and spend some time in the forest. I had not come for a festival. As much as I had been enjoying myself, I felt I had come for something else. I felt I had been led there, and had to find out why.

Being in the jungle helped bring me back into myself. After all the novelty and spectacle of the Yawanawá celebrations, being alone in the majestic wildness of the jungle was starkly different, another kind of intense novelty and spectacle: layer upon layer of greenery and abundant life, the fullness of insect symphonies, the arias of birds. I wandered through the jungle, following the paths I found in the forest, retracing my steps so as not to get lost, enchanted at every turn by the magic of the jungle.

After an hour of walking through the thick flora, I came to a center where people were doing dietas. A dieta is an ancient way to work with very powerful plants—master plants. A dieta can last from a couple days to a year and requires the person to follow a strict diet, spend time mostly in solitude, be completely celibate, and ingest one of the master plants. Dietas provide many benefits, including very deep, intense, spiritual experiences.

I had just heard a little about dietas and wanted to know more about them and how they were conducted by the Yawanawá. As my trust in the Medicine grew, I felt more and more interested in learning how to tap deeply into its wisdom. Dietas are a primary path for such deep work, I had learned. And as Ayahuasca slowly became more known outside the jungles of the Amazon, and to Western people such as myself, it seemed that these ancient practices were opening up to the world. Some people I knew from the Santo Daime had said that this opening is because the plants are beginning to reveal themselves to the world, to help us heal and awaken, and to prepare us to take the next step as a human family.

I walked around the center and talked with some people. I was the only visitor there, and I felt a bit strange, like a tourist. There was one guy on his fifteenth dieta—according to him his last one before becoming a master shaman, or what the Yawanawá call a pajé. I looked at him, my head abuzz with questions, but decided to leave him in peace.

I continued walking deeper into the jungle, breathing in the energy of the plants and relishing my solitude. It felt amazing to be alone in the forest, walking and listening to its many sounds. I was feeling restored, replenished by such abundance and the energetic life all around me.

I began making my way back toward the village. I followed a narrow, winding path, and then I turned a corner and saw the man I didn’t even know I had been looking for. I stopped abruptly and looked at him. I could hardly believe my eyes. There was the man I had seen in my vision during that Netherlands ceremony. He was missing his left arm. He stood perfectly still, in the middle of the forest. I took a deep breath. He watched me in silence. I felt a rush of energy going up my spine. The energy of his presence left me feeling humbled; I could feel his connection to the plants, to spirit, to the Creator. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Finally, I approached and spoke to him. Using a strange combination of my half-Spanish and his Portuguese, we tried to communicate. I asked if we could walk back to the village and find a translator. He looked me in the eyes and nodded. We walked side by side, in silence, back to the village. Just walking next to him was a marvelous experience. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Sometimes he would stop and point something out to me: a bird, a plant, a tree. No more words were exchanged during our walk back to the village.

When we arrived back in Mutum, I found someone willing to translate. We sat down and started to talk. His name was Luis. He asked who I was, and I explained that I came from the Netherlands and had just moved to Peru to open a healing center. I told him that in the center, I would work with the plants, with nutrition, and with natural medicines, all with the intention of healing. All the while he just listened and nodded. When I finished, he asked if I worked with the sacred Medicines. I told him that I had just started to hold ceremonies with Ayahuasca. I explained the way I worked: in small groups, with the intention of healing inside the ceremony, particularly using music as a modality.

I also told him that I was not personally drinking Ayahuasca at that time. I said I saw Madre Ayahuasca as a great teacher and that, as with every good teacher in my life, I hoped to eventually be independent. I felt I had learned a lot from this teacher, and it felt good to take a small break.

After I talked for a little while, I asked him who he was. He started by telling me that his father, Antonio Luis, had been a highly respected medicine man of the tribe, and Luis had learned all about the plants and their properties from his father. Now, Luis said, he spent his life serving his people, the plants, and God. Like me, Luis was not drinking the medicine at this time; in fact, he hadn’t drunk Uni for fifteen years. Hearing those words gave me confidence that it was possible not to become dependent on Medicine. I hoped to be able to use it as a teacher, a guide, that could be visited when truly needed. I breathed a sigh of relief, amazed at the providence that had brought us together.

We came to a pause in the conversation, and Luis looked deep into my eyes for a while in silence. Then he asked if I wanted to go to his house. I looked steadily back at him and calmly nodded my head. There was nothing I would like better. No more words were needed. The next morning we left Mutum by boat and were back on the river.

Luis was not from Mutum; like most of the Yawanawá tribe, he had been visiting for the Mariri Festival. When we arrived at his village, Sete Estrellas, I was welcomed with all the generosity and openness I had been shown since arriving in the Amazon. I was flying on waves of energy, full of joy and gratitude.

I spent the next few days hanging out with the young boys, hunting, fishing, and playing soccer.  Sete Estrellas is smaller than Mutum, with only about sixty people living there at that time. The children are always running, playing, and laughing with each other. Most of my days were spent with the children, who had more patience with my non-existent Portuguese.

Luis put up a hammock in his living room, and that became my bed. Apart from the living room, his house had two bedrooms. Attached to the house was an open kitchen, which was often full of people. His house was a gathering place for the village, a place where people would congregate to talk and eat. I felt very welcome there, and enjoyed getting to know the people who were always stopping by. Luis’s wife, Louisa, took care of me and welcomed me into their home as a guest. From the moment I met her, I felt an outpouring of love for her. She cooked simple but delicious food, usually rice and beans. When the boys brought back fish from their fishing excursions, she prepared what they caught, cooking the catch over an open flame.

For the Yawanawá, the jungle is their supermarket. They trust that the jungle will provide whatever they need. The men go hunting and fishing almost every day. One time, while we were out fishing on the boat, a small boy jumped overboard and caught a big lizard with his bare hands. He came to me and proudly showed his catch. I admired the beautiful animal: it was over a meter long, with a rainbow of colors, green, blue, yellow, and red. It was truly amazing to see such an animal at close range. I suspected that the boy caught the lizard just to show off for me. But after a few minutes of admiration and keeping the animal firmly in his hands, a big stick in the hands of another man landed on the lizard’s head, sending the creature straight to heaven. That evening, we had lizard for dinner.

Over the days I began to pick up some words and phrases in Portuguese, patching things together between my very poor Spanish and our attempts at sign language. Everyone was supportive when it came to communication; it is easy to learn when everyone is helping you, and also when it is your only option. The children learned to speak slowly to me, in simple phrases, and I often pointed at things and asked, “Como é chamo?”

Those days Luis observed me, mostly in silence, sometimes pitching in with a joke that I didn’t understand but that made the others laugh. On the fourth day, he asked me to come for a walk into the jungle. It felt like an important request after not spending much time together for a few days. We left the house, crossed the river, and walked. Again, he walked in complete silence. I followed.

After we had walked for about fifteen minutes, he stopped and pointed to a plant, asking me if I knew it. I gestured that I didn’t, so he asked me to sit down and tell him what the plant was telling me. I sat down and focused on the plant, meditating on it. I opened myself to whatever it had to teach me. After about five minutes of meditation, I still was not feeling anything. I was nervous. Should I feel something? If I don’t feel something, will I fail this test? Should I just make something up to tell Luis? My mind was full of questions, trying to find the best solution for this situation. After a while I put my nervousness aside. I told Luis honestly, and a little embarrassed, that I didn’t feel much from this plant.

Luis looked at me, and said: “That is good; this is not a special plant.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or be angry. He was testing me! I decided to laugh. It was a beautiful moment. Luis smiled at me. I had passed, this time.

We walked on, and he started to point out different plants. There was one for preventing mosquito bites, another for treating burns. He showed me a plant that helped to attract women; I asked for detailed explanations about that one! Again, we laughed a lot. I realized that he was teaching and sharing his gifts with me.

We continued these walks for a few days, and each day he showed me more plants. I was learning that the Amazon is indeed the pharmacy of our world. He showed me a big tree, the bark of which could be used as a remedy for rheumatoid arthritis and back pain. He explained that, after the bark is prepared, the medicine should be consumed for twenty-eight days, increasing blood circulation and giving heat, which heals the infections and releases the pain. Luis told me that, in the Western world, people used that tree to make a pill that gives a man an erection. Again, we laughed.

One evening we sat in Luis’s house and several people from the tribe had joined us. The house was not very big, and with all the people sitting in a circle in the living room, it was quite crowded. On the floor were simple gasoline lamps made from empty jars, lighting the room with a warm glow. There was no electricity in the village. The energy in the room felt so good, and I was full of gratitude to be among those simple, beautiful, genuine people.

After a while, Luis started telling stories in the Yawanawá language. All my life I have loved stories, and that night, even without understanding a word of what he was saying, I enjoyed his stories immensely. I loved watching Luis speak and loved seeing all the Yawanawá packed into his living room, staring at him intently as he regaled them with his tales. Who needs a TV, when there are people sitting in a circle telling stories? A little later, a boat stopped at the shore. Almost everyone in the room stood up and went to look through the windows at who had arrived. 

A man whom I had not seen before pulled his boat onto the shore and entered the house with a guitar in his hand. He went around the room giving everyone big hugs, and Louisa prepared him a plate of food. The room was abuzz with talking and laughter. The man greeted me, and we exchanged a hug. I was struck, as I had been every time when I hugged one of the Yawanawá men, by his strong, muscular back.

After a while, he sat down, took his guitar in his hands, and started playing some Yawanawá songs. There was so much joy in the music. I sat back and closed my eyes. I breathed deeply, feeling the power of the energy and music that surrounded me. I could still hardly believe where I was finding myself. Here, in the middle of the Amazon rainforest in Brazil, with an indigenous tribe, the Yawanawá Indians, sitting in a circle, listening to songs in a language I had never heard before. What a dream! I was soaking it all in.

The Yawanawá did not know I was a musician, but after a while, they asked if I could sing. I nodded in silence and was handed the guitar. Music had always been the universal language for me to communicate with others, without words, without the barrier of words. I tried to tune the guitar, but when I rolled the strings onto the tuning pegs, I saw they had been knotted a few times together. It was impossible to tune this guitar correctly. I had to laugh when I saw that, and the whole living room laughed with me. I sat for a moment in silence, holding the awkwardly tuned guitar, contemplating what to sing.

I felt this was a special moment: I had hardly been able to communicate since arriving in the tribe, and here was my opportunity to speak to them in the purest language I knew. The gift of music, which I had been cherishing and nurturing for many years, could now be used for a greater purpose than to fill concert halls. I felt as though all my experience in the classical music world had been preparing me for this moment: to share a song with the Yawanawá. I felt into which songs I was going to sing, which story I was going to tell them with my music.

Then it came clearly to me, with the jungle sounds in the background, I began gently plucking the guitar, singing one of my favorite mantras:

Guru Guru wahe Guru

Guru Ram Das Guru

When I started to play, Luis rose and came to sit next to me, listening in full concentration. Although I had played in front of audiences of many thousands of people, I felt a bit nervous in that small, intimate room. I kept my eyes closed and sang straight from my heart. I sang in gratitude for the whole journey that had led me there. I sang in gratitude for all that had happened, gratitude for all the endings and all the beginnings. Gratitude for that moment. Gratitude poured through me, coursing through my song, through my music.

When I finished singing, there was a beautiful silence in the room. Luis patted me on the shoulder: “Muito bom!” I felt a humbleness inside of me; the room was glowing from the gasoline lamps. Some people were holding their thumbs up in the air. He asked me what the song was about. I explained, in my best half-Spanish and non-existent Portuguese, that it was a song in an ancient language from India, a country far in the East, where there are great mountains. Guru meant “nome de Deus,” or the name of God, and for wahe, I put my hands in the air in a gesture of praise. He nodded, and then rose and went back to his place. We spent the rest of the evening passing around the guitar, singing and laughing. It was such a beautiful night. 

When I woke up the next morning in my hammock, I felt that the energy in the house had changed. It felt serious, like something was about to happen. I stayed in my hammock for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on. Normally in the early mornings, Luis’s house was full of people drinking coffee, talking, laughing, and planning their day together. But nobody was around. There was no breakfast. The house was quiet, and nobody spoke.

Luis appeared and commanded me to follow him. Not a question, a command. I got up out of my hammock and gestured, asking if there would be some breakfast. Luis said firmly that there would be no breakfast that morning. Surprised, I took my towel to prepare to walk to the river to shower. Luis stopped me with a movement with his one hand, making clear that I was to get dressed and follow him. No breakfast, no shower. Something was happening indeed. 

I put on my trousers, a sweater, and my rubber boots and walked outside. Luis stood a few meters from the house, waiting for me. As soon as I came out, he gestured for me to follow him, then turned and started to walk. I followed at a distance as he walked into the forest. Everything felt different. He walked in front of me, not next to me—silently, and at a steady pace. Not like our other walks, where he would explain about plants, pointing to a monkey or a bird high up in the trees. This time he was not pointing out anything at all.

After more than an hour of walking in silence, we arrived at a clearing in the jungle. He instructed me to sit down. I sat down on a fallen log that lay on the ground and he told me that he wanted to speak to me. He was pacing a bit around the clearing, looking into the jungle as if he was expecting something or somebody. I felt nervous. The seriousness of his energy was so different from what I was accustomed to. My thoughts started to wander. I was an hour from a tiny village in the middle of the jungle, more than two days from the civilized world and any method of communication. Was I in danger? What had I gotten myself into?

I brought myself back, breathing deeply. That kind of thinking would get me nowhere. I focused my mind on the present and waited patiently for Luis to begin. After a long silence, he did. When he started to speak, his tone matched the seriousness that I had felt all morning.

Luis began by saying that he was grateful for the creator, grateful for his tribe. I had to really focus to understand his Portuguese. He was grateful for all the knowledge that had been guarded for such a long time through his ancestors. He was grateful for his father, who had taught him everything. This place, he pointed to the place in the jungle we were sitting in, was the place where his father had told him everything he knew about the plants. He was very grateful for his father and for all that he had learned through him. One of the important things he had learned in his life, from the old traditions and in his own experiences, was that dreams are very important; they can carry important messages that can be taken into this reality. Those dreams could show a potential of a future yet to come, or give more clarity about the past. In dreams, time does not exist as it does in daily reality. “Dreams are very important,” he repeated. “We have laws and rules and leaders in the tribe, and those are very important as well. But dreams,” he continued, “can be the most important guides of all.”

After those words he stayed silent for a few minutes. When he started to speak again, he described a dream he had a few weeks earlier. In that dream, God had come to him. “When God visits you in a dream, you should listen,” he told me. “Those dreams are very important.” In that dream, God had told him that a white man would come, that this man would not be drinking Uni (Ayahuasca), and that he would sing the name of God in Luis’s house. In the dream, God told Luis that he should teach this man everything he knew.

Hearing those words, a wave of emotions rushed through my body. I was covered with goosebumps, and tears were rolling down my cheeks. We looked each other straight in the eyes, sitting together on that fallen log in the middle of the Amazon. 

After a while he continued. He said that the night before, he had another dream. God had come to him again. In the dream He told Luis that I was that white man. We sat there in silence for a long time, so many feelings rushing through my body, so many thoughts racing through my mind.

“You can be a true pajé, a shaman,” Luis said. “I can see that clearly. I am here to help you in any way I can.” He paused for a moment. “You have left your blood family,” he continued. “You left your people and your country. But now you have come to the Amazon to find your spiritual family. My house is your house, and you are welcome here whenever you want. If you want, I will teach you.”

At that moment, all the choices I had agonized over the prior months now seemed cleared of further doubt. I knew I made the right choice in leaving the Netherlands. I had chosen the right path. The pieces of my life I had been puzzling over were now coming together. What a beautiful confirmation Luis’s words were for me. We looked into each other’s eyes in understanding and confirmation; no more words were needed.

Then Luis announced, “The first step in your education will be a dieta with our most sacred plant: Muká.”

Hearing that word, my body shivered. My vision in the Netherlands, where I had heard that single word spoken so deeply and powerfully, came back to me. I closed my eyes and remembered that moment. After a while, using my half-Spanish, my non-existent Portuguese, and my hands, I told Luis about that vision. He smiled, nodded, and told me that in the ancient tradition, the dieta of Muká would only be open to a person where Muká appears in a dream of that person. We smiled at each other: it was all unfolding naturally. 

“But,” he cautioned, “it will not be an easy journey; you must be ready. If you are not ready, you will not return.” I looked him in the eyes and understood what he was saying. “You can die?” I asked. He looked straight at me, seriously and calmly, and nodded.

Looking into his eyes, I felt confident that I was ready. We smiled at each other and exchanged a big hug. I felt exhilarated: the dream was unfolding. I told him that I would love to do the dieta of Muká with him and that I would first go to Peru to open my healing center, and after that, I would come back to the jungle. “In three months I will be back,” I told him boldly.

A few days later, I said my goodbyes to my new friends and travelled on a boat out of the jungle and into urban Brazil, and then to Sacred Valley in Peru. There, in October 2013, I opened the doors of the healing center, in a beautiful, yellow house in a little town called Pisac.

It was far more than three months before I returned to Luis and the Amazon. I was distracted by another dream, my dream of a center for healing in Peru, but I never forgot about Luis and the Yawanawá.

Share Walking with the Serpent

And so it starts… I want to tell you this story of a Serpent I met… Her name is Nalini. 

But before we get there, let's go back to the beginning…

Let’s go way back to my first memory, to the place where it all started, the place that I call home. Let’s go back to the origin of this dream.

In that place, only Oneness existed. In this Oneness there was no separation; we were all One. There was no space; there was no time; none of that existed. Being all One, it was difficult to experience what we all were, as we were everything in a single eternal moment. In that moment, the Oneness started to contemplate itself. It was as if a conversation began inside the Oneness:

“Wouldn’t it be nice to be separated, just for a moment?”

“Why would we do that? Why would we separate? We are One: there is no need for separation.”

“That is true… But imagine if we could separate for an instant, just for an instant, so we could experience every single aspect of what we truly are. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“But why? Why would we ever do that? Wouldn’t I miss you? Wouldn’t you miss me? Wouldn’t we miss each other?”

“Yes, we will… But in the end, we will still be One. That can never change. We will just forget it for an instant—and enter the illusion of separation. We will go into a dream. In that dream, we can experience every aspect of what we are now, separately. And after that, we will come home again, back into this Oneness. After the experience of separation, the Oneness will be different. We will appreciate all this much more. We will feel even more love. Without separation, we will never know the difference. Without that brief separation, we will never truly feel what we are, right now. Don't we want to fully experience what we are?”

“Yes, maybe… But what will that look like? What will happen in that dream?”

“We can choose anything in that dream. Anything that we want to happen can happen in that dream. We can create time and space. ‘Time’ so it will take a while before things happen, and ‘space’ to have the illusion of distance. In that dream, we can create energy to use for manifestation.”

“What will we manifest?”

“Everything will be possible. There will be no limitations. We can create a planet to live on, physical bodies to work with. On that planet, we can each have a separate body. We can create metals to use in trading, as an exchange of energy. We can use energy to create music and dance. We can paint. On that planet we can create plants: plants that produce the oxygen that our bodies will breathe; plants that nurture us, feed us; plants that will heal us, teach us.”

“Why would we need healing? Why would we need teaching? We have everything. We are completely at ease. We are One. There is no need for healing, no need for teaching.”

“That is true. But in the separation, we will forget all this so that we can re-member it all again, so we can remember what we truly are: One. Sometimes we will feel not at ease; our bodies will have a dis-ease. It will be very uncomfortable at times. But in the end, there is nothing to worry about, as we will all come full circle again. In the end, nothing can happen to us. We can never truly get lost over there.”

“I see… But if I have such a disease, will you come to me? Will you be there for me? Will you hold my hand? Will you bring me the plants that will help me to heal? Will you sing the songs for me?”

“Yes, I will. I promise… I will be there for you, in any way I can.”

“Okay, then let’s start…”

“Let’s dream…”

The song of One started there: the Uni-verse. And as the One started to sing, it expanded and, in that expansion, created a mirror image of itself. Santa Musica began to sing, and she became the queen of all that is.

There began the dream we call life