Stillness Beneath the Leaves: Where the Teachings Begin

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...

Rio Gregorio, Yawanawá territory. Credit: © Sebastião Salgado

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.

Louisa moving through the forest

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…

My jungle hut completed

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.

Clouds over the amazon. Credit: © Sebastião Salgado

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.

Life in the jungle before Western influences. Credit: © Sebastião Salgado

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.