my medicine journey: the meaning, memories and mystery inside

the very sound of healing, may the 444s be with you and a new way to pay it forward

I am always SO glad you are here. As most of you know, my paid subscriptions help support scholarship spots in my grief support circles. I know you have a lot going on and it is tough to sub to all the magic on Substack - so I added this nifty one time “wanna pay it forward” button. I hope you dig this one, it is a magical and mystical and medicinal reveal.

I gather blankets, my yoga mat, a pillow, eye mask and snacks. This is all on the list that’s been shared.  We will be laying down for 7-8 hours, from about 2:30-11pm. I have been prepping for a week per the instructions of the sound healing leaders.

1. eat clean.

2. avoid sugar and animal products.

3. no alcohol.

4. sleep well.

5. practice yoga

6. meditate

7. journal

There are writing prompts they have shared around excavating your intention for participating. Come along, I am about to share in a group guided, sound bath and medicine journey.

I have not told many people. I did tell my older daughter and she had reservations and questions. She was nervous. Someone at a recent dinner party shared their experience with a therapist-guided ketamine protocol, so I open up about my upcoming plans. I don’t name the medicine. I am protective of outside judgement, not ashamed or nervous, justing keeping it mine. The founders share the experience by word of mouth because it is not yet legalized. A trusted lawyer/social worker friend has been once already, has vetted the founders and will return with me.

While I am clear, in my writing over the course of the week, as to my why – I am still curious as to what may be waiting for me, meeting me. It’s been a thirty-one year grief hang-over since losing my Mom. I’ve seen a brilliant therapist over the past year. And yet my yearning and questions, connection and clearing still call. I am exhausted from it. Divorce residue – mine and my folks. Old marriage and new. Childhood. Work. This path. That city. Deep sadness. Loneliness. What comes up on the page does not surprise me. I have written about much of this over the years.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

My husband (new and improved 2.0) is driving me to the location that has only been disclosed the morning of the gathering. While he is not interested for himself, he says he is proud of me. I am in our apartment alone and feel called to leave him and my girls a video message. Perhaps something will happen to me. I feel the same when I leave them behind on a flight, though I have never made videos, I always remind them where my if I die papers are in the files.  

“You are the love of my life, Alex, please take care of the girls and Danna.  You have made me so happy. Happier than I ever thought I could be. I love you.”  More love to my girls.

I am grateful in the moment. No wishes for having been a better wife, daughter, mother - or better anything. No yearning or sorry – but to let them all know they are loved. Loved more than they could know. I leave messages of LOVE. This feels like an incredible end of life gift to myself. If this is what I say on my death bed, I have indeed lived and loved a beautiful life.

We toss the big oversized comforters and pillow in Alex’s hockey bag. It is enormous and perfectly handy. I waddle in with my equipment, sporting black silky Adidas basketball sweats, a Lingua Franca pull over that says, “that thing” in white stitching and a t-shirt from my friend Shannon’s company that has an imperfect heart on the sleeve. She started her company to remember her Mom, it seems fitting. She has been with me in motherless daughter’s circles. Intentional.  Of course I do think – what if this is my last outfit. It is a quick thought. But a thought, non-the-less. No bra. Clean camo-lace thong.

It is a nondescript building in Brooklyn. It appears to be a photo studio. Sound system, directors chairs and mirrors for hair and make-up in the entry. A kitchen. I was a photo stylist for many years before becoming a grief coach and specialist. This feels just like home and work.  Familiarly unfamiliar. It is set with fresh fruit and snacks. A mix of green and red grapes in a bowl. Oranges. And something Stella Dora. They tell us this is for after and also we have brought some of our own. I have a McIntosh apple, Sumo orange and a few protein bars that Alex has tucked in my bag. It has been suggested we stop all food intake and caffeine at 10am.

The check in is a list of names who have prepaid via Venmo. I am there. My friend has saved us a spot in the far corner, beside one another. She has a thick cushion for her set up. I note this for next time. Many have some form of this. Some set ups more spare. I can barely make out the faces of folks in the dimly lit space and there is little talking or interaction.

There are a set of various gongs and instruments I am familiar with from many yoga studio sound baths. Two cushions are set up front. Many small lit votives sparkle in the dark edges of the white scrim that line the uplit walls with a purple hue.

We are welcomed by one of the leaders. She is carrying a basket over the crook of her arm sort of Dorothy style. She’s a make-up free blonde with eyes so strikingly blue and warm I feel I know her. She hugs me tightly as my friend makes introductions. A tiny silver capped container holds the medicine and “You are in charge of your own dosing,” she shares. The leaders will merely suggest timing and educate us on small to medium ways to enter and how you might choose to proceed. I am feeling incredibly calm inside. And clear headed. I notice nothing circling my thoughts. My heart still and happy.

There is an intimate and philosophical talk and question period. It is suggested we take the first blue pill. It will take about 45 minutes to feel the effects. There will be guided meditation, breath work, chanting, sound on the system and sound created by the leaders. We will all be lying down for the experience. There is no talking. If you need help, one of the “angels” in the room can come to you with a raised hand. They make introductions of the helpers - a surfer, a doctor and a lawyer. They feel like just the right mix to me. Burly, medically and legally sound.

We place the suggeseted mask over our eyes. It helps to block any light and internalizes the experience. The male partner talks about love, a lot. It reminds me of the video messages I have left. I close my eyes inside of my mask and get cozy under my blankets. Alan Watts voice beams over us. Esoteric and wise. We can expect our body temperature to rise and fall. They will wake us for a “booster” at which time you can decide if you would like more medicine.

Breathwork begins. Exhalations in two parts. Belly and chest. I want to stop but they urge us to keep going. It feels like I might pass out. It is tiring and then suddenly freeing—head rush and all.

Two musical notes are then shared. A high and a low. It is suggested we open our mouths and make the sound of the one that resonates.  I have always wished to be a singer. It comes up on all of those, “if you could be anything and could not fail” excercises. Soon I am chanting like a goddess. Loudly and proudly. I am singing and I am really good.

I am lying down allowing. Allow. I allow it all. I welcome in the many stops. My wombs. All the babies and miscarriages. Back, back, back. Me in my mother’s womb, she in hers. Ancestors. I wonder if I am clearing generational trauma? Sexual shame? I feel sexy and warm. I dip in and out of here and there.

“Mom”, I ask. “I want to see you more. Feel and hear you more.” I see her sweet slant and smiling eyes and mouth. Not in color. Sort of black on black. She has been gone 31 years too long. “I sent you all the Megs. I sent the Meghans”, she says. And David, and Claire and Hope and Dora. I sent the Ellens and Janes.

She begins to make jokes about the 4’s. I have seen 444 since moving to Chicago and landing at a work building, 444 N. Michigan Avenue. I see this once a day. At least. I have the 444 and her name tattooed on my wrists. “The fours is with you”, “You are a fours”. “The 4s of life”. She is joking and punning. And this is so Mom. I am smiling ear to ear and also thinking, you are ridiculous.

I go dark. I am in the war. I have to feel my own cheek to know if these are my tears. I am not heaving or feel as if I am sobbing. But water is running down my cheeks under the mask and down my face. My neck. I am wet. I am in the middle of the pain of all who are at war in Israel and Gaza. It is horrific physically and I am hopeful not to be here for seven more hours. Allow. Allow. Feel, I tell myself.

My friend’s son comes to me.  I never knew him in the before. In my mind’s eye I tell him, she is ok, your Mom is ok.

The pain of my daughters. Forgiveness. The bathroom of my first childhood home and my sister’s best friend. I am confused and disturbed. Why is she here? Should I get up and journal? We do have the same birthday.

I have a lump on my left breast. Pain in the center of my chest. Is this breast cancer? An old pain. Historic pain. I place my hand on it. Over it. My groin aches. All on the left side. I ask the pain what it is here to tell me.  I open my hands to my sides, palms up.  I think to myself, I need help. A singing bowl lands on my stomach. The sounds reverberate over me and up, taking the pain along. Help comes as I need it.

I can ask for help. I do not have to help anyone in the room. I can love everyone and ask for help. We all need help. It is ok to need help.

Whenever I get body work to clear some of the grief I hold for others, it is always my right side that is holding. The giving side, they say. Today, this is the receiving side. Once I said to the therapist, it feels like my heart is in the wrong place. This thought, metaphoric. Still.

It is like a magic carpet ride, that goes and stops. I curl up into a fetal position when I need a break from the journeying. I return to my back. Heart open. I see a cat. A panther.  I wonder why. What does this mean? I cannot connect it now. We are awakened as the music comes to a close. We are invited to take more medicine. A boost. I find the journal. These are my notes.

Help will be there. The bowl came when I needed it. I felt the war. The writing is a gift. Ceremony. (Intuition). Do something good for someone else. Sexual shame gone. All sent from her. The sea and the shells are the cover of The Memory Circle Monologues. A book yet to be written, but dreamed of forever.

I take all but one of the pills and go to the rest room. My body feels woozy, but good. I feel the linger of the pain in my chest and groin. I am achy, but it could be the hours spent on the floor. I return to the room and find the female leader. I tell her, “I have one pill in my pocket, can you come and tell me in a bit when it is time to decide to take it or not please.” I think about this as I lay down to return to the journey. You have everything in your pocket and it is your choice. It is always your choice.

There is much left to integrate and interrogate when I venture out into the night and days forward. I am meditating, writing, journaling, typing, talking and sharing with my journey friend. Her first experience was all bliss, this one a childhood revised. Mine had little color, hers was bright and alive.

The day following our experience, is Easter. I am with family and life feels technicolor. Vibrant. The walk on the Highline seems alive, as if the buds, each of them is calling me. Speaking to me. Nature looks different. Brighter. The strangers at the restaurant seem like friends. I admire their shoes. Another, their splatter painted button down. I feel more joyful. Present. I am aware of how happy I am. We order an Easter special, called the giant blueberry muffin. It is the size of my head. Delivered warm, the server drizzles it with maple icing and a dousing of purple blueberry dust. I sit between my sister and my daughter’s girlfriend. I am more alive than ever and hope like hell this after glow is everlasting.

Permission Granted to talk to me if you are interested in learning more. And also, to share this far and wide.

x, b.