Golden Teachers

By Jennifer Leech-Reid

The shiny purple kettle screamed and sputtered on the little white stove. Slowly, I came out of my reverie and turned off the burner. Even slower, I lifted the much quieter, shiny purple kettle off the little white stove and brought it to my favorite mug. Today I would be having a lovely tea blend of chamomile and Golden Teacher psilocybin mushrooms.

In recent years as I have found that Thursday mornings are excellent for micro dosing the small hallucinogenic that helped treat my depression. Occasionally, the small doses have effects on my perception during this time. Colors seem brighter and my mood greatly improves from there on. As of yet, I have not had a negative experience. The huge price to pay for getting caught with such plants is nowhere near the value of what it does for my life.

After letting the medicinal tea steep for 10 minutes, I bring the black mug that looks like a skeleton hand, to my lips. I inhale and smell sunny chamomile and earth and take a small warm sip. Within 15 minutes, the tea has been drunk and I’m sitting at my desk, inside myself. Pen and paper at hand I start journaling fiercely. Like a dam busted down. Tears streaking down my face, pen scraping paper. I have no awareness of what I’m writing just that it needs to come out.

Finally, my right hand drops the pen. Inhaling deeply, I look down at the paper and exhale slowly. Brighter white than normal, I notice. Wet spots are spread sporadically from top to bottom. Some of the ink is smeared. Reading the words that came from my hand but not my mind, I start tearing up again. Where did all this come from, I wonder?

Starting at the top of the page on the first line of the college ruled paper, I read:

We are all walking. Different routes sometimes. We definitely all walk differently though. We are all walking in the same direction at least. Right towards Deaths door. From our first breath she has been patiently collecting her moments. She stands and she waits with arms familiar and open. We all know we go to her house before anywhere else at the end of our walk. We all go home first.

On this walk we come across others walking. There’s a pull. You know this person is important for some reason, you know your paths crossing has significance. Sometimes we agree to walk for a while with another. Then the blending occurs. You walk your way, you see, and they walk their way. There has to be compromise so you can walk next to each other. Everything is going towards the same thing, Death's door. It's up to each of us to decide how long we want to walk with another. Maybe they don’t walk in a way that works with our way of walking. Death will show up and part you each your own way while collecting her moment. Perhaps you want to take a different route towards Death. Fast partners, cars and rock and roll. Death will present another path to her door for each of us. There is always a way to her door. Do you want to walk alone? Do you want to walk with another? How long do you want to walk for? Are you willing to compromise the way you walk for this person so you can walk longer on the same route together? Do you both have the same idea for what kind of route you want to take to Death’s door? She will have her moments regardless. Where there is new and beginnings there has been old and endings. She always gets her sustenance.

Death checks in while you walk. There are little moments for death all throughout the walk to her door. Reminding us that she is there, waiting. Collecting her moments from the start of your life to the end of it. A relationship ending somehow, the way you were going wasn’t a suitable route for you. An old career being put to rest after you earn a new degree, there’s other routes available to Death's door. So many different ways to walk and routes to take. We are all going to the same place. Faith, race, gender, likes and dislikes are no matter to death. She is all loving and all accepting, free from judgement and discernment.

It's all up to you though. Death knows she will be there collecting her moments and waiting patiently for your arrival. No matter who you walk with, what route you take or the way you walk it. She has been with you since your beginning. Shes been with you all along. It is her, Death, that will be at your end waiting, welcoming you home.

What had I just written? Looking at the clock, I had been sitting at my desk for at least 45 minutes. Where did the time go? My brain finally back from its mini vacation and full of questions and apprehension.

Death, I suppose, had been on my mind a lot. I did say I was depressed. Lately, I’ve been wondering what kind of legacy I would be leaving when I left the mortal coil. One might balk at these sorts of thoughts, but it is usually not far from my mind. Some say that’s why I have the depression. Too much awareness of what is to come and not enough for what is right here in front of me. Morose as it is, thinking about my death and dying while I am depressed almost alleviates some of the weight from me though. Knowing full well, that my understanding of a higher power will be more than happy to answer any questions I might have if it is the right time. I suppose now is not that time. I still have more questions than answers. Lifting the skeleton hand mug to my lips, I tilt it towards my face and receive no liquid. My Chamomile and Golden Teacher tea had done what it needed to. Until next week I suppose.