On the Inconvenient Truths of Plant Medicine

It is in the space of a yoga philosophy class – when the mind, having forgotten its usual need for structure and schedules – begins to wander inwards, circling the question of the Self, that someone will lean forward, eyes bright with curiosity, and ask me about plant medicine. “Psychedelics…” said with obvious curiosity and a scent of fear. 

The yoga circle is by its nature full of seekers – what starts with the discipline of the mat becomes a hunger, beneath every posture, for a taste of the ineffable. 

And this question moves in both directions; from the yoga circle to the plant medicine community and also from the plant medicine community to the yoga circle. 

The plant medicine community is curious too: “How does this thing I saw, this place I went, fit inside the teachings of yoga?” They want to know if the map of the soul they glimpsed when they sat with the medicine can be folded into the ancient scrolls of spiritual philosophy.

To both currents of questions, I can offer no clear answers – mystery, vast and shimmering, will always remain. That said, I find myself drawn towards humbly attempting to weave together history, reason, and the experience of my own head and heart. I realise there is risk in this, what you hear may not be convenient and please do not take any of what I say for truth or advice; But if we are to be honest pilgrims, we must be willing to turn every stone, even the ones covered in moss and taboo.

So I write, for those who have, at some point, found themselves naked before the universe, trembling, and have chosen not to look away. 

Let us start then with the past, with what the sacred scriptures have to say; and they are not as silent on this matter as we sometimes pretend. “Soma” as it is called, is poured into ceremonial cups throughout the pages. Scholars dispute its recipe – was it a mushroom, a milkweed, some arcane concoction now tantalisingly lost to the silence of time? We may never know but the RigVeda assures us that those who drank it might “find the Gods,” and the Gita tells us of its ability to glimpse “temporary heavenly pleasure.” (Note: The gods are not so foolish as to give away eternity in a sip.) Some traditions literally translate Soma as “With Shiva/With God.” Soma does not stand at the center of the scriptures, that is reserved for practices such as devotion, discipline, and study – but the drink is there, present in so many lines we ought to wonder why we so often fail to see it.

So what of the present? Does sitting with plant medicine really place one in the company of the Gods? The answer, I believe is yes… and no. Each person’s journey is completely different and utterly their own. 

The “yes” is that indeed many, including myself have found Divine love when sitting in conversation with these plants – It was as if God had always been there, hiding just beneath my skin but this medicine softened me enough to allow it to seep through. When I am asked to describe these moments, I find that it is almost impossible, I can only gesture towards it by saying things like – Try closing your eyes and imagine you’re in a room where everyone who has ever loved you is present, and you feel all their love, all at once, flooding into and through your heart – a love that is not confined to any single flavor or form. But even this image falters, because it suggests a movement, a passing of love from one to another, when in truth, this love has no direction, no current. It does not travel from here to there; it simply is, existing everywhere and always—perhaps even more so in places that do not exist, and in times that have never been. It is a love that cannot be given or received because it is already here, woven into the fabric of this very moment, waiting silently to be discovered.

Others however, and again I include myself are plunged into shadow, made to sit with the parts of themselves they have spent a lifetime banishing. Not to necessarily say that these journeys are wrong or bad, it is often the fiercer lessons, the ones that burn with untamed grace, that  offer the deepest gifts if you can make enough space to see them. I have, personally, found more in those crucibles than in the warmth of Divine love. 

The point is, the plant is a teacher, as the shamans say, but not a gentle one. If you enroll in its classroom, you do not get to choose the curriculum. Sometimes, the lesson is five hours of radiant bliss. Sometimes it is twenty-four hours – yes, I have counted – of wrestling with demons you did not know you had. The lesson will be delivered; you cannot choose its form. The classroom has no exits, not until the bell rings (and sometimes, not even then).

You may think you are ready, but are you? Think of Arjuna in the Gita, on the battlefield, begging Krishna to reveal his true form—and then, when faced with the vastness of God, begging for the vision to end. We are rarely as ready as we think we are.

I have come to believe that meditation is not just helpful, but essential, before undertaking such journeys in order to create the space that is needed. Meditation, as a practice of sitting with what is, of watching the mind spin its stories and learning not to believe every tale it tells. And this is important because the plants, too, are storytellers, but their stories can be wild and untamed and you have no idea what story you might be served up so it’s best, in my opinion, to prepare yourself.

There is another reason I urge meditation: integration. The journey itself is only half the work. What matters just as much is the return—your ability to bring the fruit of the journey back to the mess and wonder of being alive. Integration is the art of descent. It is how we bring the gold of the otherworld back into the kitchen, the office, the arms of our lovers. Without it, even the most dazzling revelation becomes a story to tell at dinner parties. Without it, no evolution can happen. 

I have seen this, among the meditators. Their evolution is quiet – a softening, a steadiness, a kindness that deepens year after year, like water wearing down a stone. No sudden fireworks, just the gentle, almost imperceptible work of the soul. Meanwhile, those who return again and again to the plants may have their hearts blown open, but unless they find a way to ground what they have seen, the opening closes, the lesson is lost.

So: meditate. It is the ancient, golden alchemy that transmutes the raw ore of experience into something precious and lasting. And then, each day, let the question be not “How can I return to ecstasy?” but “How can I serve, knowing what I now know?” This is the true alchemy – turning vision into action, insight into compassion. 

There is another mystery that happens when we awaken – a mystery that happens in the energy body. Unseen by most but most deftly felt in a way that slips beneath the reach of language. For many after a journey there is a sense of having been rearranged from within – Kundalini is the name that we have given to the force that sits behind this transformation in yoga circles – And plant medicine temporarily awakens her – sometimes too suddenly, sometimes before we are ready. The state of our energy, our preparation, moderates what we are given; but this is a co-creation; the plant too, has its own agenda, its own wisdom, and sometimes it will give us more than we thought we could bear. My teacher, Hareesh of Tantra Illuminated, a wizard of kundalini, warns of the dangers of going too far, too fast. And I trust him. That said, even the wisest magicians can only guess at the full extent of the mystery.

My wish in writing this is simply to be of service, to offer a lantern to those wandering the borderlands between body and spirit, tradition and experimentation. If I have left you with more questions than answers, then perhaps I have done my job. Welcome, then, to the great mystery. It is not ours to solve, only to live. We are fortunate enough to live in a time where there are an arsenal of tools and you can choose the ones that sing to your spirit. So whether you choose the mat, the mushroom, or both, may you find your own way to draw the sacred down into your everyday life, to make the extraordinary ordinary, and the ordinary, extraordinary.