2002-7-7 ”Pacha Mama”

The vast halls of the Akashic Library stretched around them, filled with an ethereal glow. Shelves of shimmering books and vibrant imagery floated in the air, pulsating with the essence of timelines past, present, and future. Calliope stood beside Peter, her blue dress shifting softly as if responding to the flow of energy around them. Before them, a series of luminous images hovered, each depicting a scene from Peter’s Quest.

“These are from Costa Rica, aren’t they?” Calliope asked, her voice reverent as her eyes lingered on a picture of a dense, vibrant jungle. The colors seemed to ripple with life, radiating vitality.

Peter nodded, stepping closer to the image as it shifted into motion, becoming a living memory. “Yes. 2002. This was my first real step outside the city, away from the static and smoke. Kiana had introduced me to Alok, and he told me about Pacha Mama. I was desperate for something—anything—that could help me piece myself together. So I went.”

Encountering the Great Turtle

The image shifted, showing a pristine beach kissed by turquoise waves. There, in the center, a great turtle crouched in the sand, her slow movements purposeful as she laid her eggs. Calliope’s breath caught.

“The Great Turtle,” she whispered. “Look at her. She’s so… timeless. She feels like an embodiment of the Earth itself.”

“She was,” Peter said softly. “When I saw her, it was like the land itself was speaking to me. I knelt there, just watching her, and for the first time in so long, I felt still. The chaos inside me quieted, even if just for a moment. It was as if she carried all the wisdom of the world on her back, yet she was so gentle, so deliberate in her task.”

“Would you consider the turtle one of your animal totems?” she asked.

“Yes. Though not one I usually referenced in my Quest.”

The image rippled, dissolving into the scene of a jungle clearing. A cluster of simple bungalows appeared, woven into the lush greenery. “This was Pacha Mama,” Peter continued. “A village built into the jungle itself, an intentional community. They called it Mother Earth. I’d never seen anything like it. People danced, prayed, raised their arms to the sky in rituals they called pujas. They said it was to burn out emotions, to cleanse the body and mind. I tried, but… I wasn’t ready. My mind was still too fractured.”

Calliope watched as the scene shifted again. This time, Peter was alone in one of the bungalows, his expression tight with frustration. Outside, monkeys chattered and birds sang, their voices weaving through the dense jungle. “It wasn’t easy, was it?” she asked gently.

“No,” Peter admitted. “The jungle was alive, but I wasn’t ready to hear it yet. My mind kept flickering, cycling through anger, sadness, confusion. It was hard to sit with myself, to let the stillness in. But the land was patient with me, like a mother with her child.”

The Intentional Village

“As I explored the jungle, I came to see that this is an emergent village, where individuals have gained plots of land upon which to build themselves a dwelling and live in community.  It is the first time I see this as a pattern, a movement of the consciousness of the people that will arise time and again later in the Quest.”

“That feels meaningful” said Calliope, marking a note in a floating book. “Can you extrapolate on that?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. Mind you, this was in 2002, and it spoke to a trend that would emerge later in culture, one of people moving from the cities to pieces of land in the more robust and verdant energies of Costa Rica, their attempt to get from the filth and pollution of the cities to a more heavenly earth.”

Pujas and Process

Another image flickered to life—a clearing in the jungle, where figures gathered in flowing movements beneath a thatched roof. Some were shaking their limbs with wild abandon, while others held their arms aloft, trembling slightly as they sustained the pose. The scene glowed with the faint shimmer of ritual, yet Peter’s younger self in the image stood at the edge of the gathering, arms awkwardly folded, a look of cautious curiosity on his face.

“This,” Peter said, gesturing to the scene, “was my first encounter with what they called pujas. At the time, I didn’t really understand what was going on—or why they were doing it.”

Calliope leaned closer, her expression intrigued. “What were they doing?” she asked, her gaze tracing the rippling movements of the participants.

“They described it as an act of devotion,” Peter explained. “Holding their arms up for eleven minutes at a time, shaking out their bodies, letting everything move. It was supposed to burn through emotional blockages, to cleanse the consciousness. Back then, though?” He chuckled softly. “I didn’t have a clue what it really meant. It felt… strange. Foreign. Like I was watching people try to shake the city out of their bones.”

Calliope’s lips quirked in a thoughtful smile. “And now, looking back?”

Peter’s voice shifted, becoming more introspective. “Now I see it differently. Looking over my timeline from the vantage of the Akasha, I recognize it as my first exposure to something much deeper. These weren’t just random movements—they were rooted in practices from kundalini yoga, designed to help process subconscious patterns. The shaking, the holding—it was all a way of burning through karmic impressions stored in the body. At the time, I didn’t have the framework to understand that. I just thought it was… well, weird.”

Calliope laughed, her eyes sparkling. “It does sound a bit intense if you don’t know the context.”

Peter nodded. “It was. But now I see it as a seed. A beginning. It planted the idea in me, even if I didn’t fully grasp it then. That we carry things in our bodies—patterns, emotions, memories—and that there are practices to move through them, to transform them. It was clunky, awkward even, but it was my first glimpse into a world of healing I’d only just begun to step into.”

The Mother and the Child

Peter and Calliope stood before the image of two hands, one holding a cluster of psilocybin mushrooms, the other a small bag of crystalline MDMA. The picture floated in the Akashic Library, illuminated with the subtle vibrancy of meaning, the colors shifting as the memory came alive.

“This was a wild moment,” Peter said, a touch of mischief in his voice. “I’d just arrived at Pacha Mama, carrying a bit of the city with me in the form of those mushrooms. It felt fitting—like a piece of one world bridging into another. At the village, I met a man who’d driven all the way from San Francisco in a Mercedes he bought for a dollar. He was as colorful as his story, and something about his vibe clicked with me immediately.”

Calliope tilted her head, intrigued. “A dollar? That’s a story in itself.”

“Exactly,” Peter said with a grin. “It felt like the kind of mythic tale I was chasing, like we were both carrying pieces of a larger puzzle. I had the mushrooms, he had the MDMA, and in the spirit of synchronicity, we made a trade. It wasn’t just about the substances—it was about the energy exchange, the stories woven into them. Later, I went to the beach, carrying both the medicine and a sense of adventure. My intention was clear: to open myself to the deva of Costa Rica, to feel the pulse of the land in its purest form.”

“Did it work?” she asked curiously.

“It was interesting.” he replied. “The sand swirled beneath my fingers as I felt my devotion to dance take hold, my mind dissolving in the ocean of sensation that was each particle of grain upon the changing temperature and depth of my movement. Like so much of my primal artistry, it was a quick sculpting, a glyph of momentary significance made of the changing world. It was a mother to my eyes … one holding a child, carrying with it the sense that there was a great mother, a loving intelligence that was the planet herself. It was a flickering thing, surfacing in my awareness like a balm before lost in the fugue of my endless shifting, and as I look at it now from the library, it feels that this was the case – that I was having a divination into the language of the land through my art.”

“As most artists do” Calliope commented, and he nodded.

Another image shimmered into view, this one showing Peter lying on a paddleboard, drifting on calm waters under a golden sun. His lips moved silently, repeating a mantra. “This was one of the moments I felt a shift,” Peter said. “I was invoking Love, trusting it to guide me, to show me the way. And for a while, it worked. The water, the sun—it felt like they were carrying me. Until…”

The image darkened, showing jagged rocks rising from the water, then showing Peter crashed on the rocks in shock. Calliope frowned. “Love dashed you on the rocks?”

“Yep.”

Discovering Satsang

As Peter and Calliope gazed into the next image unfolding before them, the scene shifted into the dim glow of a gathering beneath the jungle canopy. Dozens of people, all dressed in white, sat cross-legged on woven mats around a central figure, his silver hair catching the soft candlelight that flickered between them. The air was thick with anticipation, a palpable undercurrent humming through the assembly.

“This,” Peter began, his voice hushed, “was my first encounter with what they called a satsang. A gathering around someone they believed to be enlightened. His name was Tyohar. The villagers spoke of him as if he held the keys to some great spiritual truth, something beyond what I’d ever touched.” He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “At the time, it felt… surreal. Like stepping into someone else’s dream.”

Calliope studied the image, her gaze drifting over the serene faces, the soft rustle of leaves framing the gathering. “Did you believe it?” she asked, her tone gentle. “In him?”

Peter sighed, his expression shifting. “I didn’t know what to believe. I was searching, desperate for something real. I sat there among them, trying to find the thread of truth in his words, in their reverence. But I felt like an outsider, someone peering into a world that didn’t quite fit. There was a lot of talk of letting go, of finding peace, but all I felt was the buzz of uncertainty.”

The image shifted slightly, revealing Peter at the edge of the group, his posture stiff, eyes flicking between the faces around him. “I remember thinking, how could they be so sure? They looked at him as if he was a mirror to their own divinity, yet I couldn’t see it. It felt like playacting, like they were trying to convince themselves of something.” He shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. “But I stayed, hoping something might shift.”

Calliope’s gaze softened. “Maybe it wasn’t about him,” she suggested, “but about them, about their need to believe.”

“Maybe,” Peter agreed. “Or maybe it was about me, needing to find my own way. There was something in the gathering, though—a hint of what community could be, what it could mean to come together around a shared intention. Even if I didn’t find what I was looking for in Tyohar’s words, there was something in the collective energy that stirred me.”

He gestured to the candles and simple offerings at the center of the circle. “It was my first glimpse into the power of community, of shared belief, even if I didn’t fully resonate with it. Later, I’d understand more about what it meant to gather, to hold space for something greater than ourselves. But then? It was just a strange blend of fascination and skepticism.”

Calliope nodded, her eyes twinkling. “Sometimes, even the things that don’t resonate teach us something. Even if it’s just showing us what we’re not.”

Peter laughed softly. “Exactly. It was all part of the path, even when it didn’t make sense. Each moment, each person, was a piece of the larger puzzle, leading me back to myself.”

Into the Green

The scene shifts again, showing Peter sitting in a tree in the tropical expanse of Costa Rica, Calliope leans in, feeling the warmth of the land through the portal in the library.

“This feels so… untouched,” she said softly, her gaze lingering on the branches that seemed to cradle Peter like a part of the land itself. “What were you thinking, sitting there like that?”

Peter stepped closer to the image, his expression caught somewhere between nostalgia and reverence. “It wasn’t so much about thinking,” he replied. “It was about feeling. The land here—it’s alive in a way I hadn’t known before. Every breath of air, every whisper of the trees… it was like stepping into the body of something sacred. After the city, with all its noise and smoke, it felt like a completely different world. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I was there.”

Calliope smiled faintly, tracing the outline of the image. “You look… lighter. Like the land was holding you.”

“It was,” Peter said, his voice quiet. “There’s a vitality to this place. A clarity. The warm sun, the clean air… it stripped away the static I didn’t even know I was carrying. Sitting there, I felt something rising in me. A peace I hadn’t touched in years. And an understanding—clear as day—that I couldn’t go back to the city and survive. Not after this.”

The image shimmered, shifting into the next memory. A quiet jungle pool came into view, its surface glimmering with reflected green. Two horses moved lazily along the water’s edge, their presence oddly serene. Calliope tilted her head, studying the stillness.

“Is this the same place?” she asked, glancing at Peter. “It feels… different. Like the land is breathing in a slower rhythm.”

Peter nodded. “It is. This was deeper into the jungle. I remember coming across this pool—it was so still, so calm. The horses were just… there. Wandering. Unbothered by anything. I stood there for what felt like forever, just watching them. The city had this constant churn, this need to be moving, doing, thinking. But here?” He gestured to the image. “The land wasn’t in a rush. And neither were its creatures. It felt like they were trying to teach me something.”

Calliope smiled, her voice soft. “And were you listening?”

Peter chuckled. “Barely. I was still learning how. But I felt it, even then. The land was showing me a rhythm I’d forgotten. Something slower, deeper, more real.”

The image shifted once more, revealing the rocky shoreline. Pools of water sparkled under the sun, vibrant with moss and life. Peter stared at the scene, his expression distant.

“This is where it hit me,” he said. “The tidal pools. I remember crouching down, watching the way the water moved, how life clung to the rocks. It was like looking into tiny worlds—each one alive, each one whole. The land didn’t just feel alive anymore. It was alive. And for the first time, I felt like I was part of it, not separate.”

Calliope turned to him, her eyes bright. “It sounds like the land was speaking to you.”

“It was,” Peter said. “But not in words. It was in the way the breeze touched my skin, the way the moss felt under my hands, the way the ocean kept moving, no matter what. It was a conversation I didn’t know how to have yet. But even then, I could feel the truth of it.”

Calliope reached out, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “The way the land holds us, even when we forget how to listen.”

Peter nodded, his gaze still on the image. “It was the beginning of something. A reminder of what I was looking for. Or maybe… of what was looking for me.”

Grandmother Ayahuasca

The next image glowed brighter, revealing a ceremonial space lit by firelight. Figures gathered in a circle, their faces a mix of curiosity, fear, and reverence. In the center sat a cup of dark liquid. “This was it,” Peter said, his voice soft. “My first encounter with Ayahuasca. The Grandmother.”

Calliope leaned closer, her dark eyes wide. “What was it like?”

Peter hesitated, searching for the right words. “It was… everything. The moment I drank, I felt the jungle come alive in a way I’d never imagined. The deva, the spirits—they were everywhere, speaking in a language I had forgotten I knew. The lines of meaning were so clear, so vivid. It was like being home.”

He paused, his gaze drifting into the memory. “The ritual itself was deeply immersive. The space was alive with song—soft at first, then swelling into intricate melodies that seemed to ripple through the air like waves in a still pond. The voices of the facilitators blended seamlessly with the beat of drums and the hum of rattles, each note a thread weaving the fabric of the ceremony. It wasn’t just music—it was a conversation, a call to the spirit of the plant, honoring her presence. As the rhythm deepened, I felt myself drawn in, the sounds unlocking doors within me I hadn’t known were there. It was as though each song was designed to coax the petals of my awareness to unfurl, one by one.”

Peter’s voice softened, and his hands moved as if tracing the memory in the air. “As the hours passed, the boundaries of my perception dissolved. I could feel the jungle breathing around me, its life force pulsing in time with the music. The spirits of the land were there, not as concepts but as vibrant, living beings. The trees, the earth, even the stars above—they were speaking, showing me the intricate web of life that connected everything. It was overwhelming and humbling. For the first time, I understood that the world I thought I knew was just the surface, and beneath it was an endless, luminous dimension I’d barely begun to touch.”

The image began to move, showing Peter in the ceremony, his body trembling as tears streamed down his face. Then, he was outside, wandering into the dense jungle alone. The darkness around him seemed alive, pulsing with an unknowable energy.

Calliope leaned in. “And then?”

“I left the group,” Peter admitted, his voice heavy with memory. “I couldn’t stay in that container. I had to dance, to feel the pulse of the jungle moving through me. The dance moved through me, launching me across the floor in swirls of light and color. More interested in the call of the wild nature than the container of energies that was the space I wandered off, following the trail of darkness that led me deeper into the jungle.

The image froze on a shot of Peter standing in the middle of the jungle, his face illuminated by moonlight filtering through the canopy. Calliope stared at it, her hand touching her chest. “That was brave,” she said softly.

“It was brave” he said, looking at the image unfolding before them. “I felt it so strongly. The darkness as a presence, as the embodiment of that-which-I-did-not-know, at the jungle that lay beyond the borders of what I had considered my world. In that moment I knew I had a choice, to embrace that unknown, to step into the darkness of the path, and I chose bravely, making my way away from the gathered peoples into the true jungle of the self.”

He continued, “the spirit of the Land was alive within the forest, a definitive presence that I realized was the same as what i’d felt in Central Park and all throughout my life, just more clarified, less burdened by the chattering thoughts of human minds.”

“I walked through the jungle all through the night, eventually finding my way to a clearing at dawn where I could see the clouds. There, the deva spoke to me again in a language of clouds and color. It was beautiful, filling the air with geometries of ethereal and liquid presence, in the language I had spoken ever since I was a child.”

“I returned to the circle soon after, putting my white robs back on and rejoining the people.” he said, as the images shifted once more to show him in white-robes smiling for a photo.

“How did you feel?” asked the muse.

“Clean.”