Bufo

Bufo is sometimes called the God molecule.
It comes from the venom of the Sonoran Desert toad.
People describe it as the closest thing to dying without dying.

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Uri had spoken about it with reverence and restraint. He called it unshakable. The psychedelic cherry on top of everything we had already endured. I read just enough to know what frightened me most was not the intensity, but the surrender. Absolute surrender. That idea made me more nauseated than ayahuasca ever had, especially without an orange slice chaser.

Before my divorce, my life had been manicured. Controlled.
After it, I felt like a dandelion seed caught midair, fighting the freedom to fly and the desire to root.

We were prepared carefully. The venom would be aerated and inhaled. I had never inhaled anything in my life. No cigarettes. No vape. No hookah. Only fresh air. And once, metaphorically, a plate of hot French fries.

By the time Bufo arrived, I felt both empty and full. I told Uri I would decide at the last possible moment. When the moment came, something in me said, fly. There was still more I had come for.

They told us that outer experience and inner experience often disconnect. Some people look angelically peaceful. Some scream. Some bolt. That is why there are always three volunteers per person and only two people journey at a time. Bufo is brief. Ten to twenty minutes. Powerful, but contained.

The first two people went. They were among the most troubled in our group. They made strange sounds, but nothing that stopped me.

I volunteered.

I told them I had never inhaled anything before. I said the Shehechiyanu, blessing the moment for arriving here alive. I put the metal dispenser to my mouth, breathed in, and held it.

A volunteer guided me gently to the ground.

And then there was darkness.

I could not open my eyes, but I sensed the world, distant, as if separated by a thin eggshell. Almost immediately, something rose inside me. A sound. A wail. It erupted without permission, like lava breaking through a crust I did not know was still intact.

I was no longer a person having grief.
I was a container being emptied.

In flashes of consciousness, as the wail filled the Osho hut, I knew this was grief of the world. A lion’s cry, like the one the Talmud imagines God releasing after the destruction of the Temple. Famine. War. Exploitation. Suffering without authorship. And beneath it all, layer upon layer of the pain I had accompanied in others.

Then a whisper, clear and merciless.
This is not your pain to hold anymore.

It felt endless. It was a moment.

As the sound tore through me, something else began to emerge. Birds. The hut’s thatched roof let them pass in and out freely, but I had never heard them like this. Their song cut through the wail.

And suddenly I was somewhere else, three years earlier.

The morning after I confronted my ex about his secret life. Sitting alone at my dining room table before dawn. Barely intact. More lost than I had ever been. When the light began to break, I heard the birdsong outside the window. And something in me flickered. I thought, if you can hear this in your pain, you will be okay. Not today. Not tomorrow. But eventually.

In the hut, my eyes still closed, I heard myself say loudly,
Listen to the birds.

My hand lifted, pointing upward.

The wail softened into a whimper. And beneath it, a knowing. The world would be okay.

When I returned to my seat, Uri leaned toward me, eyes wide.
You kind of freaked everyone out, he said. You were crying really loudly.

I looked at him calmly and said,
This mattered. But it is not what I came for. I need to do it again.

What I had released was not my trauma. It was something else. The accumulated grief of walking with others, of standing inside injustice, of being a rabbi who made himself endlessly accessible. Not just a rabbi, but a queer rabbi, needing to be excellent, unassailable, indispensable for proof. We expect our rabbis to suffer nobly for us. I had learned how to do that very well.

The shaman passed by. Uri called him over. I said quietly, I need to go again.

He did not hesitate.
You have more work to do.

I expected to wait. Instead, he brought me back almost immediately.

This time Krista stood behind me, gentle and mothering. When I inhaled, she pinched my nose and told me firmly to hold it. The darkness came faster. I barely remember falling back before I was shot outward at cannonball speed into a fractal universe opening in impossible geometry.

Fear surged.
I do not want this.
Then, I do not want to die.

The universe pulled me toward it, not inviting, but inevitable. As I approached the web, terror peaked. And then I merged.

There was no me.

Only oneness.
ECHAD.

Nothing and everything. Harmony without self. Freedom without edges.

As I returned, my eyes flickered open. Ruger was kneeling beside me, not looming, simply watching. We locked eyes. For a moment, meaning could have rushed in. I let it pass.

I know how easily holiness gets projected. I have lived inside that projection. This time, I did not take it in.

Back at my seat, Uri was crying.
You freaked us out again, he whispered. You were yelling, punching the air.

I could barely hear him. All I knew was that I needed to be outside.

I lay flat on my stomach in the grass, the earth cool beneath me. Alone now. My hand pressed into the soil. My fingers touched the pond water. Sun warmed my back. If I could have crawled into the earth, I would have.

For a long while, I did nothing but breathe and feel grateful to be alive.

Later, the question came.
If everything is one, why had I insisted on being so good?

The answer was not moral. It was honest.
Judgment had been a crutch. Control had once protected me. Then it became my cage. To be needed meant being relevant. To be relevant meant not disappearing.

I was more afraid of being unneeded than of dying.

Everything comes from one source. We still choose the quality of what we bring into the world. But it no longer requires my exhaustion.

The birds were never asking for my suffering. Beauty does not need pain to continue.

A year later, I see the shift. I take more risks. I play less safely. I love this life fiercely, and I am no longer willing to sacrifice myself for it.

I stayed there on the ground, held by earth and sun, wind and water, grateful.

And I made no promise in return.

Editor’s note: It is a year since my ayahuasca journey.
This piece revisits the first essay in this series. When I originally published Episode 1, I was still too close to what had happened to fully understand what it was opening. With time, and through writing the pieces that followed, the deeper shape of the journey became clearer. I am offering this version now with sharper language and a clearer sense of direction, as the series moves toward the most irreversible and eye-opening experiences that came later. I will finish this series by the end of the month.

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Some people find God in a synagogue.
Some find God in the great outdoors.

And apparently, some find God in a cup of psychedelic plant tea brewed in the middle of the Mexican jungle.

For most of my life, I assumed I fell into the first two categories. As a rabbi, I have spent decades seeking wisdom in ancient texts, in social justice work, and in the complex beauty of human relationships. I have also spent an equal amount of time being deeply skeptical of anything that smelled remotely like spiritual tourism.

I was raised a Southerner by Brooklyn-born parents. I do my research. I ask questions. I trust therapy. I side-eye shortcuts to enlightenment. I am a New Yorker at heart, even when my accent disappears.

And yet, here I am.

This was not on my rabbinical school bingo card.

At the time, I thought I was writing about whether I would say yes to ayahuasca. I understand now that I was writing about something else entirely.

After decades of therapy, spiritual leadership, and justice work, something in me was still armored.

Not unconscious.
Not unexamined.
Not untouched by healing.

And that unsettled me.

I believe in text, community, argument, and repair. I believe in slow work and in spiritual practices that demand accountability over time. I am deeply suspicious of experiences that promise transcendence without cost.

Which is why it surprised me to find myself in Mexico, preparing to drink a bitter plant medicine in ceremony, holding a question I had never quite allowed myself to ask.

What if insight is not the same as release.

If you had asked me a year earlier whether I would ever participate in an ayahuasca ceremony, I would have laughed. Then I would have made a joke about how the only psychedelic experience I needed involved a good mushroom risotto.

But then there is Uri.

Uri Vaknin is my lifelong best friend, a real estate mogul, art world insider, and one of the most curious humans I know. Our friendship stretches back to elementary school and has survived decades of change, disagreement, and spirited theological debate. He lives in a world of contemporary art and elegance. I have spent much of my life in the trenches of spiritual leadership, communal care, and moral repair.

We are very different. We trust each other completely.

Uri has always been an explorer. Where I avoided mind-altering substances, he sought experience. He has looked for meaning in many places. Nothing shifted him the way his ayahuasca retreat did.

When he returned, he was quieter. Softer. More present in his body. He spoke about God not as an idea to be debated, but as something encountered.

He made changes. Real ones.

I was moved by what I saw.

And then he said it.

You need to do this.

I was not an easy sell.

I have spent over thirty years in therapy. I have worked through childhood trauma, the wounds of coming out during the AIDS epidemic, a brutal divorce, narcissistic relationships, and the accumulated toll of leading an LGBTQ-founded synagogue in the South for more than two decades.

I have done the work.

And still, there were places in me that felt fixed. Tight. As if my nervous system had learned how to survive by becoming articulate, by understanding pain without fully releasing it.

At some point, I began to wonder if insight itself had become a kind of armor.

That question stayed with me.

So I did what rabbis do when standing near a threshold. I studied. I asked careful questions. I listened. I made sure the container mattered as much as the experience itself.

Months later, I found myself sitting across from Ruger Hebert, the founder of MexiSoul, in Guadalajara. If I was going to enter an altered state of consciousness guided by others, I needed to know this was not escapism dressed up as spirituality.

What mattered to me was orientation.

MexiSoul’s approach was not about fixing anyone. It was grounded in the belief that we are already whole, that healing is less about becoming someone new and more about remembering what we have learned to protect ourselves from.

That language mattered.

I did my homework. Serious research. Serious safeguards.

What the science confirmed was not miracle cures, but something therapists already know. Some trauma lives below language. It lives in the body. Insight alone does not always reach it.

For someone who has spent a lifetime using words to heal through sermons, teaching, and counseling, this was humbling and strangely relieving.

What if the next step was not about talking.

What if it was about listening somewhere deeper.

No one signs up for an ayahuasca ceremony without fear. This is not a spa day. It is an invitation to meet yourself without anesthesia.

I did not go looking to be fixed. I went in with intention.

To soften where I had learned to brace.
To meet what arose with curiosity rather than control.
To see what might happen if I laid the armor down.

So I said yes.

What I did not yet understand was what that yes would open.

Not just the ceremonies themselves, but a sequence of experiences that would unfold over several days and alter something fundamental in me.

The most irreversible and eye-opening moments were still to come.

I was only at the beginning.

Continue reading Episodes 2–7 in the Aftertaste section for the unfolding journey. The most eye-opening and irreversible chapters are still ahead, and they will be arriving soon. You will want to be here for what comes next.

This is the 5th Part of a Series: You can read the first one here: The Vine of the Soul Part 1

If someone told you enlightenment could come from licking a toad-or more accurately, vaporizing the dried venom from the Sonoran Desert Toad (Bufo alvarius)-you might wonder if they'd already indulged. But Bufo isn't a punchline; it's a psychedelic heavyweight whose venom packs nature's highest known concentration of 5-MeO-DMT. Let's unravel this scientific and spiritual conundrum, preferably without licking anything prematurely. Though, to be fair, licking toads might still be a better method for finding Prince Charming than most dating apps.

Bufo Basics: Meet the Psychedelic Toad

First, a quick toad primer: The Sonoran Desert Toad, native to northern Mexico and the southwestern United States, secretes venom from glands behind its eyes as a defense against predators or spiritually curious humans. And unlike the hallucinogenic frogs of lore, Bufo is all business: its venom contains about 15-30% pure 5-MeO-DMT, vastly outpacing other natural sources.

5-MeO-DMT (5-methoxy-N,N-dimethyltryptamine, if you're feeling scientific) is a close cousin to the DMT found in Ayahuasca, but with some potent distinctions. Often called the "God Molecule," 5-MeO-DMT stands out for its ability to rapidly dissolve boundaries between self and cosmos. Think of it as a fast pass to spiritual obliteration and reconstruction, sometimes in less time than it takes to microwave popcorn.

My first experience was profound but distinct from this, which is why-with the Shaman's approval-I embraced it a second time, saying goodbye to my ego; hello eternity!

Neurochemistry for Psychedelic Nerds (and Proud of It)

When inhaled (the preferred method-please leave those toads alone!), 5-MeO-DMT crosses the blood-brain barrier in mere seconds, swiftly engaging the serotonin 5-HT1A and 5-HT2A receptor sites. These receptors are like spiritual doorways: activating them drastically shifts your neurological perception of reality.

Research led by Dr. Alan Davis at Johns Hopkins University reports that 80% of users experience substantial reductions in anxiety, depression, and PTSD symptoms after just one use of Bufo venom, attributing these outcomes to the molecule's potent effects on brain regions governing self-awareness and ego construction. In essence, your brain briefly loses track of where "you" end and the universe begins, triggering intense mystical experiences.

And sometimes just confusion, tears, and an uninvited existential audit.

The Mystical Melt: What Exactly Happens?

Bufo experiences are famously challenging to articulate. Many practitioners call the experience "ego death" or “ego dissolution.” The venom catapults you into an expansive, timeless space where the ego is stripped away, and you confront pure consciousness. Or what felt like being booted into eternity by a barefoot mystic with a wicked sense of humor. To me, it felt like a cosmic prank-being catapulted into the web of the universe like a fly being fed to the infinite.

Users report vivid experiences of unity, profound unconditional love, or a sense of dissolving into universal existence. One practitioner describes it as: "being hurled into the cosmic blender, shredded and reassembled, coming out surprisingly better-albeit slightly stunned." My response shocked me.

This loss of self-boundaries may explain why Bufo has shown therapeutic promise. In studies, the ego-dissolving properties correlate strongly with lasting psychological shifts, potentially recalibrating neural pathways related to trauma and anxiety. The science suggests Bufo acts as a neurological reset, allowing individuals to break free of entrenched mental patterns.

The Bufo Experience: Safety First (and No Toad Licking)

Though it's tempting to leap into the cosmic pool, a measured approach is essential. The sheer potency and rapid onset of Bufo demand informed caution:

• Medical Clearance: Those with heart conditions, high blood pressure, severe mental illness, or psychiatric medications should steer clear. Consult medical professionals first.
  
  

• Experienced Facilitation: Engage only with reputable practitioners who ensure safe, supported environments. This isn't a DIY project.
  
  

• Dosage and Method: Venom is dried, measured carefully, and vaporized-not smoked or ingested raw. Inaccurate dosing can lead to overwhelming experiences or medical distress.
  
  

• Integration Support: Ensure you have access to post-session integration support. The experience itself is brief, but psychological impacts can unfold profoundly over time.
  
  

Questions to Ask Yourself Before You Leap

• Am I seeking healing, insight, or simply a new experience?
  
  

• Do I have a support system or therapist to help me integrate the experience?
  
  

• Can I set aside ego and control, even temporarily?
  
  

• Am I physically and mentally well enough to undergo an intense journey?
  
  

Preparing the Vessel: Body and Mind

• Physically: Eat light the day before, stay hydrated, avoid alcohol and drugs, and rest well. A calm nervous system supports a better experience.
  
  

• Psychologically: Clarify your intention, journal beforehand, meditate, or connect with breathwork. Don’t rush in-this is sacred fire.

Endorsement

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Mexisoul Retreats and Humberto the Shaman, who facilitated my experience with extraordinary care, integrity, and presence. His thoughtful approach created a safe, grounded, and meaningful space-one I would entrust again. And I appreciate that they bring their respect for Pachamama in all that they do, including sourcing the Bufo venom ethically and sustainably.

Enlightenment, Now with Added Irreverence

Is Bufo venom enlightenment's shortcut-or cosmic slapstick humor at humanity’s expense? Possibly both. Science is affirming what spiritual traditions have hinted at for millennia: the dissolution of the ego, if brief, can catalyze genuine transformation. Yet, treating Bufo with respect means understanding its power and the critical necessity of responsible use.

Perhaps toads and neuroscience share a secret wink: profound insights can arise from the oddest of places-and sometimes, the universe's deepest truths might indeed be hidden just behind the eyes of a venomous amphibian.

Turns out, spiritual truth might be less about finding your center and more about realizing you never had one.

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If You’re Toad-Curious: A Bufo Quick Guide

• Not for first-timers or thrill-seekers.
  
  

• Expect ego death, not a party.
  
  

• Find a vetted facilitator (shamans > strangers with vape pens).
  
  

• Prep your body and psyche like it’s sacred. Because it is.
  
  

• You might not come back the same. That might be the point.
  
  

(Stay tuned for my personal dive into Bufo’s psychedelic waters-coming soon.)

Read the first chapter of "The Vine of the Soul: Ayahuasca Through Science and Spirit" here.

Know These Risks Before You Sip the Jungle's Cup of Truth

A Summary

• Ayahuasca is powerful and not without risks: both physical and psychological.
  

• You must consult your doctor, especially if you take medication or have a heart condition.
  

• Emotional challenges are common. Support afterward is not optional ; it’s essential.
  

• Choose a vetted retreat with screening, experienced guides, and built-in integration.
  

• When done right, the journey can be transformative. But go in humble, informed, and grounded.

* I recommend Mexisoul Retreats (link)

I believe in the sacred potential of this medicine. I’ve seen it help people break cycles, encounter their inner divinity, and live with greater freedom. But let’s not be naïve. Not every shaman is trustworthy. Not every participant is ready. And not every ceremony is healing. Some are just chaos dressed in white linen and jungle mystique.

Question you should ask before going on an ayahuasca retreat:

• Do I have a strong mental health foundation?
  

• Who is holding the ceremony, and what is their training?
  

• What’s my plan for integrating whatever comes up?

Before you leap into an ayahuasca ceremony, let me be the slightly nervous but lovingly honest friend who says: hold on a sec. Let’s talk. Ayahuasca can be deeply healing, but it’s not without its thorns. And if you’re going to dive into the underworld of your psyche, you deserve to go in prepared, not blindsided.

The Physical Rollercoaster: Buckets and Blood Pressure

There’s a reason ayahuasca is often referred to as “la purga.” Not just for the literal vomiting, but because it expels far more than bile; it shakes loose hidden stories, buried wounds, and unprocessed grief. That’s part of what drew me to it. But let me be clear: if you’re going to sip the jungle’s cup of truth, it should be with eyes wide open.

Let’s start with the physical stuff. Ayahuasca is known for its purgative effects. That’s a poetic way of saying: you’re probably going to throw up. Roughly 70% of people purge during ceremonies (source). It’s not elegant. It’s not pretty. But it’s often part of the process.

More serious reactions? Rare, but not impossible. About 2% of people in a large global survey needed medical attention. Think dehydration or blood pressure spikes (source).

The brew can raise your heart rate and blood pressure for a little while. Those “moderate sympathomimetic effects” scientists like to mention are real (source).

So here’s the rule: if you have heart problems, uncontrolled high blood pressure, or certain neurological disorders, you need medical clearance. Full stop.

And when it comes to medications, especially antidepressants or other psychiatric prescriptions like SSRIs, do not proceed without getting explicit clearance from your psychiatrist or prescribing medical professional. Combining ayahuasca with SSRIs can lead to serotonin syndrome, which is potentially life-threatening. Be honest with your retreat guides and facilitators well in advance about what you’re taking. They need to know to keep you safe.

Mind Games: Emotional Depths and Psychological Caution

Ayahuasca doesn’t just play with your stomach. It plays with your emotional landscape. That’s part of the healing, yes, but it can be intense.

According to the Global Ayahuasca Survey, about 55% of people reported mental health challenges post-ceremony, things like anxiety, confusion, emotional fragility (source). Around 12% needed professional support to process what came up. That’s not nothing.

Note: Make sure you have support secured after your experience. Know ahead of time who you can turn to if you need to process this experience.

If you or your family has a history of psychosis or bipolar mania, psychedelics are generally not recommended. Even for folks without such history, ayahuasca can shake the snow globe of your psyche. This is not a DIY journey. You want a seasoned facilitator.

Good Guides Make All the Difference

A skilled facilitator isn’t just someone who knows the songs and when to pass the bucket. They’re your trusted guide through the journey, your anchor in the storm. They help you stay tethered when things get wild, and they do.

My own experience? It took place in the Mexican countryside with well-prepared guides, a professional integrator, trained volunteers, and great support before and during the ceremonial retreat. The center was called Mexisoul and while it was a far cry from the Amazon rainforest, the reverence and care were there in abundance.

Set and setting are everything. Your mindset, the room, the people, all of it matters. Good retreats do a full intake: health questionnaires, interviews, dietary guidelines. They don’t let you stroll in with secrets. I was asked about my meds, my history, even my diet. At the time, it felt like overkill. Now? I call it love with a clipboard.

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When It Gets Hard (Because It Will)

Even in the best of circumstances, things can get hard. That’s part of the deal.

But here’s the kicker: 88% of people who had difficult psychological effects still called the experience positive (source). In other words, it was worth it.

One of my guides, wise, grounded, and calm, once said, “Resist and it will persist. Surrender and you will transcend.”

She was right.

And let me tell you, I had some old childhood trauma come up like an emotional landmine. I was overwhelmed — then grateful. My best friend was there, and a professional integrator was available to help me make sense of it. I could cry, rant, reflect, and be received. That support made all the difference.

Integration Is Everything

Think of it like surgery. You wouldn’t get your insides rearranged and then skip recovery. Integration is where the real work begins: talking to a therapist or spiritual guide, journaling, resting, adjusting your life to the insights you receive, some of which may be difficult or destabilizing.

Let me tell you something most people forget: the ceremony is not the end. It’s the beginning.

Good retreats offer integration support. Someone on staff, a therapist, a coach, a guide, helps you land. Because yes, you may have just touched the Divine, but now you’ve got to return to your inbox.

Integration is how you make the vision practical. It’s how you stay grounded while your soul is still echoing with celestial music.

So, Should You Do It?

Only you can answer that. But if you do:

• Get a medical checkup.
  

• Be honest about your mental health history.
  

• Consult your psychiatrist or medical professional about any medications you’re taking.
  

• Inform your guides of your health and medications well in advance.
  

• Choose a vetted, experienced retreat center.
  

• Go in with a clear intention.
  

• Plan for integration. Seriously. During and after.
  

Ayahuasca isn’t for everyone. But for some, it’s a profound reckoning and a deep homecoming.

There are some wounds too slippery for language, too old for logic, too deep for conventional treatments alone. Trauma doesn’t just live in the mind. It takes up residence in the body, decorates the nervous system with alarms, and throws the soul out of alignment like a back that’s slept funny for 20 years. For some, talk therapy is a warm bath. For others, it’s trying to knit fog. And into that fog, ayahuasca strides, not as a savior, but perhaps as a strange and sacred sherpa.

The Miracle in the Mud

In a Brazilian clinical trial for treatment-resistant depression, that particularly cruel beast that doesn’t even flinch for SSRIs, a single ayahuasca session had 64% of participants feeling significantly better within a week. That’s not subtle. That’s not a placebo bump. That’s what I’d call holy disruption. Therapists were present, yes. The setting was reverent. It wasn’t a house party in Brooklyn. And still, remarkable.

It’s like God whispered into a vine and said, "Try this, my loves. I see you flailing."

Revisiting the Wound, Gently

When it comes to trauma, we usually avoid the scene of the crime. Ayahuasca, however, often takes you there, gently and insistently, like a grandmother cleaning out the attic with you, pausing at every box of pain to tell you, "You don’t need to carry this anymore, sweetheart."

In observational studies, survivors of childhood trauma who participated in ceremonies did not experience retraumatization. Many found they could reframe their experiences with compassion, forgiveness, and clarity. Researchers Nielson and Megler noted that the medicine helps people rewrite the trauma story, turning terror into insight. To which this rabbi adds: isn’t that just a version of teshuvah? Not forgetting the past, but allowing it to be alchemized.

Addiction and the Loop Breaker

It may sound counterintuitive that a psychedelic could treat addiction, but let me ask you this: have you met addiction? That tenacious gremlin is a master of repetition. Ayahuasca doesn’t just interrupt the loop. It often shows people the origin of the loop and then invites them to chuck it out the window.

In Indigenous traditions and Brazilian ayahuasca churches, ceremony has long been used to treat substance abuse. Studies bear this out. Participants in regular ceremonies reported decreased substance use, lower depression, and a new relationship with their own pain. In one six-month follow-up, 80% of participants with psychiatric diagnoses reported lasting improvement. Not an escape. A transformation.

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What the Studies Whisper

Here’s a gem for the skeptics: in long-term studies, ayahuasca users showed better mental health than non-users. Less depression, less anxiety, more meaning. No signs of brain damage. Better executive function. (And not the corporate kind, unless your exec function is running an intergalactic empathy startup.)

Ayahuasca, it turns out, may actually help your mind, not fry it. But only when approached with humility, preparation, and community support. This is not DIY trauma repair. This is sacred surgery.

It is also helpful — essential, really — to have integration throughout the process and afterwards. Whether it’s with a therapist, a spiritual director, or another qualified professional, having support to make sense of the experience and incorporate its lessons makes all the difference.

What I See in the Cup

Do I think everyone should rush to the jungle and swig the sacred brew? No. Not everyone should even try decaf. Ayahuasca is potent, and it’s not for all bodies, minds, or hearts. But I am compelled by its growing legitimacy, its mysterious capacity to reveal what’s buried, and to help people feel held, even by their own stories.

To heal trauma is to reclaim the narrative from the part of ourselves that stopped the tape mid-scream. Ayahuasca invites a replay, with compassion in the director’s chair.

What a strange and beautiful thing, that a vine grown in Amazonian mud might help us remember who we are beneath the pain. Or as one participant put it to me, "It didn’t make me forget my trauma. It made me stop being afraid of it."

Now that’s a sermon.

Disclaimer: It’s important to note that while these studies show promising results, ayahuasca is not a universally suitable treatment and should be approached with caution. The substance can have powerful psychological effects, and its use should be supervised by qualified professionals within appropriate settings.

Neuro-Silly-Putty! Neuroplasticity: Blessing or a Curse?

Remember playing with Silly Putty as a kid? Press it against a newspaper comic, and suddenly Garfield was stretching his sarcastic grin into unrecognizable shapes. Well, guess what? Your brain might be more like that pink blob of putty than you'd think. Welcome to the squishy world of neuroplasticity, the brain’s dazzling, sometimes dizzying ability to reorganize itself by forming new neural connections.

Neuroplasticity, at its best, is the brain’s secret superpower, allowing us to learn new languages, pick up salsa dancing at 50, or recover after an injury. But when entrenched depression, trauma, or harmful habits dig their claws deep, this same plasticity feels less like a blessing and more like a cruel joke. Those repeated negative thoughts carve paths into our mental terrain, like skis repeatedly gliding down the same tracks until the grooves become impossibly deep. Soon enough, we're stuck skiing the same unhappy slopes.

Enter ayahuasca, our psychedelic snow machine. In a learning session at Mexisoul, I heard this perfect metaphor: think of your brain as a ski slope with well-worn paths. Ayahuasca acts like fresh snowfall, gently covering old tracks, allowing your mental skis the freedom to carve new paths down previously untouched slopes. Researchers call this heightened neuroplastic state a "window of plasticity." It’s a temporary, fertile period post-ayahuasca where the brain is malleable, primed for new connections, insights, and behaviors.

Scientists diving into this mystical brew have discovered something extraordinary. Ayahuasca contains DMT and harmine, which work synergistically to soften the brain’s rigid structures, much like warm hands kneading hard clay. Studies show that DMT sparks growth in dendrites and synapses, essentially helping neurons sprout fresh connections like tiny green shoots in spring. Add a boost of BDNF (Brain-Derived Neurotrophic Factor), a sort of miracle grow fertilizer for neurons, and your brain becomes ready to bloom.

But here's the catch (you knew there had to be one, right?). Ayahuasca doesn’t permanently erase your old patterns; it merely gives you the tools to reshape your pathways. It offers a chance, a precious opportunity, but the real work begins once the visions fade and you're back to your everyday life. This is when integration steps onto the stage. Think of integration as your gardening practice after planting new seeds. You've got to water, tend, and nurture your new neural sprouts, or they'll wither away.

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In my own integration journey post-ayahuasca, I found that healthier spiritual practices and even my relationship to writing became enhanced and more easeful. It was as though the stubborn mental soil had finally been tilled, eager to welcome new growth.

So, is neuroplasticity a blessing or a curse? Maybe it’s both, depending on how we navigate it. Ayahuasca opens a door, but it's up to us to step through it with intention, support, and wisdom. After all, even Silly Putty needs guidance, or you'll just end up with a mess (or a stretched-out Garfield).

Let’s get into the holy wiring diagram that is your brain on ayahuasca. Spoiler: it's not a calm walk through the garden of Eden. It’s more like a cosmic circuit breaker tripping in the best way possible.

At the chemical level, the superstar here is DMT, a potent psychedelic compound nicknamed “the spirit molecule.” It binds like a key in a lock to the brain’s 5-HT₂A serotonin receptors, the same ones activated by LSD and psilocybin. But when you drink ayahuasca, it’s not just about the DMT. The MAO inhibitors from the vine keep your gut from destroying the DMT before it reaches your brain. Once inside, it floods areas involved in visual processing, memory, emotion, and identity—the inner sanctums of self.

Brain scans of people under the influence of ayahuasca reveal a kaleidoscope of neurological communication. Regions of the brain that usually mind their own business suddenly throw a party together. Meanwhile, the Default Mode Network, the brain’s internal narrator, ego manager, and anxious little editor-in-chief, goes quiet. This temporary silence allows something else to emerge: unfiltered insight, memory, even connection to something larger than the self.

One leading theory, cheekily named REBUS (Relaxed Beliefs Under Psychedelics), suggests that ayahuasca lets the brain loosen its grip on deeply ingrained stories and assumptions. In everyday life, we cling to what we think we know. Our stories about who we are, how the world works, and what is or isn’t possible. But under the influence of the brew, those mental guardrails wobble. Think of it like shaking a snow globe of your identity. Suddenly, new patterns can emerge from the swirl.

This doesn’t just feel trippy. It can feel meaningful. Emotionally, ayahuasca dismantles our usual psychological defense systems. Those polished coping strategies and elegant avoidance maneuvers? Disabled. In their place, a stream of old memories and unresolved feelings may rise, often in vivid detail.

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Some describe this as watching your life unfold from a third-person view, as if guided by a compassionate inner witness. Psychologists call this decentering or observer perspective, and it’s one of the most healing aspects of psychedelic therapy. It allows us to re-experience trauma with enough space to integrate it, rather than be overwhelmed by it.

The brew doesn’t ask politely. It reveals what’s hidden, and it usually knows where you’ve been hiding it. The spiritual meets the neurochemical in a kind of divine ambush, helping people release guilt, fear, and grief held so long they forgot they were carrying it.

If the brain is a temple, then ayahuasca is a wandering prophet with a drum, shaking the walls until the truth falls out. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.

Science is still catching up to all of this. Much of what we know comes from early-stage research, anecdotal reports, and careful hypotheses. The experience can be terrifying or liberating, destabilizing or clarifying. For some, it is the definition of chaos. For others, it’s a rare window into coherence. For me, it was all of the above.

That is why a spiritual ayahuasca journey should not be taken lightly or on a whim. It requires preparation, intention, and a group of people who engage in the ritual with care, protection, and safety in mind. I was fortunate to experience this through Mexisoul, where the environment was one of deep respect and grounded spiritual integrity.

Coming next: Neuro-Silly-Putty? What is Neuroplasticity and Is It a Blessing or a Curse?

The Vine of the Soul: Ayahuasca Through Science and Spirit

No punchline here. Just one spiritually adventurous rabbi, a rainforest retreat, and a brew that tastes like compost had some trauma to process. But don't we all?!

Ayahuasca, known poetically as the vine of the soul, is neither fad nor pharmaceutical. It’s a bold, bitter sacrament—part tea, part teacher, part intestinal purge. Brewed in the Amazon for generations, it’s been the centerpiece of indigenous ceremonies meant to heal the body, recalibrate the psyche, and open doors to the divine (or at least to one’s own deeply opinionated subconscious). And now, it’s being studied by scientists, therapists, and yes, the occasional rabbi, all hoping to understand what makes this muddy potion so powerfully transformative.

A Sacred Brew with Deep Amazonian Roots

Ayahuasca doesn’t work alone; it’s a botanical power couple. The potion pairs Psychotria viridis (chacruna), which contains the hallucinogenic molecule DMT, with Banisteriopsis caapi, a vine rich in natural MAO inhibitors like harmine and harmaline. On their own, the chacruna leaves would be broken down by the gut before doing anything enlightening, unless enlightenment comes with indigestion. If so, sign up for my sermon series. But when combined with the vine’s enzyme-blockers, DMT bypasses the body's molecular bouncers and makes its grand entrance into the brain with all the subtlety of a Broadway diva, bright lights, strange visions, and an emotional encore.

This alchemical duet, long known to Amazonian shamans and now double-blind tested by neuroscientists, opens the gates to intense visionary states. Once consumed, the body responds... with rebellion. Nausea, vomiting, and other undignified exits are commo and traditionally welcomed. It’s not a bug, it’s a feature: the purge is seen as a sacred detox, a clearing out of emotional, spiritual, and gastrointestinal baggage. It’s like your soul decided to go full Marie Kondo and start with your insides.

Then the real show begins. Over the next 4–6 hours, the brew leads participants through landscapes of memory, grief, insight, and cosmic metaphor. Some describe meeting ancestors, others encounter their deepest truths—or their most creatively irrational fears (shout-out to the guy who was convinced he was being judged by an intergalactic council of owls). In Amazonian cosmology, ayahuasca is not just a tool; it’s a teacher. A sentient spirit. The jungle whispering its secrets in psychedelic Morse code.

In this, there’s a strangely rabbinic resonance. Jewish mystics, too, describe altered states of consciousness as gateways to divine encounter. The kabbalistic tradition speaks of ascending worlds, unveiling illusions, and receiving wisdom that language can barely contain. And so, perhaps unsurprisingly, one rabbi found himself in the Mexican countryside, humbled by the idea that a vine might do what prophets once did, crack open reality just wide enough to let a little truth leak in…or out.

READ MORE ABOUT MY JOURNEY:A Skeptical Rabbi Walks Into the Jungle

Next up: what’s actually happening in the brain while all this is going on—and why the answers might be just as poetic as the questions.

Shadows and Symphonies

The hut was dark, the kind of darkness that holds secrets. Just enough glow from a few ceremonial candles and a distant lantern to make out the silhouettes of the musicians, swaying with their instruments, and the shaman, still and alert, as if communing with dimensions I could not see. The air shimmered with smoke and anticipation, and something else, something feral.

Uri whispered to me, “I’m going all in.”

He had just drunk his third cup. The bitter residue of my own first cup still haunted the back of my throat. I couldn’t imagine drinking more. But Uri was a man on a mission. The kind of mission that smells like destiny and vomit.

Ed, the Purge Connosieur

To Uri’s right was Ed, a man who might’ve passed for a retired wrestler or a truck-stop Santa on sabbatical. Ed was large in stature, large in energy, and large in volume. He sang. Loudly. Constantly. When he wasn't singing, he was talking to himself. Loudly. Constantly. His laugh boomed. His phone blared music. He smoked. And he complained about the food, asking if “Mexican food always has this much corn?”

Despite all this, Ed was oddly likable—an unfiltered cocktail of bro bluster and baffled goodwill. But during the first ceremony, he reacted to the sounds of others purging like a teenager at a horror movie:

“Oh NO!”
“Oh, God.”
“OOH!”
“What the hell?!”

It was our first night, so none of us really knew what to expect or tolerate. I found myself wishing someone would ask him to quiet down. But then again, my laughter had probably been just as annoying to someone else. The medicine makes you humble like that.

Neighborly Disruptions

To my left was Janelle, a spunky, grounded young lesbian at a crossroad in her life. While we hadn’t yet talked much, I was grateful she was my mat-neighbor. That is, until she decided after two hours that she wasn’t feeling anything and walked off to her bed. Her absence left a small chasm beside me, one that would soon be filled by chaos.

Gail, the self-proclaimed light-language speaker and spiritual enthusiast, was the next closest. She exuded positivity like a scented candle you’re not sure you like. Every time someone purged, she cheered them on:

“Let it go!”
“Oh that was GOOD!”
“Yesss, release!”

I leaned over to Uri and whispered, “She’s the Purge Doula.” Or, more accurately, Wretch Major. Cheer Captain of the Technicolor Yawn.

The Great Spill

Then came the symphony of burps. Uri, who had always been a gifted belcher, especially post-garlic, was now making sounds that felt seismic. Then came the retching. Buckets clutched. Buckets missed. Buckets spilled. And Ed, poor Ed, was suddenly the victim of a backdraft of bile.

He leapt up like someone had lit his seat on fire.

It was like a grotesque vaudeville act, a slapstick collision of the sacred and the stomach-turning. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Hard. Like, “I may never be allowed back into this hut” kind of laughter.

Volunteers descended like gentle ninjas to clean the mess. Ed, now wearing Uri’s inner darkness on his clothes, was out for the night.

Then things got loud again. Luke, the wolf-chasing, spiky-haired seeker in his twenties, appeared. He and Gail began chatting, no, flirting, in full voice. I had had enough.

Rolling toward them, I said with uncharacteristic clarity,
“Might I suggest, if you're having a deep, lengthy conversation, you take it outside the hut?”

Luke bristled. “Did you just ask me to leave?”

“Wasn’t I clear enough?”

He blinked. Then vanished. I was surprised how much the ayahuasca stripped me back to my matter-of-fact nature.

Uri and I had cleared the area around us. We didn’t know how much we’d need it.

Enter the Storm

Because then Uri began to wretch in earnest. A primal, guttural, soul-emptying series of heaves that would have made a demon blush. He no longer had the coordination to hold his bucket. Volunteers hovered. I reached for his hand. He didn’t respond. He was in another realm.

I stood. I watched. A red light from the stained-glass window cast a glowing heart on my back—I didn’t know this until later, when Uri told me. I just knew I was holding vigil.

Krista, one of the retreat leaders, approached and gently held my hand.
“He’s fine,” she whispered. “I promise.”

Uri’s Descent and Return — As I Witnessed and Understood It

When the ceremony finally ended and we debriefed on our mats, Uri spoke like someone who had traveled galaxies and returned slightly singed. This was his third time drinking ayahuasca, but nothing had prepared him for this night.

The first two cups danced with him. The third one ravaged him.

“I had to go all the way in,” he said. “There was no other option.”

And then it started. The purging wasn’t just physical. It was as if his soul grabbed a megaphone and screamed, “Clear the decks!”

He said he lost all sense of control. Ego evaporated. Dignity left the room like it had better places to be. In that space of complete undoing, he encountered what he could only describe as God. Not in stained-glass serenity, but in raw, overwhelming power.

He described feeling like a vessel. Not a man, not a soul, just a wide-open, shaking container for something vast. The experience, in his telling, veered into the erotic. He felt as if he were being entered by the Divine. Not in the polite language of mysticism, but in the trembling of his bones. I’ve softened it in the telling, but it was as if he had become the sacred chamber for a cosmic embrace.

From the outside, he looked like a man unraveling. From within, he was meeting God.

He told me that it was my presence that made the difference. My hand. My stillness. That glowing heart cast onto my back from the stained glass became his homing beacon. He said it was as if the Shekhinah had whispered, “Follow that light. That’s your way home.”

“You were my Moses,” he told me. “Leading me out of my inner Egypt.”

Later, we lay in our beds, talking like boys at a sleepover. No hierarchy, no titles. Just two souls who had been through the fire and emerged, still glowing. He told me the greatest gift he received wasn’t even the union. It was the moment after: the silence in his mind. No thoughts. Just stillness.

“That thirty seconds,” he said, “was worth it all.”

Uri also told me about pacing outside under the stars. Trying to remember he had a body. Trying to come back. And just as he was returning to himself, the musicians began playing What a Wonderful World.

He wept.

And so did I.

Because it is. Even with the noise. Even with the madness. Even with the mess.

Uri also said he came to understand something powerful about being Jewish. That we are not “chosen” in a hierarchical way—but in a cosmic one. He saw that our closeness to the Divine, our unbearable intimacy with truth, is why we’ve been both loved and feared. He understood, in a flash of spiritual clarity, that our history of being targeted isn’t about difference alone; it’s about proximity to the sacred. As if the world senses the fire we carry, the electric wire of spiritual knowing, and either leans in or recoils.

“It’s like our souls are too close to the flame,” he said, “and the world doesn’t always know what to do with that.”

That night, he wasn’t just reclaiming himself. He was reclaiming his place in the lineage. One more mystic. One more vessel.

And I had the honor to witness it all. I felt so much love and compassion for my friend. As he recovered, I let my body lead me in joy, as I danced around the musicians.

(If you know me, please roll your eyes; this is generally not how I roll. But this time the mind took a backseat, and my body needed to move free from the restraints.)

The Sacred Bridge: From the Hut to the Heavens

As I sat with Uri’s story, what struck me most was how ancient it felt. Not just in content, but in its cadence. This wasn’t just a personal purge or a psychedelic trip gone sideways. It was a full-body midrash. A prophetic unraveling. A mystical union echoing with the voices of those who dared to wrestle with the Divine.

The Zohar, the crown jewel of Jewish mysticism, speaks of such unions in bold and often erotic language. It paints a cosmos where the Shekhinah, the indwelling Divine Presence, longs to reunite with the Holy One. Their separation is the exile of the world. Their union is its healing.

Uri became that vessel.

The mystic? They’re the one who dares to say yes to becoming the meeting place.

The Zohar also tells us that the soul’s longing for God is not quiet. It’s loud. Hungry. Desperate even. Like lovers estranged by centuries of silence who finally crash into each other’s arms. Uri’s words—his trembling recognition that he had been “ravished” by God—wouldn’t be out of place in those ancient pages.

And then there’s the lineage. The prophets of the Tanakh were not neat, polished professionals. They were wild, raw, undone by visions. They dreamed in fire and spoke in riddles. And crucially, they imagined the People of Israel as the Bride of God. Not just metaphorically, but as a sacred lover.

And what does a bride and groom do? They consummate. They merge. They become one.

This wasn’t about sanitized ritual. This was about longing and union and holy risk. Ezekiel saw wheels within wheels. Isaiah was scorched by coal. Moses glowed. And somewhere between the rapture and the recoil, each of them became the trembling bridge between humanity and the Divine.

So yes, Uri was one more mystic. One more vessel. And in that strange, sacred hut in Mexico, we stumbled back into an ancient stream of our people.

Because the work of the mystic is rarely done alone. And if this night taught me anything, it’s that the sacred isn’t just in the stars: it’s in the sweat, the silence, and in enduring friendship through the ages.

The Descent into Memory

My laughter ended not with a sigh, but with a sudden gravity, an invisible force anchoring my limbs, turning each movement into an act of resistance. It felt like my body had become sediment, layered with something ancient. The sensation was so vivid it unlocked a memory I didn’t know I was still carrying. I felt bound.

Earlier that night, the medicine had me cracking up with laughter, the kind that surprises you with its wild generosity, shaking loose old debris from your insides. But even in the intervals between laughs, I could feel the aftershocks of emotional earthquakes echoing through my chest. The reverberations were unmistakably somatic. This was a journey of sensation, not just vision. And then, like a whisper from below my skin: Trust your body’s wisdom.

That phrase would return to me repeatedly, a refrain from some deeper place.

There was a moment, as abrupt as a switch being flipped, when my mind flooded with revelations. Connections sparking like a storm of fireflies. Thought after thought arrived with such velocity I could hardly hold them. It was thrilling, yes, but also disorienting, like trying to drink from a firehose of insight. I had an urgency to remember it all, but it was too fast. And then, mercifully, the reminder: Enough with the mind; trust the body.

So when the heaviness returned, I surrendered. I let it drape over me like the thickest woolen cloak. I laid flat beneath my blanket, listening to a song that matched the weight of the moment. Its melody, half-understood Spanish poetry, carried the ache of abandonment and the balm of parental tenderness. The music was doing something, maybe even translating emotions that words could not.

Bound Before I Knew the Word

That’s when the sensation time-traveled me. I was three years old, maybe two. Trapped under what felt like a leaden forcefield. I remembered the ER. My chin had split open. The sterile lights. The cold table. The needle stitching my skin while I screamed, thrashing. The doctor’s frustration. And then, like some medieval corrective, they placed what I thought was a lead X-ray blanket on my tiny, squirming body. I was pinned, terrified, and silenced by weight.

The lights were too bright. The voices too sharp. The smell of antiseptic burned its way into my memory. I was three, but I remember the betrayal: why wasn’t anyone stopping this? Where was mercy? Where was softness?

I was paralyzed. Indignant. Powerless. It left an indelible mark on me–as palpable in my body as the scar on my chin was visible.

Lying there decades later, I could feel it again. The density. The helplessness. Then came the question, startling in its clarity: What if I’ve been carrying that lead blanket my whole life?

The Weight of Proving

I mean, the universe really handed me the gay rabbi starter pack: trauma, people-pleasing, and an inescapable urge to be both fabulous and deeply spiritual at all times. Somewhere between Torah and trauma, I found myself studying Torah like glittery therapy sessions.

It wasn't just the weight of that memory. It was the inheritance of performance. The need to be the good boy, the bridge builder, the confident activist, the reliable shoulder. Of staying loveable to stay safe.

The voice of my therapist floated in: “Less effort; more grace, Josh.”

I lay there in silence, sitting with that young pain. Grace began to unfold.

With a tenderness I didn’t know I had for myself, I placed my hands on my belly and whispered inwardly: You’re safe. You can remove the blanket now. I don’t need your protection anymore.

What might it feel like to be light again? To move unburdened? Could I lay down this armor?

And what if I hadn’t remembered this? What if I’d gone through life never realizing I was still pinned beneath that lead? Never understanding the source of that tired ache in my soul? That compulsion to prove, to perfect, to please?

My Mother and the Memory

When I returned home and told my mom about this memory, I wanted to know if she remembered it too. She did. A nurse herself, it had been traumatic for her as a mother–to witness her child in that much distress, and to know it had been set in motion by her own playfulness. But when I described being restrained by what I assumed was a lead blanket, she gently corrected me.

It hadn’t been a blanket. It had been a heavy, adult-sized straightjacket. Because I was flailing so much, they put me in it and strapped me down until I was completely immobile.

When she said it, we both paused. A long silence opened between us, the kind that signals recognition. Horror. Grief. The acknowledgment of something too awful to touch lightly. I had even more tenderness then–for that little boy, through no fault of his own, bound like Isaac on the altar. Not by God, but by a system that needed stillness more than comfort.

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The Lion and the Lamb

And then, like the closing of a circle, the earlier part of the memory emerged. Before the ER. I remembered being hunted. Not metaphorically–playfully. My mother’s game: The Lion and The Lamb. She would chase me on all fours, growling, while I squealed and fled. On that day, she was just behind me. I looked back, screamed and crashed face-first into the leg of a chair. Blood. Panic. A game turned mythic.

I was on the way to the Emergency Room unknowingly.

And I wondered, lying there: What does it mean to be a lamb in this world? And what does it mean when the lion is your mother?

The lion and the lamb–biblical archetypes of power and innocence, predator and prey, ferocity and gentleness. But here, they were collapsed into a single maternal game, where safety and threat were intertwined in the same breath. My mother wasn’t being cruel; she was playing. And yet, in that moment, play turned into danger, and danger fused with care. It was the perfect storm for confusion: a child learning that joy might end in pain, that trust could lead to a scar.

The lamb in me, tender and unguarded, wanted only to be loved. But the lion, even in jest, taught me to run. That contradiction embedded itself deep in my bones. And now, decades later, I realized: I have spent much of my life being both–trying to embody the gentleness people could love and the strength that might keep me and so many others safe.

No wonder I’m tired.

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The Scribble and the Shift

It was not, shall we say, my most elegant moment. I needed to get to Uri, whose mat was only inches away. Imagine a bearded man in his fifties crawling across a mat like a wounded lamb in a silent disco. I must’ve looked like a cross between a children’s book character and someone who just lost a contact lens in the desert.

I told Uri I had a memory and had to write it down. It was beyond my capability to locate my journal and pen, so Uri gave me his. My hand-eye coordination is dodgy on a good day, but today, I could barely write. The best I could do was scribble two words like a three-year-old: ER/Lead blanket. It would be enough to jog my memory in the morning.

I had thought hours had gone by, but it had been barely two. So much of the night was left. I allowed myself to be held by the music.

Shortly after, there was an opportunity to drink more ayahuasca. Uri had a third cup. I asked for just a half. I might have had more of a personal experience, but I became attuned to Uri. Something was happening, and it seemed severe. I became fixated.

Little did I know he was having the most intimate encounter with the strangest of all partners–and I would discover that I played a most essential role on his journey.

Our friendship was about to level up.

"Do you have a primary emotion?"

That was the question posed by my dear friend and former synagogue president—someone who had been in the foxhole of spiritual leadership with me for nearly two decades. We were having dinner just days before I left for Guadalajara, and she and her wife—two of my favorite humans on the planet—had slipped into that glorious kind of conversation that only happens when people know each other’s souls and therapists. Years earlier, we accidentally discovered we shared the same one–therapist, that is, not soul.

Without missing a beat, she shared that hers was fear. It made sense. For many Jews of our generation, fear was not just an emotion—it was inherited, absorbed, and baked in. Our parents and grandparents, having lived through a minefield of uncertainty, handed down a worldview where safety was provisional. My Jewish day school education? A beautifully tragic syllabus that read like a tour of destruction: a timeline of violence, a geography of expulsions, and a narrative of noble martyrdom.

So yes, fear as a primary emotion tracks. But the question lingered with me, not because I didn’t understand it—because I did—but because I couldn’t relate.

"I’m not sure if this is my primary emotion," I said after a moment. "But my earliest memory is joy."

The ViewMaster of My Soul

And that joy? It’s never really left.

It lives in me like a river—deep, quiet, patient. Sometimes it vanishes beneath the surface, but it always finds a way back up. And when life has tried to drown me, it’s that joy that has lifted me like a buoy, insisting I don’t wallow too long.

My first memory of joy isn’t a single, crisp scene. It’s more like a ViewMaster reel—those circular discs of childhood magic—clicking through vivid still frames in my mind’s eye. I'm not pictured, but I am very much there.

Sunlit dandelions in a green field.
My mother’s hand holding a buttercup, gently branding my chin with its soft yellow mark.
A swing caught mid-air, the world a blur of sky and squeals.
My tiny hand clutching a pink cloud of cotton candy, a sugar wonder.
Footprints disappearing into a foamy tide.
Glinting pinwheels spinning in the wind, catching the light like tiny disco balls.

Sun. Grass. Sand. Sea. Laughter. Breeze. Yellow. Whirl. Shimmer.

It spins like a carousel of early delight, and if you listen closely, you can hear the music.

The Laughter Beneath the Calm

I don’t always know if that carousel is visible to others. My solo dance parties and spontaneous, absolutely unnecessary made-up songs might offer a clue. But I’ve also cultivated a professional exterior—the "bring it on" bravado, the anchoring presence people trust. I’ve worked hard to project calm, safety, and steady ground for others.

What most people don’t know is that much of my childhood, my adolescence, and even some of my adult personal and professional life has been marked by trauma. It’s not something I’ve often spoken about much publicly, but it’s real—and it has shaped me. It’s the soil from which my empathy has grown. It’s the reason I know how to sit in the fire with someone without flinching. My love for the underdog isn’t just about justice—it’s also a way of turning to my inner child and whispering, I got you now.

And when the joy bubbles up—sometimes with no warning—it brings with it one of my favorite sounds in the world: laughter.

Crying and Laughing: Same Breath, Different Weather

This laughter is my balm. Sometimes, it arrives as pure, unfiltered delight—an exhale of awe at the sheer weird brilliance of the universe. But just as often, it’s a shield. A spark I strike against the darker corners of life. I’ve learned to laugh in the face of absurdity—mine, yours, the world’s. I laugh because sometimes that’s the only sane response to the ridiculous ache of being human.

I’m not afraid to cry—ask anyone who’s ever sat through one of my sermons. My tears are seasoned, fluent, well-practiced. But laughter, too, is a valid response to hurt. One that disarms, disrupts, and sometimes gently disguises the pain until it's ready to be seen. And in the rarest of cases, in the face of someone’s cruelty, I wield my laughter like a weapon—unleashing my disbelief, my refusal to accept the heinous treatment being served. It’s the sound of my spirit saying, not today, not like this.

Truth be told, my most untamed crying and my most riotous laughter are almost indistinguishable. Same breath, different weather. When I cry long enough, it nearly always shapeshifts—into laughter, into light. I laugh at my crying. Not out of mockery, but recognition. Like joy showing up to sit beside sorrow and saying, You didn’t think I’d let you do this alone, did you?

Sarah Laughed, and So Do I

Biblically, I think of Sarah—who laughs not out of politeness or derision, but from the gut-wrenching collision of absurdity, wonder, delight, and horror. She hears she will give birth in her old age, and what erupts from her is the only sane response to such cosmic comedy: laughter. Do I dare trace my own laughter to hers—to that improbable, holy hilarity of the first Jewish grandmother of us all?

It feels only fair. If I’m going to claim my heritage—one pockmarked by violence, oppression, wandering, and wounding—then I should also claim my birthright of laughter. Surely, the brilliance, the audacity, even the bombast of the Jewish comedic tradition is more than entertainment; it’s a life-giving response to the unrelenting absurdity of survival.

So why not name it? Laughter is our tool. Our weapon. Our salve. Our song. And I will claim it as my own.

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Setting the Space, Losing the Script

Thus, I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised when the reverence and awe with which I entered the Osho tent quickly gave way to something... else. Something wilder. Truer. Funnier.

Uri and I arrived early—because he insisted he had to sit in a very specific spot. I hadn’t yet grown attached to any particular corner of the space, but if left to my own devices, I probably would’ve chosen something closer to the entrance for that time-honored Jewish spiritual principle: Always know where the nearest bathroom is.

We laid out our nest—extra blankets, over-prepared pillows. Uri, the seasoned psychonaut, warned me that our body temperatures would fluctuate throughout the night. "You’ll freeze, then sweat, then freeze again," he said with a knowing look. A rite of passage in fleece.

We settled in, waiting for the shaman to take his place at the front, and the musicians to gather in the center. The lights dimmed. The space hushed.

The shaman welcomed us with quiet authority, offering simple instructions: we would each begin with one cup. Just one. I immediately noticed the ayahuasca was being poured from a thermos. A thermos. Not the jungle cauldron of myth and mystery I had pictured. No steaming gourd carved with symbols of ancestral reverence. No clay chalice wrapped in vines. A stainless steel thermos. The kind that might also hold lukewarm matzo ball soup.

We were then offered the opportunity to begin with rapé—a tobacco snuff blown into our nostrils. (Yes, I will address that particular joy in a later article. Spoiler: it’s not for the faint of sinus.)

Laughter as Initiation

Then the lights were turned off, save for a faint circle of glow at the center, and one by one, people made their way to the shaman. As I stepped forward, I offered two blessings: one for the plants that spring from the earth, and one of deep gratitude for simply being alive, and for arriving at this unlikely, holy moment.

Then I drank.

The tea was bracing—an aggressively bitter brew that seemed personally offended by my tastebuds. And yet, moments later, something remarkable happened.

Laughter.

It didn’t rise politely—it erupted. Full-bodied, raucous, utterly uncontainable laughter. It moved through me like a force of nature. It was infectious. It was perhaps ancestral. It felt like I was channeling the hilarity of the moment, the incongruity, the utter surrealism of it all.

If I had to choose one word—just one—to describe my first experience with ayahuasca, it would be: Laughter.

More than anything, those first hours were defined not by visuals, but by sensation. Feeling over seeing. Embodiment over imagination. The visuals would come, yes, but my initiation was deeply somatic—rooted in the wisdom of my body and the emotional life it held.

And what rose to the surface—what refused to stay buried—was laughter.
The delight.
The horror.
The absurd.
The undoing.
The gentle madness.
And the stubborn insistence on sanity.

It was all there. Held in the echo of my own voice laughing in the dark.

The Absurdity of Healing

Then the need to purge came.

Bucket in hand, I lurched forward, retching up the bitter brew that had betrayed my taste buds and now seemed determined to exit with urgency. Mid-heave, a thought struck me: Why, oh why, hadn’t I brought Listerine strips? And that single, absurd notion sent me into another fit of laughter—deep, unfiltered, holy laughter.

Who knew that breath-freshening strips could feel like an essential tool for spiritual awakening?
Fresh breath. Fresh perspective. No?

But then—for the love of God—came the sounds.

All around me, the guttural symphony of other people purging—wailing, moaning, dry-heaving—cut against the soaring melodies of a live band singing in Spanish and English about love, unity, reverence for Pachamama, and the transcendence of our shared humanity. It was like someone had mashed together a spa playlist with the soundtrack of a haunted hospital. The cognitive dissonance was so overwhelming, it looped back into comedy.

I laughed harder.

For a fleeting moment, I worried I was being disruptive. Was I the guy who brought clown energy to the sacred fire?

But then I heard it—others laughing, too. Not mockery. Something else. Recognition. Release. The kind of laughter that cleanses what no medicine can reach.

And just like that, my laughter began to carve out space—sacred, trembling space—for something older than the medicine. Older than the jungle. Older than my name.

I didn’t remember it right away.

I felt it first.

A memory, buried so deep it had become muscle, breath, bone. It rose within me, uninvited but inevitable. My body remembered before my mind did.

And that’s when the laughter stopped.

To be continued...

Prelude to the Purge: Kambo

Intentional avoidance met sacred surprise.

The focus of my retreat had been Ayahuasca—I'd intentionally avoided diving too deeply into its intense companion, Kambo. Uri mentioned it months ago, but clearly, I'd blocked this piece out. As I lay there trying to sleep, anxiety crept in, and I called out into the darkness, “Really, we’re going to be burned tomorrow?” Uri laughed gently, reassuring me it felt no worse than a bee sting and romanticized the scars, proudly sharing how he'd considered tattooing his previous Kambo marks. Oy!

Yet, beneath his comforting laughter lingered uncertainty. Uri had warned about the gastric discomfort, flushing between hot and cold, and the infamous “frog face”—an outrageous swelling that seemed exaggerated even for him. Despite my disbelief, I drifted into restless sleep, fully aware tomorrow would push me to the edges of discomfort.

Morning arrived. I prepared by eating a scant breakfast—a single piece of fruit—and treated myself to a cupping therapy massage, another symbolic ritual. The deep bruises on my back felt oddly comforting, another sign of my intentional surrender.

What Exactly Is Kambo?

Kambo, derived from the skin secretion of the Amazonian giant leaf frog (Phyllomedusa bicolor), has deep roots among indigenous Amazonian tribes, prominently the Matsés, Katukina, Yawanawá, and Kaxinawá. Traditionally known as "sapo" or "kampu," this powerful substance is revered for its physical, spiritual, and communal benefits:

Physical Stamina: Hunters use Kambo to sharpen senses and enhance endurance, essentially clearing obstacles for successful hunts.

Spiritual Cleansing: Kambo is believed to clear "panema," a cloud of negative energy manifesting as bad luck, laziness, or depression. Through intense purging, individuals spiritually reset, aligning their energy positively.

Communal Bonding: Entire hunting parties or groups often undergo Kambo together, emphasizing shared suffering and communal resilience.

From Tradition to Tent

Yet here we were, a ragtag group of strangers about to come together for some spiritual cleansing. What I had read about communal bonding in indigenous traditions suddenly became tangible in this unlikely circle. We gathered in a circle in an Osho hut, the space softly humming with anxious anticipation. Roughly a third of the group had experienced Kambo before, easily identified by their calm and knowing expressions. Those of us who were newbies wore our slight panic openly. The retreat team was reassuring and calming, but truthfully, the individual buckets placed beside each of our mats spoke volumes about what we were about to endure.

The Modern Revival of Kambo

Beyond the Amazon, Kambo has become popularized in wellness circles globally, touted as a detoxification and holistic health remedy. Ceremonies often take place in yoga studios or retreats, blending indigenous practices with contemporary wellness rituals. The night before our ceremony, the shaman gathered us in the Osho hut and explained that Kambo was not only a detoxifier, but also an amplifier for Ayahuasca. It was designed to prepare our bodies and spirits—purging us physically, emotionally, and spiritually—to create space for deeper transformation in the ceremonies ahead.

The Ceremony: A Step-by-Step Experience

Sacred Smoke and Steady Hands

A reverent hush replaced the morning anticipation. As we assembled again in the Osho hut, a soft, inviting melody floated through the air. The space had transformed into something potent—both ancient and oddly clinical, like a hybrid between ritual chamber and emergency room.

Shaman Humberto Alcala moved quietly among us, his presence steady and deeply grounded. A decade ago, Humberto left behind a successful contracting business in California after a life-changing encounter with Ayahuasca. His path led him to live among indigenous tribes in the Peruvian jungle near Pucallpa, where he trained in traditional Shipibo shamanism—undertaking master plant dietas, vision quests, and profound inner work. Humberto now serves as a bridge between Western psychology and sacred South American medicine. His grounded integrity and quiet reverence transformed our collective nervousness into something more sacred.

With sacred tobacco in hand, Humberto began the ritual, blowing smoke over each of us to bless and prepare our bodies. There was something about his calm stature—he helped us feel the significance of what was to come.

Opening the Gates

Ritual burns opened more than skin—they opened the body’s primal wisdom. Participants typically fast and hydrate extensively before the ceremony. The facilitator opens small "gates" on the skin using superficial burns to apply Kambo directly.

As they moved around the circle, I watched the slender vine used to burn a line of dots into each person’s shoulder or arm. When it came to me, I steeled myself. The sting was more than a bee sting—but bearable. The burn lingered as I began to feel flushed, and my stomach churned. They administered the Kambo salve in a hygenic manner onto the “gates”.

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Scientifically speaking, this is when the peptides from the Kambo secretion began to take effect. Phyllocaerulein kicked my digestive system into high gear, stimulating bile release and smooth muscle contractions that prepared my body to purge. At the same time, sauvagine was dilating my blood vessels and flooding me with stress hormones, mimicking a fight-or-flight response. I was sweating, flushed, and slightly dizzy. My heart pounded. My skin prickled.

And then came the laughter. Uri and I locked eyes, both of us grinning like mischievous children who had gotten in too deep. We were already on the edge—and we hadn’t even begun to purge yet.

The Holy Retch

It was grotesque. It was sacred. It was unforgettable.

Within moments, participants experience nausea, heat flushes, heart palpitations, and emotional surges. Vomiting and diarrhea—though unpleasant—are considered essential to physical and spiritual cleansing. Luckily, I only had the former. TMI, I know!

And then it hit me—like a cosmic punch to the gut. One second I was sitting upright, trying to breathe through it; the next, I was hunched over my bucket, erupting two liters of water and what felt like everything I’d ever swallowed. I was possessed by the spirit of some gastrointestinal exorcist. It was horrifying. It was hilarious.

I couldn’t stop laughing. Between retching fits, I’d look up at Uri, who was checking in on me. Around us, a symphony of purging echoed off the hut walls—moans, sobs, dry heaves, and the occasional triumphant roar. It was grotesque. It was sacred. It was unforgettable.

Frog Face and Fluid Mysteries

We had become swollen testaments to surrender.

One of the more surreal effects of Kambo is the temporary swelling that can occur in the face—often the lips, eyelids, and cheeks. Caused by a rapid shift in blood pressure and fluid movement through the lymphatic system, this puffiness is sometimes jokingly referred to as “frog face.”

I looked over at Uri and gasped—his face had swollen into a puffy, unrecognizable mask. He actually looked like a frog. When I stumbled into the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror, I braced for something amphibian. But no—just pallid, sweaty, and utterly drained. Human enough.

Intentions at the Center

Given that Kambo activates the physiological feelings of fight/flight, I was able to stay present with the discomfort of Kambo because I was grounded in and mindful of my intentions. Without having intentions present, this experience would be a strange, even unpleasant experience, but armed with curiosity and intention, it leaves this in a wide-open field.

My intentions were:

• To open my heart, even when it’s easier to keep it guarded.
  

• To make peace with the parts of myself that still feel broken.
  

• To welcome healing and meaning wherever possible.
  

• To meet whatever came with curiosity rather than resistance.
  

Without these intentions in front of me, this becomes a weird experiment—but with them, I am paying close attention. In addition, part of my safety was the full permission—and even encouragement—to sit this out if I did not feel like participating in this way.

The Stillness After the Storm

Clarity doesn’t always come gently—but it comes.

As the purge subsided and our buckets emptied, a silence came over the hut. We lay back on our mats—spent, soaked, but strangely serene. In the stillness, I felt clear. Lighter. Not just physically, but emotionally unburdened, like I had wrung out a tightly coiled grief.

Biologically speaking, the afterglow makes sense. The drop in blood pressure caused by phyllokinin and phyllomedusin—potent vasodilators in Kambo—combined with the slowing of my racing heart brought on a calming wave of relief. The body, having been shocked and flushed, entered a kind of equilibrium. The sympathetic nervous system’s grip loosened. Endorphins, possibly nudged by trace amounts of dermorphin and deltorphin, may have kicked in. It felt like being rebooted.

Kambo had stripped me down, emptied me out, and, strangely, renewed me. My mind, like my stomach, was still. And as the hours passed, a quiet anticipation began to rise again. We had entered the deep waters. But the real ceremony—Ayahuasca—was still to come. This was just the enhancement

Uri, having done this once before, was essentially a veteran—steady, reassuring, there in some ways to support me. But what neither of us knew at that moment was that later that night, he would have his most profound Ayahuasca journey yet. And he would credit the Kambo as the preparation that opened the door.

Stepping out of the Osho hut, the midday sun warmed my face. The world felt brighter, the colors more vivid, and my body—though weary—was light with relief. I let the light soak in, grateful for the stillness, aware of the mystery ahead. That night would bring the deeper dive, the medicine I had traveled all this way to meet. But for now, I was content to walk in the sun, clean and open, ready for whatever came next.

Note: Kambo is not legal or regulated in all countries. It is considered a controlled or dangerous substance in some regions, including Australia and parts of Europe. Practicing Kambo should always be done with trained facilitators in safe, informed environments with full awareness of personal health conditions and legal context.

The Divine Petting Zoo

Before we settled in, Uri ensured I saw everything the Finca El Péndulo had to offer. Uri pointed out sacred spaces thoughtfully designed to hold transformative rituals and even a Temazcal, the Mexican sweat lodge that promised detoxification of both body and ego.

But it wasn't just the facilities; the residents themselves charmed me thoroughly. Dogs padded over, eager for pats, while cats strutted by, effortlessly demanding reverence. Chickens scattered, alarmed by my overly enthusiastic greetings, and the donkeys regarded me with dubious amusement—perhaps sensing a kindred spirit.

But most mesmerizing of all were the two majestic wolves, raised lovingly since they were pups. They carried an air of ancient wisdom, sizing me up gently, and nearby, their cousin—a half-dog, half-wolf hybrid—bounded towards me with such sweetness it melted away any lingering city-borne doubt.

I’d clearly arrived at a place where my questioning heart and spiritual openness could coexist—and perhaps even thrive.

This ranch wasn’t just land; it was an invitation to adventure, healing, and perhaps a little playful self-knowing along the way.

Agua and the Art of Arriving

Uri and I made our way to our room, a simple, rustic double, cleverly divided by the bathroom—a practical setup that humorously suggested, "close enough, but let's maintain a little boundary here."

Having survived my fair share of retreat-center rooms—some charming, some resembling glorified storage closets—this minimalist décor with its gently impractical furniture felt refreshingly adequate.

What captured my attention more profoundly, however, was the naming of the rooms. Ours was "Agua," and around us were rooms named for the other elements—Fuego, Terra, and Aire.

Rarely have I met a symbol I couldn't over-analyze.

Water, after all, flows through spiritual traditions like a poetic thread, symbolizing life, fluidity, adaptability, emotions, intuition, and the feminine or yin energy. It's cleansing, purifying, reflective of the unconscious. Was this name a gentle whisper, hinting at the journey ahead? Perhaps I was being nudged toward fluidity and openness, invited to swim rather than tread water. An ayahuasca experience can be many different things, but for me it tapped into some of my primal emotional landscape; I would come to realize I was in the right room for me.

A Different Kind of Arrival

Ordinarily, my social nature would have had me buzzing around like a bee pollinating flowers, eager to connect with the 16 other participants. Yet, this time was different. I felt unusually reserved. My lifelong best friend was here with me, and it was essential to let this experience deepen our bond rather than diffuse it into multiple new connections.

More critically, this journey was fundamentally mine—a retreat into myself, a rare act of intentional spiritual self-care.

I wanted—needed even—to avoid my usual professional pitfall of slipping into the comfortable role of supporter, guide, or rabbinic cheerleader.

I'd even proactively warned Ruger, the founder, "If you see me getting sucked into everyone's stories, kindly remind me to stay in my own lane." Thankfully, it turned out this gentle rebuke wasn't necessary, a small miracle in itself.

Flaw and Order

Instead, I honored the wisdom of Mussar, the Jewish ethical tradition that emphasizes cultivating traits (middot) conducive to spiritual growth. The middah of "Seder"—order—came immediately to mind.

Mussar teaches that internal readiness often begins with external organization; clarity of mind arises from clarity of space.

Thus, I meticulously unpacked and arranged my things, turning an unfamiliar room into a sanctuary of preparedness and intention. In doing so, I anchored myself firmly in the here and now, establishing a structured container for whatever fluid, profound, and mysterious experiences awaited me.

After all, I was staying in "Agua"—and embracing order might be precisely the lifeline needed as I prepared to dive into the deep unknown.

Into the Wild: Lessons from the Wolves

Before dinner, Uri was on a mission. With his boyish enthusiasm and a mischievous twinkle, he led me to Krista, one of the luminous souls at Finca el Péndulo. She was both a resident and one of the retreat leaders, equal parts mystic and wolf whisperer. Uri wanted me to meet the wolves.

Armed with a bag of dried meat and Krista’s steady calm, we approached the gate to the brothers' enclosure. Krista unlocked it like she was opening a sacred passageway, and in we walked. The wolves sprinted down their habitat’s incline—not toward us, but around us. They kept their distance, their eyes sharp, calculating. Not threatening, but aware. Krista explained softly that they wouldn’t attack us—they were domesticated, in a way. But we were not to touch them. They might take food from us, but we had to drop it gently. No feeding from the hand—"they can’t always distinguish a finger from a treat," she noted with a smile that was calm but firm. I had questions. Many. But I wisely decided not to ask how she knew.

The Alpha and the Offering

Each of us held a bite-sized piece of meat. Krista coached us: slow movements, grounded presence, offering—not insisting. I approached the platform, placed the morsel down, and backed away slightly. To my amazement, the alpha padded up, sniffed, took the meat, and paused near me just long enough to meet my eyes before darting away.

It was a moment—brief but electric.

Other guests began to trickle in, each with reverence and wonder. There was a quiet, sacred hush in the enclosure, like a temple service where nature leads the prayers. That is, until the youngest participant arrived.

When Reverence Breaks

With all the impulsivity of youth and none of the reverence of the moment, he decided to chase the wolves. Yes—chase them. The air shifted. Even Krista was stunned, momentarily struck silent. When she did speak—calmly, gently—he ignored her. And in that moment, watching the wolves retreat in fear, something primal surged in me. Perhaps it was protective instinct, or the rabbi in me standing for the voiceless. Maybe it was all of it.

I raised my voice with clarity and force: "Stop."

He froze. We locked eyes. No sermon was needed—just presence. In that silent exchange, something was communicated. Maybe respect, maybe rebuke. Maybe both. But the damage was done. The wolves wouldn’t come near anyone else that evening.

Lessons in Wildness

I carried that unease with me through our light dinner of rice, beans, and simple vegetables. Was this a warning? An omen? Or just a reminder that trust, once fractured, takes time to repair?

As we transitioned into orientation that night, I kept reflecting on the encounter—not just with the wolves, but with our own wildness. In Jewish tradition, we speak often of the yetzer—our impulses. The yetzer ha-tov (inclination toward good), and the yetzer ha-ra (inclination toward chaos or desire). Mussar teaches that we are not meant to destroy our wild impulses but to channel them with discernment.

And then I thought of Krista’s instructions again. Feed with intention. Keep your fingers out of the mix. Don’t assume you know what’s safe. And above all, respect the boundaries of beings you don't yet understand.

That young man’s impulse—to turn sacred mystery into sport—wasn’t foreign to me. I’ve done it. We all have. The difference, perhaps, lies in whether we choose to listen when someone says, "Stop."

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Rewilding Begins

Later, as I settled in for orientation, belly warm with food and spirit on alert, I realized this wasn’t just a journey with plant medicine.

It was a rewilding. And it was already underway.

They began to detail the week's arc, and the Kambo ceremony was first up in the morning. What?! Burning the flesh of my shoulders for frog toxin? My stomach churned, what did I sign up for? Oh, yeah, my stomach churning was just the beginning.

1. The Vine of the Soul: Ayahuasca, often called the 'vine of the soul,' is a traditional entheogenic brew originating from the indigenous cultures of the Amazon basin. For centuries, tribes such as the Shipibo-Conibo have utilized ayahuasca in ceremonial rituals aimed at healing, divination, and connecting with the spiritual realm.

These ceremonies are deeply embedded in the social and spiritual fabric of these communities, serving as rites of passage and communal healing practices. Done in sacred ceremony, this was a practice done with preparation and reverence. I heeded the advice to approach it in the same way. I began preparing my body and soul six weeks prior.

2. Lettuce Pray: The Culinary Commandments: Preparing for ayahuasca means more than an open mind—it requires disciplined eating. Traditional guidelines advocate avoiding red meat, dairy, and fermented foods weeks before the ceremony, known as the dieta, to enhance spiritual clarity.

In a personal twist, I gradually said goodbye to animal proteins—first red meat, then chicken, and eventually fish, leaving me subsisting solely on vegetables and tofu. Dairy also vanished from my diet—except for butter. (I'm no saint, after all.) The dieta was supposed to reduce the infamous ayahuasca purge, though as I'd soon learn, the medicine often has its own plans.

3. Caffeine Fiend to Serene: The Beverage Battle: Giving up caffeine was the cruelest joke of the dieta. My Diet Coke habit put up an admirable fight. Rabbis, apparently, aren’t immune to the siren call of caffeinated addictions. Still, surrendering caffeine was meant to clear the mind—and maybe offer a subtle reminder that the only real addiction allowed here is introspection.

4. Mind Over Matter: Meditation Meets Withdrawal: Meditation, my usual grounding practice, quickly became an existential wrestling match. Initially, I hoped the retreat would purge residual grief from my bones—especially after discovering my ex-husband’s hidden identity, which cracked open older wounds I had naively assumed were neatly sealed. I envisioned a dramatic, cinematic purge, a spiritual exorcism with all the flair of a blockbuster redemption arc. Instead, my meditations had other priorities: halfway through profound moments of supposed insight, my inner voice whispered, "Diet Coke. Diet Coke. Diet Coke." Apparently, enlightenment and withdrawal take the same bus route.

What actually became clear was that my intuition had been onto something. Beneath the surface, a heavy, wordless knowing settled in. It wasn’t just the turbulence of work or the political climate of 2024, though both were wreaking their own kind of havoc—especially as DEI consulting became an easy budget cut for nervous clients. The On Being Social Healing Fellowship was also ending, a project that enlivened me with no promise of renewal. But even those anxieties felt like background noise compared to something deeper, more primal, thrumming beneath it all. I couldn’t name it yet, but it was demanding my attention in a way that neither politics nor job insecurity could match.

5. Control Alt Delete: Surrendering the Illusion: Accustomed to guiding others, I struggled profoundly with surrendering my own need for control. Approaching the retreat, I felt uncertainty gnawing at my carefully cultivated rabbinic persona. The looming unknown became a mirror, highlighting how uncomfortable I was with uncertainty. True surrender, it turns out, often starts exactly where understanding ends—a terrifying proposition for someone who plans life around High Holiday schedules.

Traditional shamans speak of ayahuasca as a bridge to ancestors. Imagining my own ancestors—stern-faced Eastern European Jews—I could almost hear them warning, "Forget the ayahuasca. Stick to borscht and matzah ball soup." And yet, here I was, hoping my skepticism wouldn’t undermine my chance at a genuine spiritual encounter.

6. Purge Prep: Conversations and Cautions: My friend Uri’s tales of physical and emotional purging painted vivid images—sometimes humorous, often horrifying. His omission of certain key details (strategically?) ensured I would arrive at the ceremony with curiosity rather than dread. Uri knew me well enough to anticipate my reaction: concern, skepticism, and eventually, laughter at the absurdity of voluntarily drinking a tea known primarily for making people vomit.

7. Fashionably Late: Wardrobe Woes in the Wilderness: My personal style hardly fits the bohemian-shaman aesthetic. This inevitably led to a fashion crisis: how many suitcases could I justify packing? If I was going to face a dramatic purge, I wanted at least to look good while doing it. Apparently, surrendering my ego did not extend to my sartorial pride. Packing, in this case, was a spiritual exercise all on its own.

8. The Peanut Gallery: Friends, Fears, and First-Class Flights:

Revealing my upcoming ayahuasca journey to friends and colleagues unveiled a spectrum of reactions—from genuine concern to overt skepticism. As a rabbi, I grappled with the fear of judgment, aware that such an unconventional path might clash with traditional expectations and potentially impact my standing within the community. This internal conflict highlighted the delicate balance between personal growth and communal responsibility, challenging me to reconcile my spiritual aspirations with the potential costs to my vocation.

Realizing their skepticism stemmed from a lack of understanding rather than judgment allowed me to relax into my choice fully. Embracing that clarity, my anxiety softened into quiet determination. The unexpected first-class upgrade on my flight only added a delicious irony. I couldn’t help but laugh at the luxurious send-off into an adventure renowned for its discomfort. A rabbi flying first class toward spiritual humility—who said the universe doesn’t have a sense of humor?

9. The Airport Arrival: Meeting the Cohort: Stepping off the plane, I was prepared for a moment of quiet anticipation, a private adventure with just Uri and me embarking on this next chapter together. But as I approached the baggage claim, I quickly realized that our supposed duo had multiplied—I was about to pile into a packed van with six other participants. My new purge buddies.

Sizing them up felt like a necessary, if slightly judgmental, survival tactic. Who among them would be the stoic warrior? Who would unravel on night one? Who, if any, would I trust to hold my hair back should things get truly volatile?

And then, in a moment of cosmic absurdity, the van’s radio crackled to life with the unmistakable opening of Pet Shop Boys’ 'It’s a Sin.' One of my formative coming-out songs.

So I look back upon my life Forever with a sense of shame I've always been the one to blame...

I sat there, stuffed between near-strangers, suddenly questioning if I had just entered a meta-commentary on my own existence. Was this the universe winking at me? A divine joke at my expense? Or just an unhinged coincidence that, given the circumstances, felt more like an omen? Either way, I took it as a sign: damn, that was a harsh message. And then, just as abruptly, Uri and I started laughing—a foreshadowing of what was to come. Because if there was one thing I would soon learn, it was that surrendering to the absurdity was half the journey. Actually, it has always been.

10. Gateway to the Unknown: Arrival at The Pendulum Ranch:After an hour's winding drive into the lush Mexican countryside, the gates of Finca El Péndulo—the Pendulum Ranch—opened, revealing a place suspended between comfort and mystery. Arriving felt like stepping into a carefully curated retreat, a sanctuary dedicated to transformation and self-discovery. The ranch stretched across acres of vibrant greenery, with colorful bougainvillea climbing stone walls and an inviting pond.

The design of Finca El Péndulo was a fitting host to the retreat as it seemed to pay homage to the traditional settings of ayahuasca ceremonies. The central 'Oracle' structure, an architectural marvel of glowing columns spiraling upward, gently illuminating the surroundings and setting an inviting yet mysterious tone. The ‘Osho Hut’ was reminiscent of a traditional maloca—a communal hut used by indigenous tribes for spiritual ceremonies—served as our gathering place. This intentional architecture fostered a sense of connection to the ancient practices, grounding our modern journey in timeless traditions.

The staff and volunteers greeted us warmly, a reassuring canvas of hospitality that hinted at the connections to come. Over the coming days, I would experience firsthand their kindness, compassion, and gentle support, fostering an intimate atmosphere conducive to personal growth.

In the distance, the primal howls of the ranch’s two resident wolves added a hint of wilderness, reminding us that this space, serene as it was, remained connected to something wild and deeply authentic. Each element of Finca El Péndulo—from the thoughtfully arranged communal spaces to its subtle nods to ancient wisdom—signaled it was more than just a retreat. It was a thoughtfully designed sanctuary encouraging surrender, introspection, and renewal.

Final Reflections: Preparing the Soul's Canvas: The meticulous preparation for the ayahuasca retreat encompassed physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual dimensions. Each step—from my reluctant farewell to Diet Coke to confronting the illusion of control—was its own quiet ceremony, a way of signaling to my body, mind, and soul that something sacred and transformative awaited.

"In the stripping away of the familiar—food, habits, control—we begin the journey long before we take the first sip," my diary reminded me. Preparation wasn’t just about what I gave up; it was about the vulnerability I was willing to accept. Often, sacredness lies not in the ritual itself but in the readiness to meet the unknown with openness—and, always with a bit of humor.

Stay tuned for the next installment: "Purging with the Pros: How I Won Gold in the Ayahuasca Olympics."

For most of my life, I assumed I fell into the first two categories. As a rabbi, I have spent decades seeking wisdom in ancient texts, in social justice work, in the complex beauty of human relationships. I have also spent an equal amount of time being deeply skeptical of anything that smelled remotely like woo-woo spiritual tourism. While I was raised a Southerner, imbued by my Brooklyn-born parents, I am a New Yorker at heart—I do my research, I ask questions, and I side-eye anything that feels like a shortcut to enlightenment.

And yet, here I am, writing about how I—a cautious, therapy-loving, justice-seeking rabbi—decided to fly to Mexico, drink ayahuasca in sacred ceremony, and enter an altered state of consciousness. The universe has a great sense of humor.

Blame It on Uri

If you had asked me a year ago whether I would ever participate in an ayahuasca ceremony, I would have laughed. And then I would have made a joke about how the only psychedelic experience I was interested in was a delicious mushroom risotto.

But then there’s Uri.

For those who don’t know him, Uri Vaknin is my lifelong best friend—a real estate mogul, art world insider, and all-around fascinating human. Our friendship has spanned decades, challenges, and more than a few heated debates about the meaning of life and God. He lives in a world of elegance and fine art, while I have spent most of my life in the trenches of spiritual leadership, social justice, and community healing. He knows the best hotspots; I know the best alternative Torah commentaries. While I appreciate art and Uri is a Jew who has also been an activist, we are very different, yet we understand each other’s expertise. Somehow, despite—or maybe because of—our differences, we have built a chosen brotherhood rooted in deep respect and love since elementary school.

Uri has also tried everything. Unlike me, who has avoided mind-altering substances. Uri has always been an explorer. He’s sought meaning in many places, but nothing—nothing—shook him like his ayahuasca retreat at MexiSoul last June.

When he returned, he was different. Not just “this was a cool experience” different. Radically different. He wanted to talk about God—not in the way we used to, with the intellectual curiosity of two guys who went to Hebrew dayschool and love a good theological debate, but in the way people talk when they have actually experienced something divine. He was softer, more open. He was seeing himself and the world with a depth that startled me. He began to make profound life changes. I was excited for my friend.

And that’s when he said it:

"You need to do this."

A Rabbi, a Retreat, and a Reluctant Leap

Let’s be clear—I was not an easy sell. I have spent over 30 years in therapy, peeling back layers of trauma, learning how to be present with pain, working through the wounds of coming out during the AIDS epidemic, a brutal divorce, narcissistic relationships, and the toll of leading an LGBTQ+ founded synagogue in the South for 23 years. I have done the work. And yet, there were things that still felt stuck—things that talk therapy, for all its brilliance, couldn’t fully reach.

So, I did what any good rabbi does before making a major life decision: I researched the hell out of it.

That’s how I found myself months before my retreat sitting across from Ruger Hebert, the founder of MexiSoul, in Guadalajara. If I was going to drink a psychoactive tea brewed from Amazonian plants and confront my subconscious demons, I needed to know that the people guiding this experience weren’t just running some woo-woo retreat with dreamcatchers and vague promises of transformation.

What I learned surprised me.

MexiSoul’s approach to plant medicine wasn’t about “fixing” anyone. Their philosophy is that we are already whole—that healing is not about becoming someone new, but about remembering who we’ve always been. Their retreats combine ayahuasca ceremonies with bodywork, breathwork, traditional healing practices, and integration support. They focus on intention rather than expectation, which, as any rabbi will tell you, is a solid approach to any spiritual practice.

I asked Ruger about safety, about the science, about aftercare–and his story. He answered everything with thoughtfulness and depth, and I started to feel… less skeptical.

Maybe—just maybe—there was something here.

Science, Skepticism, and Surrender

Let’s take a detour for a moment. Because while I am deeply committed to spiritual growth, I am also someone who needs to see the receipts. And the science on ayahuasca is compelling.

Research from institutions like Johns Hopkins, NYU, and Imperial College London has shown that ayahuasca can have profound effects on trauma, depression, addiction, and even neuroplasticity. The active ingredient, DMT (dimethyltryptamine), interacts with serotonin receptors and has been found to enhance emotional processing, promote neurogenesis, and create lasting psychological shifts.

But what fascinates me most is the language of healing. Therapists and researchers describe ayahuasca as accessing pre-verbal trauma, the deep wounds that live in the body and subconscious mind, beyond the reach of talk therapy. As someone who has spent a lifetime using words to heal—through sermons, through activism, through one-on-one counseling—this struck me.

What if the next step in my healing journey wasn’t about talking, but about listening within?

Saying Yes (with a Little Fear and a Lot of Chutzpah)

I don’t think anyone signs up for an ayahuasca retreat without at least a little fear. After all, this isn’t a spa day—it’s an invitation to sit with yourself in the most raw, unfiltered way possible.

But the more I sat with it, the more I felt something shift. I didn’t need to be “fixed.” But maybe I needed to lay down the armor (or in one specific vision, a lead vest). Perhaps I needed to see what was underneath the stories I tell myself about who I am.

I didn’t go in with expectations, but I did go in with intentions:

• To open my heart, even when it’s easier to guard it.

• To make peace with the parts of myself that still feel broken.

• To welcome healing and meaning wherever possible.

• To meet whatever came with curiosity rather than resistance.

To Be Continued…

And so, I said yes.

This is the first in a series of articles about my journey with ayahuasca, healing, and the ever-surprising ways we encounter the divine. I’ll share what happened next—the ceremonies, the visions, the unexpected laughter, the humbling lessons, the expanding friendship.

But for now, I leave you with this: Sometimes, God doesn’t show up in the ways we expect. Sometimes, God is in the text. Sometimes, God is in the face of a friend. Sometimes God is deep in the forest. And sometimes, God is in a cup of bitter, sacred tea, waiting for us to drink.

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