The Scream(s)
Facing Death with the Wisdom of the Crone
Of the many interviews with older psychonauts I conducted while writing my book, some contributions came in the form of writings. Luke (not his real name) - who had his first psychedelic experience in his late seventies - was especially articulate writing about the insights from his journeys.
Recently, Luke sent me a thoughtful and poignant account of his fifth psilocybin journey. In it, I found a powerful affirmation of how these experiences can support the spiritual work of elderhood.
With his permission, I share an excerpt from this story - with the name of the state he mentions concealed to protect his identity.
Ten others and I arrive at a suburban home in XXX to explore the unknown through psilocybin mushrooms. Upon arrival, our hosts and aides brief us on the day and its ground rules—including that if a fellow traveler seems distressed, we should “stay in our own lane” and let the hosts and guides handle it. Our main task is to stay focused on our own journey. The leaders also encourage us to freely vocalize laughter, crying, sighs, and yawns. They don’t say “scream,” but it seems that screams would also be okay. Late morning, we settle on mats in a dreamy basement, drink mushroom tea, wear eye shades, listen to specially curated music, and let the mushrooms guide us to where we each need to go.
Halfway through the afternoon trip, the serenity is interrupted. A traveler suddenly screams in anger and pain, a loud, primal scream that echoes through the room. He screams repeatedly, and his yells become contagious. Before long, the room is filled with screams, including mine—though I am in bliss, not pain.
I experience this pervasive and enduring screaming in three ways. With my eye mask on, I am in Dante’s Inferno, surrounded by souls in anguish. They are screaming in horror at their fates, their pain, and their despair. I am with them, horrified by their suffering. When I remove my eye shades and remember that I am in XXX, I perceive the screaming as a microcosm of the pain in the world—caused by politics, war, division, and hate. The screaming feels fitting for these times. Finally, I hear the screams as an intrusion into my pursuit of calm, reminding me of the daily challenge of resisting the onslaught of outrageous acts by the powerful, acts that push me toward anger. My state of bliss has been invaded.
II
One of the guides approaches me, takes my hand, and offers support and companionship. She is young and attractive. I remove my eye shade to thank her, but it is not her bright, smiling face that I see. Instead, I see the face of an old hag, a witch, a crone. I am startled, confused, and frightened by this vision, but I only notice it, feeling both curious and scared. I put my eye shade back on, and my journey continues in other dimensions.
Part of my motivation for my five mushroom journeys has been to prepare for death when it comes. I am 80 and healthy. Still, people my age need to be readier for the inevitable than those younger. My focus on aging and dying includes reading books, getting my affairs in order, talking with friends, and volunteering at a hospice. It’s all bright and cheerful, intellectual, and based on the belief that facing death helps one live more fully, valuing each day.
Six months before this journey, while trying to enjoy an afternoon concert of old-time music, I was distracted by an unknown, dark inner voice criticizing me: “Yes, you are going to die, and it is not fun or romantic. It is miserable, painful, sad, and scary, and you are in denial about all of that. It will require all the strength you can muster. Prepare yourself for the hardest thing you will ever do.” My day turned dark. The voice haunted me the entire afternoon, and I accepted it (I had no choice), but I couldn’t identify its source.
I now realize that the voice I heard that musical afternoon belongs to the crone the mushrooms revealed to me. She is an ancient spirit who guides the dying through the process of death. She understands the terrifying and gruesome experience that dying can be. She does not romanticize it. She is grounded and wise about it. From my depths, she has come forward to accompany me when my time arrives, to show me the path, and to give me courage as she transports me to the next world. She knows that I need her wrinkled wisdom more than any help the maiden can provide. This crone is holding my hand, offering me her love and guidance.
The mushrooms have given her to me. They know I need her.
I’m both scared and thankful.
I’d love for you to check out this interview I did with April Pride that was just posted on her Set/Set podcast, in advance of the Psychedelic Salon at the Seattle Town Hall on February 5th- info and tickets here.