by J D Arthur
On one occasion, just after smoking, I heard a female voice ask, “How would you like to wake up in a chair over here?”—the meaning, of course, being that I could awaken in that world, instead of this. The concept, although frightening in itself, was said in a joking, almost comforting way, implying that this wouldn’t really be the case. The fact that the act of awakening in a chair was mentioned struck me as interesting, since it almost implied that I was being observed in this world. I would have thought that the boundary between the two realms could only be breached by a radical alteration of the psyche and not overstepped so readily by my companions.
Another incident took place while I was deep in the trance. I was accompanied by a group of people who were in the process of leaving where they were. They were preparing for travel. One young female asked jokingly, “What about Mr. Meat-in-the-Chair?” referring to my connection to my physical body as a hindrance to their movement. This particular appellation struck me as both succinct and hilarious, both at the time and again after returning. Although this idea took the form of humor, it merely reinforced the concept that I was almost a burden to my hosts and had to be cared for.
One other incident highlighted the mood of lightness that can occasionally appear. Again, this occurred just after smoking one pipeful. I was preparing to light the second pipe when I heard a voice comment, “Ooh, two pipes!” in a teasing manner, implying this would be too much for me. As before, this was said in a good-natured way and only served to strengthen my feelings of familiarity and affection with my escorts.
This again underscored the perception that I could be observed in the ordinary world with only the slightest brush with salvia.
6
REALITY OF THE VISIONS
One of the primary questions that arises when discussing salvia is the validity or reality of the visions that one encounters. This issue is actually much more complex than it appears on the surface. The nature of the visions is comprised of numerous levels of articulation and involvement, within a series of sessions for any one person. To compound the matter, everyone has a unique subjective experience with salvia, which can differ radically from that of someone else.
Notwithstanding these differences, the reality of the visions must at one point, sooner or later, be addressed.
Ironically, in order for a genuine appraisal of these visions to occur, a radical dissection of our ordinary perceptions is necessary. Of course, the simplest reaction, particularly among those who are unfamiliar with salvia, would be to pronounce the visions as unreal. After all, they take place in an altered state of awareness and, therefore, are mere creations of the mind or imagination. They have no connection to the real, solid world that we perceive on a daily basis and which is our main frame of reference. The landscapes that might present themselves are not accessible in a controlled manner, where they can be rationally measured against the ruler of our ordinary perceptions.
Many people would feel that this is the only reasonable analysis—that no matter how real the visions might seem, they are the result of a chemical modification of the brain and, as such, can have no inherent reality. This is the “rational” approach (sure the visions might have some kind of inner, subconscious content that might even be useful for attaining some glimpse into the “recesses of the mind,” but they ultimately spring from the mind itself).
The situation with which one is presented is not unlike a humorous story we’ve all heard. In the story, a man walking on the street at night encounters a companion searching the ground beneath a streetlight. When asked what he is looking for, he gestures behind him, into the darkness, replying, “I dropped my key over there and can’t find it.”
“But if you dropped your key over there, why are you looking for it over here?” asks his friend.
“Because the light is much better over here,” he replies.
When attempting to determine the reality of the salviaic visions, the first impulse is to examine the phenomenon where “the light is much better”—our normal awareness, based on thought and our habitual response to the sensory input that constructs and reinforces our world. Regrettably, just as in the story, this is not where the key is to be found. Since birth, we’ve been told consciously or unconsciously that our current sensory framework is the ultimate benchmark of the entire cosmos. The science of astronomy, for instance, is based on this assumption. Anything outside that framework is called into question. The nature of the perceiver is never factored into the equation.
In an odd twist, however, it can be these very salviaic visions that can allow one to step back and analyze the nature of the instruments used in making such a scientific analysis. Perhaps the primary foundation of all science, which is so intrinsically entrenched as to be virtually invisible, is the unquestioned assumption that we, in actuality, perceive the real world. To imply that the world that we perceive on a day-to-day basis is a miscalculation or a false perception can, on the surface, seem ludicrous, yet if one were to sincerely analyze the components on which our worldview is based, the presumptive nature of our “rational” framework stands out in a less flattering light.
The obvious place to begin any examination would be the senses—after all, this is our only connection to the world. These five narrow conduits of information are the only way we have of assessing the infinite universe. Like the blind men and the elephant, each of the senses conveys its limited perceptions but, by their very nature, can never fully apprehend the real substance of the object under examination. It would seem crucial to understand that the world presented by the senses is intrinsically incomplete. The information gleaned from the scientific world itself demonstrates this. There are myriad forces surrounding and penetrating us—cosmic rays, infrared light, high-frequency sounds, and ultraviolet rays, for example, of which we have no perception. Even animals perceive a realm of perception that eludes us.
It seems logical to posit that there are other realms of perception that, although valid, are not open to us in our present state. If we were able to perceive such genuine information, which is now inaccessible due to the poverty of our senses, one must concede that the transmission of that information would, by its nature, have to present a foreign form. If we were to experience the sense of smell, for instance, for the first time, we can only imagine the foreignness of the experience. It would have to transform our entire view of the world. Things that had been inaccessible could suddenly and magically be sensed. We would know, for instance, of a distant campfire without having seen or felt it. If one perceives the world in a new way, it would seem these new perceptions must present as alien and indescribable.
The visions engendered by salvia are of a unique order in that in some essential way they can articulate, with astounding precision, a relationship that could never have been imagined between the perceiver and the perceived. The characterization of the phenomenon as a vision can, itself, be misleading, since this seems to imply some sort of passive visual event. In reality, the salviaic visions are themselves almost a vehicle, a vessel for the transformative, what might be called “realizing” (in the sense of being made real) of the perceiver.
Salvia can allow us to, in effect, “step back” from our perceptions, as if they themselves were an external phenomenon. In such a state, it can become apparent that we do not witness the world as such but, in reality, witness our senses. At the same time, it becomes increasingly apparent that those same senses, in an internal sense, can perceive a much more fluid world than we have come to expect. The visions encountered begin to have not only an apparent reality but also a type of heightened validity that becomes more and more undeniable with repeated familiarity. This is not the realm of philosophical speculation but a life-and-death-like encounter of animal intensity. The thought that such experiences can later be dismissed by “rational” understanding is laughable.
Some years ago, after learning of the unique experiences that were possible, a friend of mine decided to try salvia. After smoking a good dos
e, his visions ensued. He found himself looking at a group of playing cards. At one point the faces in the cards “came to life” and were silently staring at him in a very serious manner. This terrified him, and he stood up, dispelling the vision. Although the form of the playing cards was abstract, almost allegorical, the experience of contact they engendered was, in my friend’s eyes, frighteningly real. The form of the contact was of much less significance than the contact itself. To attempt to characterize such an experience using the old ruts of “real” and “unreal” is misguided, at best.
If one were to accept the posit that salvia can, under certain circumstances, engender a state of “thoughtless awareness,” it follows that that state would, by its very nature, consist of perceptual elements that would be uniquely foreign to the realm of our ordinary experience. This cessation of thought, unlike the mere suspension of thought that can be achieved for a few moments at a time, is a steady state— a dramatic, alien, effortless release from mentation. This state can, understandably, afford one the opportunity to witness one’s own perceptual and conceptual bias, in a way that is unparalleled. To attempt to define an experience that is beyond thought by thought itself is, like the quest for the key in the light, obviously doomed from the outset.
Culturally, we’re conditioned to react in predictable ways to any incursion of the unknown. In our modern Western culture, the first reaction to any plant-induced visionary occurrence is to pronounce it a “creation of the mind.” This relieves the pressure, since we’ve all been taught about the mind and feel we know, even if only generally, what it is. In reality, of course, we have no real understanding of what the mind is, but the term is a convenient attempt to categorize what is incomprehensible.
The mind “resides” in the brain, which is in the head, at the top of our body, the form of which is delivered by our senses. What could be simpler? If one perceives something or someone “outside,” it is real. If that someone or something is perceived “inside,” it is unreal. “A hair perhaps divides the false from true,” as the Rubaiyat says. Whether the source of our perception is from within or without, however, begins to lose relevance with a substance like salvia that can essentially demonstrate, particularly through traversing the deeper levels of trance, that concepts such as “inner” and “outer” are relative perceptual miscalculations that we’ve come to accept. Salvia can begin to erode the dogmatic conceptual rigidity that prevents us from connecting with the mystery that surrounds us.
When comparing the salviaic visions to our normal world, the obvious distinction is the feeling that this world and its perceptions are solid and dependable; whereas, the perceptions offered by the salviaic state are fleeting and, from the vantage point of our normal awareness, bizarre and foreign. While in the salviaic trance, however, the discrepancies between these two states of awareness are less obvious. In our normal framework of awareness the perceiver goes unnoticed and therefore is never a factor for consideration. This is not necessarily the case with salviaic awareness.
The fact that the two states are intrinsically entwined can become apparent at the conclusion of the visionary state, as one gradually descends from the freedom of the abstract to the burden of description and the stricture of ordinary thought. At these times, the underpinnings of ordinary awareness can be glimpsed in a way that is all but incomprehensible from our normal viewpoint—a point at which the customary mode of awareness seems a tenuous construction that attains solidity gradually through a process, it seems, of a type of automatic “returning to form” and the weight of its own habit.
Despite the fact that this gradual descent is a welcome return from the alien abstraction bestowed by salvia, one can be left with the sense—and, of course, this is merely a subjective impression—that such a descent could be sidestepped in the event that one chose to relinquish that return. Whether or not this choice is solely within the purview of the moment of death, as it appears may occasionally be the case, is, of course, unknown. The ironic fact that emerges is that, no matter how real and solid one’s perceptions of the world, they must always rely on a perceiver. And it’s that perceiver that is fluid and formless. Strangely, solidity relies for its very foundation on the insubstantial.
The fact that our modern world is so separate from the visionary environment cultivated for millennia is the exception rather than the rule. Our “spiritual” life is based, most commonly, on “faith” in various descriptions provided by others, rather than on direct and transformative experience that can be surprisingly accessible. The bias against plant-augmented investigation helps to keep this absurd situation well entrenched.
When my own initial experiences began to allude to the land or place of the dead, I, myself, was skeptical. Aside from the fact that I thought such characterizations were simplistic generalizations, it just seemed too easy—almost predictable. Yet, as these scenarios kept recurring, and as their consistency was proving undeniable, I was gradually forced to reexamine my own prejudices. Repeated indications, as well as several distinct perceptual events—resulting in essentially new realms of experience—left me no choice but to accede to their validity.
Whether this land of the dead is a steady state or a transitional state—which all indications have tended to support—has yet to be discovered. Strangely, even now, in my ordinary state, to refer to such concepts as a place of the dead seems almost an absurdity and yet, when returning from the immediate fluid state of salviaic trance, it is this habitual, leaden awareness that emerges as the true absurdity—the arbitrary constrictive trap.
When considering this notion of a realm of the dead, one question that arises is whether or not it is possible to contact persons we knew who have passed away. On this point, I must admit that all options are open. From my own experiences thus far, I’ve not found this to be possible. In order to achieve that intensity, whereby this state is accessed, thought must be abandoned. When thought and memory are abandoned, it follows that our memories of friends and loved ones must also vanish.
The act of “attempting to remember” is rooted firmly in our ordinary mode of mentation and itself requires much thought and more or less rigid conceptualization. And yet, there have been times when I’ve felt a distinct, almost thoughtless archetypal remembrance of family members who have died, almost as if an ancient scent had momentarily wafted past. At other times, it’s seemed as though certain realms of contact and affection superceded thought and were almost, on some level at any rate, intrinsic to one’s nature. In general, though, it seems that to achieve the deeper states with salvia, one must, in effect, forget oneself and, in that forgetting, let go of one’s ordinary thoughts and affections to whatever extent one is capable, with the understanding that if such contact is possible and does indeed occur, it is, in all probability, outside of our control.
Another point that should be addressed is the reality of the people encountered in the salviaic trance. Our ordinary reason would posit that such encounters are no different from those of dreams and, as such, have no intrinsic reality. This, of course, is a very valid point. Again, we view those people in our ordinary sense-based world as real, all others as unreal. If we examine our experience more closely, we find that we attribute awareness to beings outside ourselves based on our sensory input. There can be no other gauge to intuit external awareness. Aside from the external indicators of movement, communication, and so forth, we have no real proof that awareness is present in other beings.
When considering the beings encountered in the salviaic state, one must, inevitably, use the same criteria. We can only intuit awareness based on sensory input. If we can, in effect, engage in conscious communication there, and sense the reality of our companions as strongly as we sense the reality of our companions in our normal sphere, the only challenge to their validity comes from our ordinary thoughts and habitual conceptualizations. Again, the concepts of real and unreal are thoughts that have meaning only in the narrow confines of our day-to-day awareness. In the fluid darknes
s of the trance, there is only experience.
It would appear that if we are able to feel and touch another realm with the same senses with which we feel and touch this world, then the same criteria should apply— either the sensory world perceived through salvia has some claim to validity, or our perceptual assessment of this world is fatally flawed.
Probably the single most important change in perception that salvia can grant is the understanding of the difference between thought and awareness. In most Western cultures, it would seem, these two facets of our psyche are seen as one; yet the distinction between the two can’t be overemphasized. Awareness is a silent steady state of what might be called self-acknowledgment. It is a raw, unfettered, perceptual equilibrium.
Thought, on the other hand, takes work. One must remember and maintain scores of concepts, buttressed by myriad words, to retain and connect, it seems, even the simplest of thoughts. This gives rise to a familiar sense of solidity and cohesiveness that can be both liberating and restrictive. Liberating in that we have the power to describe, weigh, and compare the elements of our world; restrictive, in that our world begins to consist only of those elements that can be described, weighed, and compared. Salvia can restore, if only for a few moments, our birthright of pure thoughtless awareness that lies quietly beneath the clatter of thought.
Ultimately, it seems, without some type of direct experience of the transformative nature of substances such as salvia, shedding light on the genuine fallacy of the validity of our normal perceptions and revealing hints about the true nature of the perceiver, any differentiation of the real from the false will remain in the realm of words alone.