My Garden
By Jo P and Sally D
Today, I filter out the leaf residue from tincture I made two days ago. Instead of throwing it, I dry it in an oven. In twenty minutes the residue regains its former leafy appearance, but is much reduced in volume. Thinking that it’s lost most of its potency, I smoke a medium pipeful in plain view of my wife and daughter.
Surprise—it pulls me to a solid “A” level! I have nascent visions of stalks, leaves, and other entities from the plant kingdom.
“Dad, what are you doing?” my daughter asks. I can’t reply, and she seems to be miles away. Fortunately, my wife says, “Oh, it’s just daddy’s herbal medicine”. In a few minutes, I’m able to repeat my wife’s explanation.
For the rest of the day, I have my strongest afterglow from Salvia ever. It’s an exhilarating sensitivity to nature and the web of life binding us all. Looking at trees or just being with family takes on a whole new dimension, one that we overlook in the rush to keep up with our hectic “modern” lifestyle.
I’m inclined to think that there’s a chemical or group of chemicals in Salvia that’s largely responsible for the afterglow effect, and it’s not salvinorin A. Much of the salvinorin A was extracted in the alcohol-based tincture, but perhaps the afterglow chemical wasn’t, and what’s more, was concentrated in the residue. This would account for the intense afterglow. The tincture process has left me with a good amount of “Sally Light” for further testing.
I’m still intrigued by my “tincture-enhanced quid” method that didn’t have much success last time. For now, I mix a half-teaspoon of the tincture with three teaspoons water to obtain a roughly 28-proof solution. I sprinkle this mixture over six re-hydrated leaves, pop the quid in my mouth, and chew my way into Salvia Space.
I’m sitting on the floor in the computer room, a large napkin and bowl on my lap.
First signs of approaching Salvia’s realm: a sudden increase in “hypnagogic imagery”. Closed-eye visuals of a mouth with wooden poles for teeth. The mouth opens and closes, the poles intermesh.
Will Ackerman’s “The Sound of Wind Blown Rain” is playing. It’s a simple meditative piece with the acoustic guitar—perfect for the journey.
In my mind’s eye, a plant grows from buds to mature herb in a few seconds. Somehow, I know it’s a Salvia plant. I unfold as one of the leaves.
Ecstatic vision of a garden of flowers in cool moonlight. Contours of my body still visible, but I’ve become mostly transparent, and melted with the landscape. Soft flowers make their home on my breast. My garden.
A bizarre development: upper jaw transforms into the wooden leg of a bed. Not sure what’s happens to the rest of my body.
It strikes me that the bed symbolizes sleep and the world of dreams. I tell myself, Lady Salvia’s welcomed me into her special dream world. I ponder—even enjoy—the strange metamorphosis.
Peak of trip. It doesn’t matter whether I close my eyes or not. I’ve turned into furniture. It’s not too bad, but I can’t spit this quid out.
I calm down and “ask” Lady Salvia, please, could she give me a breather. I don’t want this green stuff in my mouth to mess up anything. Suddenly, I’m able to break out of the trance and spit the quid on the bowl. I place the bowl a safe distance away. Much relieved, I melt back into the bed’s leg.
This time I’m joined more tightly to the bed—so tight, in fact, that there’s uncomfortable pressure on my chest.
Suddenly, the computer screen turns black. (I forgot to adjust the Desktop settings.) The room is plunged into darkness.
Pressure on chest makes it harder to breathe. In the darkness, visions of gesticulating ogres taunting or throwing punches at me.
I tell myself, “You can handle this”. I tap one of the ugly apparitions on the head. It goes down the floor like a nail that’s hammered into a board. I can’t laugh yet, but do so in my mind.
The last vision: eyes closed, I see my arms turn into wings. They flap; I take off.
At
I’ve waited for this all my life: to catch the first glimpse of my garden. Now I know it will always be here, eternally green.