I'm writing to you, my friend, about the use of ancestral medicine.

First, if you live in Venezuela you will have noticed how the family of medicine drinkers is growing from scratch in this beautiful country. A country that is starting to learn, that, like a toddler, sometimes stumbles, sometimes puts its foot in it. A country that is starting to mature so that, little by little, it can form communities of worth and brotherhood. All I can tell you is that, as part of that growth, it falls to you to correct each misstep and steer it toward the wellbeing we all want.

Maybe you're interested in trying the medicine, or you've drunk it once, or twice, or every year, or every month, or every weekend, or every day; maybe you're already learning to raise an altar, or you're already an expert shaman.

I'm writing because I'd like you to look at what you're doing. Be sure of your intention as you take these steps. Have some idea of where you're going in. Are you truly willing to go all the way there? Do you know the nature of the forces you're getting involved with? Will you bear the infinite abyss that you are?

You may feel brave while you think about yourself. You say that everything is love, that everything flows from the hand of God, that the medicine is good, that you feel called to do it. And yes, you're right. God is here, as surely as you are breathing. But see how you are free to go wherever you want, whether or not you can handle being there. And how often you don't know how.

I'm not against your courage. I fan its flames. If you want to learn, do it. Go into yourself. Get to know yourself. Push yourself. Drink medicine. And drink more. And more. Wallow in it. Keep getting to know yourself. And when you feel you can't take any more, drink more.

But I call your attention to the balance that is never missing from a good walk. Because as you advance you will see unimaginable things. You will wrestle with animal natures, dragons, monsters, darknesses, instincts. The structure of your world will be destroyed again and again, a thousand times. You will be left with no ground beneath you, no reason, no words. And life will spin you around and nothing will make sense. And your pasts will die, never mind that you're still clinging to them with broken nails.

And then what will you do? How will you act when the same thirst that drove you toward yourself forces you to straighten your feet? What will you do when the overwhelming infinite is upon your disordered self? Will you take responsibility for yourself? Or will you perhaps throw all your strength on the floor and curl up in self-pity? Will you let yourself be tossed about by the energies you yourself have let run wild, or will you bring order and authority to your world? Or are you seriously determined to stand firm to the end? Do you really want to throw away, without a word, everything that has made up your identity until now, and walk on your own, free and light?

No, don't answer now. Question yourself. Look at how you are approaching the medicine. Are you giving yourself over like a leaf carried by the wind, the way you've always given yourself over to your vices? Or are you taking on your own life, seeking to conquer your deepest impulses? Turn your energy back toward yourself. Feel alive. Be thankful for that life in you. That vigor that is you. Never run from yourself. And every time you drink medicine, take a step toward the sanity of being one, so that every thing you discover in yourself obeys what you recognize as your will. Be one, so that your center shines with beauty, and so there is beauty in your life. Love and respect for yourself, mirrored as love and respect for everyone. Growth doesn't come by chance; you give it off. You are the one who is learning.

I'm writing to encourage you to drink medicine with a sense of the sacred. With reverence for yourself and for the God you conceive of. May harmony grow in you, even when you hit rough patches and the dawn is slow to come. The medicine will not improve your life or do anything for you. It will give you momentum, whether to float wildly in your confusion or to set your feet on the ground with order. You are the one who decides. You are the one who takes care of you.

I wish you beautiful visions.