After the body high of a mountain ascent, and a successful grounding, I took up my lodging like any night, in the roundhouse of a remote Scottish valley, and settled in. I had taken little food, only eating very little porridge and spiced curry that day, nothing substantial to bog me down before ingesting of the nutmeg, and portioned out 15g in one of my medicine bottles. For a warming spice coming from the New Guinea islands, the nutmeg is traditionally used only for topping off a hot coffee or baked goods in winter. I had read Erowid reports of the proper dosage for body weight, and the pattern of experience in others. The next day and a half would be devoted to exploring this ally, and seeing what I could not learn from it, so I downed the muddy mixture with goat milk and fruit juice, with the texture of Kava Kava, it was muddy but not terrible, just raw.
Ensuing into the nightfall, I became more lulled by subtle comforts working on me. Strains of music became more present, as I lay listening to Popul Vuh. Then for several hours in a skype conversation with a close friend in New England, I found my words to come eloquently pouring from my mouth, and started talking in spirals that evolved out of each other. Though said friend told me I carried an offkilter mood, and an air of sadness. It was true, I had been feeling some sorrow and knowingly went into this vulnerable. Though in my opinion I think there is no better reason than to align with the plants spirit, for in our normative state we may be less sympathetic to occurrences and events as we hold back and judge it. The melancholia only become more acute, as I pondered over the source, and tried to medicate it in my mind with assurance. The nutmeg spoke words from my own mouth but in a female voice, and I swelling into becoming more dreamy and drifting. I knew then of the femininity of the plant.
In the night I could not truly sleep, but entered a state of drowse with my eyes half shut. In the way I thought monks to do for achieving rest in their half awake half slumber state. I felt that I was awake, but not the insomnia that others experience, for I was comfortable and utterly still in the soporific cloud I existed in. The morning came late, or rather I came late to it, for I must have fell in a deep unconscious rest until then. Day the second became rather lonely, as I was still here tending the farm for the weekend, though I cherished the solitude, I wanted to be alone with someone in particular. My mind did somewhat the opposite of what cannabis brings upon me, the temporal distortion I speak of. The cycle of the day was normal, but I went about with my time in a slow careful manner, stopping to think often, staring out into the beyond of my own mulling thoughts, and moving in methodical passive manners through the farmhouse. I did a load of reading; Carl Jung’s Red Book, two Rune studies, and a travel monologue written by an Irishman, I became enveloped in his story and journey across Africa on a motorcycle. I reread passages in Jung that utterly made me cringe and coil and others that created a synchronicity of thought between myself and the paradigms of his ideas. I made a fire in the round room and sat stoking the flames for hours and kept in the glow of it’s burn. Calling my friend overseas again, and reflecting on the nature of man and woman’s most ancient needs. I retired to my room once more and slept under my reindeer and black sheep pelts.
Foregoing day the third, I was only now coming down to the ground with the spice. My actions were more deliberate and meaningful as I still reveled in having downtime from my cattle work. More copious reading in the morning and then I migrated outside to a sacred tree circle I had found here in the valley. A ring of nine larch on a slope brought me into a kind of fortress of the spirit. This was a special area I like to sit and envision. I lay at the exposed roots of the elder of the ring, next its hollows and creature warrens. Then setting up a fur carpet in the middle of the ring atop the brass colored grasses, I burned incense on the roots and chimed a singing bowl through the aether. Filling the circle grove with a vibratory eminence of clarity and cleanliness. The deer have bedded here, I sat in the same hollow and read more of my travel book, staring at a coyote skull and smoked sage. The dry mouth was a constant notice, and the sage cleared the passages of my breath sufficiently enough. A storm gust blew in over the trees, and I cut through the cattle farm beside a small pond and returned back to shelter, reflecting again in front of the fire and drawing whatever came to my minds eye. The late hours found me thinking a lot, just on prospects of relationship, the nutmeg was very empathy inducing. I thought more on dreams, hidden meanings in events, my reputation, and my ability to influence. These were coming right from my heart, there was no judgement or veil, but maybe a slight confusion for having not met with them for a period of time, for the feelings were omniscient but not always focused on in this relative spiritual drought I have been experiencing. I slept soundly, and by the fourth day as I journal this, I understand the nutmeg to be deeply nourishing, as I have not felt weakened or overtired. A certain stillness has washed over me, as my setting remains unchanged, and I feel I could navigate the 48 hour trip next with more coercion and steadfastness. I smell the lingering aroma now when I think of the nutmeg, and feeling a passive acceptance of its inner nature, an emotional heart-case, but a gentle lover.