The Door
For everything there is a moment, a secret hour when something within us stops resisting and the soul, barefoot, prepares to cross the threshold of itself.
I have heard people say they drank the medicine and nothing happened. That they went through the night without visions, without revelations, without the mystery speaking their names.
And I wonder…
What if it is not about feeling? What if it is about opening? About granting silence the space it needs to become a voice?
There are doors that yield neither to force, nor to will, nor to the hunger for answers.
Doors that wait.
They wait for us to let go of the reins, for thought to kneel, for the ego, tired of guarding everything, to step aside for a moment and let us pass.
Because giving permission is far more than wanting to see.
It is accepting the tremor of the unknown, stripping ourselves of certainties, letting fall, one by one, the layers we wove to survive ourselves.
It is entering without knowing what face the darkness will reflect back to us.
Because it is not always light that awaits us.
Sometimes, on the other side, the shadow awaits us: that ancient creature that dwells in silence, the wound we learned to call strength, fear dressed as pride, the pain we buried so deep that we ended up forgetting it too was ours.
And perhaps the medicine does not come to give us visions, or to hand us the truths of others, but to draw aside, for a moment, the veil that separates us from what was always there.
Because some journeys do not begin when lips touch the cup, but when the heart stops closing doors.
And some silences are not absence, but a sacred form of waiting.
Perhaps it is not the medicine that decides how much we can see, but that there are still corners of the soul we do not know how to inhabit without running away.
Because opening up is also an act of courage. And looking squarely at what we avoided for years may be the deepest way of returning.
Returning to the body. To truth. To memory. To that part of us that never stopped calling us from the other side of fear.
Perhaps the true ceremony lies not in the extraordinary things we see, but in the intimacy of what we dare to feel.
And perhaps the mystery does not open when we ask it to come in, but when we stop fleeing from what it might show us.
Because, in the end, there is no revelation more profound than coming face to face with our own shadow and discovering that, even there, in the darkest part of us, the possibility of love still beats.
And that coming home never meant arriving somewhere else.
It was learning, at last, not to abandon ourselves.
Victoria Inaudi