I’m sitting here with a cup of cacao, letting its warmth anchor me as I process the storm of insights from my recent Psilocybin session and the Oracle casting of Hexagram 23—Splitting Apart. The judgment, “It does not further one to go anywhere,” mirrors the stagnation I’ve felt, the lack of drive for material pursuits. But that session in the desert shattered something open—rage, raw and primal, but also a strength I’ve long denied. And now, it’s connecting to a message from my first cacao ceremony years ago: “Honor your roots.” It’s taken me until now to grasp it, but I see it clearly—my lineage, my power, and the journey of my ancestors are all part of this unraveling.
Let me start with the session. It was intense—unlike past ones steeped in regret or fear, this took me straight to my reptilian brain stem. Anger, coiled tight for years, exploded through me, fingertips to toes, a guttural growl tearing through the desert silence. I’m glad no one was around to hear it. But after the fury passed, what remained wasn’t just rage—it was vitality, a life force I’d buried, like a butcher setting a blood-stained knife on a Buddhist altar, choosing restraint over chaos, locking away strength with the anger.
Uncovering Primal Strength and Alpha Energy
This unearthing revealed something I’ve been blind to—something others have seen in me all along. Folks like Shena, Fatima, Ambarish, Vibhu, Jerry, Master Bico Duro, and Matheus, the Aikido instructor from Bahia, have supported me through personal and professional shifts, gravitating toward me via the DAO and beyond. Why? It hit me in the desert: this avatar carries an alpha energy, a genetic lottery win I’ve refused to claim. Other strong people—alphas themselves—recognize and respect it. It’s primal, unspoken. And as that rage turned to power, I understood: if you’re an alpha, you don’t explain it. If you have to, you’re not. It just is.A memory from high school resurfaced during this reflection—a fight in the boys’ toilet, three guys ganging up on me. I felt cornered, wrestling with that figurative butcher’s knife inside. Then instinct kicked in; my mind blanked, reptilian brain took over, and I went berserk. When I snapped back, two guys were pulling me off the third, his face bloody from my relentless blows. I was shaken, apologetic—but word spread. They couldn’t land a punch; my muscles were tensed like armor. That raw power scared me, so I buried it. Until now.
Boundaries as Order and Protection
This ties into boundaries—something I’ve been mulling over through Curse of the Golden Flower, where the emperor says, “Without boundaries, how can there be order under heaven?” I’ve built walls instead of boundaries, suppressing anger and strength to avoid conflict, especially in family dynamics where pandemic-era words cut deep. But walls trap you. Boundaries channel emotions—they’re not cages. The Chinese proverbs resonate: “Lay down the butcher’s knife, become a Buddha on the spot,” for restraint, and “When endurance reaches its limit, even the Buddha unleashes a killing calamity,” for decisive action. I’m learning this dance.I see it with my little one, facing bullying at school. Our family’s cultural taboo on anger has her struggling to set boundaries. She’s stronger than most in her class—our genes—but she’s not comfortable expressing anger to protect herself. I’ve urged her mom to guide her through polite boundary-setting exercises. She shouldn’t inherit this suppression. Anger’s a signal, a tool, and I need to embody that for her—owning my strength, showing what it means to stand firm.
Honoring My Roots: A Lineage of Butchers
Now, the shaman’s message from that first cacao ceremony—“Honor your roots,” conveyed by my guardian spirit, a warrior from an ancient tribe—makes sense in a way it never did before. She urged me to spread cacao’s wisdom to the world, and I tucked it away, puzzled. But in hindsight, after this session, it’s clear. I come from a lineage of butchers—figuratively and perhaps literally—a family that crossed the vast ocean from China to Singapore, setting up an entire network in a foreign land amidst uncertainty. That same grit carried me across another ocean to the USA, where I’ve built my base. This is a strong genetic strain, a warrior’s bloodline, something I shouldn’t overlook. Honoring my roots means embracing this resilience, this primal strength, and channeling it with purpose—maybe through sharing cacao as a symbol of grounding and connection.That nightmare after the session—my mum held hostage, blood dripping—woke me at 3 a.m., heart racing. It wasn’t just about family wounds; it was a call to recognize the deeper lineage of strength I’ve ignored. Honoring my roots means healing those wounds while claiming the butcher’s grit—the same grit that built networks across oceans and turned potential death spirals into something workable through sheer will.
Reflections for the Day
So, Splitting Apart. It’s not just breaking open rage or family patterns—it’s splitting apart the denial of my lineage, my power. This desert session, the high school fight memory, the nightmare, the struggle with my daughter—it’s all peeling back layers. I’m seeing rage as vitality, strength as something to wield with care, not bury, and my roots as a source of unbreakable resilience.Here’s what that looks like in practice: I’m stepping into this alpha energy, this butcher’s lineage, to protect and lead—guiding my little one, setting boundaries with family, and maybe spreading cacao’s wisdom as a nod to my roots. It’s not about destruction; it’s about standing strong in who I am, honoring where I came from.
What about you—have you traced your own lineage to uncover a strength you didn’t expect? Or are there ancestral roots calling you to honor them in a new way? I’d love to hear how you’ve navigated your own “splitting apart” to find something whole.