Have you ever heard of the phenomenon known as horror vacui (sometimes referred to as kenophobia)? It’s the fear of blank or open space. I “diagnosed” myself with horror vacui decades back. I say this somewhat jokingly as I don’t experience the fear of open spaces as pathology, but more as a tendency I’ve seen in myself. I first noticed it almost 30 years ago in my collage creations. Over time, I’ve become aware of how this pattern shows up in other arenas of my day-to-day life, particularly when it comes to my calendar and schedule. I’ve also come to understand more about why I may fear open space: a terror that within the emptiness I may find an abyss of depression. I’ve even realized how I cling to emotions like sadness because I am actually afraid of the emptiness that releasing these feelings might leave in me.

Since last year I’ve been participating in dietas with the plantas maestras from the Shipibo culture of the Peruvian Amazon. Dieta is a very special and profound practice of vegetalismo intended to cultivate the conditions for dieters to form an intimate and life-long connection with an ancient plant teacher. The majority of the time in dieta is spent in silence and isolation, with an extremely basic diet (no salt, oil, spices or herbs, meat, dairy, sugar) and restricted list of permitted activities. Dieters are meant to limit their interaction with the external world in order to be able to enter into a more direct relationship with their planta maestra.

Woven through the eleven days are several plant medicine ceremonies which involve healing and cleansing practices to support the dieters in clearing out blocks often around a particular intention or area of their lives. These journeys are sometimes illuminating, cathartic or deeply peaceful, but can also be incredibly painful and chaotic. Honestly, in my limited experience, they can be anything. Each  ceremony I have participated in has been entirely unique and every night feels like stepping over a threshold into a new and unknown world. One of the most notable effects of this medicine and the diet itself is markedly heightened sensibility to external stimuli, such as light, sound, smells, textures, etc. I have also been finding that I also become much more sensitive to and aware of my mental patterns, compulsions and tendencies during these days of silence and inward contemplation.

I’ve written about many of these patterns here in the wake of Rafa’s death and my first miscarriage:

• Comparison and judgment (often present when I engage in silent contemplation in a group setting);
• The pendulum between overdoing and the pit of despair;
• An ongoing concern about other people’s opinions (especially of me)

The one I wish to explore a bit more deeply in this post is the second one – the vacillation between compulsive doing (as a mechanism to avoid feeling) and debilitating depression and passivity. It was one of the early patterns that I noticed in myself in the time right after Rafa’s (still)birth. I talked about noticing the tendency to “need” to stay busy with things in those early days of my griefwalk. During my first dieta I saw how this tendency had been on steroids in my life ever since I decided to let go of trying to become a mother to a living child on the Winter Solstice in 2022. So when I entered into my second experience with the plantas maestras last month I felt prepared to navigate overdoing compulsions. I discovered that the plants don’t care much about human plans and preparations, nor about what we think we need to learn. This time, I was invited to dance at the other end of the spectrum: in the pit of despair. Let me share a bit more about my time in these two retreats and what I learned by swinging on the pendulum. Let’s start with mania.

Two years ago I wrote this piece about the significance of creating more physical space and openness in my life by selling all the baby stuff. Unconsciously, I managed to do exactly the opposite when it came to my schedule. Apparently, a significant part of my subconscious was not ready to accept the emotional impact of my decision and so I got MEGA, ULTRA CRAZY BUSY. Like… insane level BUSY. What I learned in dieta in 2024 was that this tendency actually has nothing to do with the work itself. (I mean, of course it doesn’t help that our capitalist over-culture is constantly bombarding us with subtle and overt messages which lead us to believe that our sense of self-worth is intrinsically tied to our productivity and “success” in this nightmare we call modernity.) What I started to see in the first days of functional silence with no screens, no work, no news and no books or podcasts and a very restricted diet, little physical activity and zero exposure to the sun, was that my mind was doing its thing anyway. I was frequently thinking about my day: what I would do next, and what I would do after that, even though the number of things I was able to do was so drastically reduced from the normal myriad of possibilities and responsibilities on my plate. It was almost comical. 

With the accompaniment and support of the beautiful plant I dieted – marosa (Pfaffia Iresinoides) – I was able to notice more frequently when I was doing this and simply say to myself, “Maybe. Maybe I’ll do that. Let’s just see when the time comes.” And bit by bit, over the eleven days, everything in my system started to soften, to open, to slow and to feel more supported and relaxed. For the first time (maybe since I was like seven years old) I actually allowed myself to be present and to open myself to the mystery and delight of life. I came to see how for a long time, and especially since Rafa’s death, I have not felt safe enough to trust my own instincts of the world around me and so I became rigid and hard and played Tetris with my time, because to be open in and to the world was just too scary and potentially painful. The idea that anything could happen was terrifying rather than inspiring or intriguing.

At the end of the final ceremony I was physically yanked out a half-slumber into an upright position by the closing songs. It was such an incredibly emotive and sublime moment. I felt I was feeling all feelings at once: joy at being able to experience the web of love; wonder about this thing called being alive; sadness that the silence and contemplation were coming to an end; fear about returning to the so-called ‘real world’. I wept and wept and wept – surrendering to what was, remembering that there was nothing to do about any of it, touching into the possibility that I am not required to act out of obligation. I put my hands and feet on the Earth to ground – legs spread open. I tried to breathe deeply… let myself spill all over the place without shame. And afterwards… afterwards I felt totally empty… and it was brilliant! This revealed to me that I do not need to be terrified or feel threatened by not being full of plans, memories, calculations or worries. Feeling empty was exquisite.

Now, let’s explore the other end of the spectrum, shall we? Let’s venture toward the edge of the pit of despair and sadness. When I arrived for dieta at the end of last year I was in a very different place than I had been at the start of the first retreat. I came a bit more rested and a bit more calm. I also had many heavy feelings resting on my heart. I awoke on the day of my departure to overcast skies and heavy rains, very unusual for Oaxaca in December. The wet and cloudy weather continued once I arrived in Costa Rica and it did not stop. I think the sun showed his face just a handful of times during the two weeks I was there. It rained and rained and rained some more. Everything got wet. The sheets always felt moist and mold grew on my backpack and laptop. I found it difficult to get comfortable and rest. I was surprised by how much this strange somewhat apocalyptic climate affected my mood. I found joy and contentment very difficult to access. 

In a few of the six ceremonies I experienced extended periods of deep peace and calm… really some of the most magnificent moments of equanimity of my life. Other times, the ceremonies felt like a freefall through chaos… I could not find any way to center or be present. There was simply nothing to hold on to. Neither of these extremes is better than the other; they both feel like important experiences in the context of the the times we are living through now. But during the long, wet days of the dieta, I found myself often lying listlessly in bed unable to move myself or find much reason for anything. Sadness shrouded me. And it was not the sadness as an identity which I wrote about in this last post. It was depression as an entity, something separate from me. In a way, it felt like an important time of meeting this being and learning how to be with her; to stay present at the edge of depression and see that I didn’t need to go bonkers with overdoing in order to survive. Maybe it was a test.

I didn’t have a lot of ecstatic revelations like I did during my first diet; the insights were subtler, deeper and, I sense, more enduring. I dieted rose (Rosa rubiginosa) this year, a complex and fierce being who continues to accompany me in a strong way. One of her gifts has been around expanding my capacity to hold extreme paradox and polarity. Working with the actual plants, I noticed the almost otherworldly softness of her petals, the beauty of the flower, and the brutal thorns which demand humility and respect. I recognize that I don’t need to choose one side of the pendulum nor do I need to force myself to always try to stay in the middle. I can explore the extremes without the fear of going insane by overdoing or simply fading away into the abyss of sadness. It is okay to touch into both experiences for periods of time. 

There have been moments when I have thought to myself: before Rafa came and went I was doing so well in some of these areas of my life where now I’m struggling so very much. For instance, the cultivation of a sense of inherent self-worth and intimacy, or the practice of trusting the world and accepting things as they are. In my mind, the story goes: well, all that went down the drain with Rafa; I was “set back” in my healing because of this one overwhelmingly sad and shocking event.

But that’s simply not true. That could only be true if I look at things through a hyper-linear lens. The truth (probably one of many) is that one of the reasons that Rafa came into my life was to crack me open, to help me (and some of my inner little ones) to feel more fully, to be plenamente presente, to trust in the ineffable mystery and wonder of this life. For many years I was so deeply attached to the desire to keep trying to have a baby that I was not able to find happiness or joy… and I’ve stayed so incredibly busy and stressed and full to assure that I didn’t feel these or any other feelings at all.

Although these retreats have been full of challenges – physical, emotional, mental and spiritual, the plants helped me to see how I can begin to root and tether myself to this planet again. (I remember having to walk around in our backyard in the days after Rafa’s birth repeating the mantra: Yo estoy aquí. Yo estoy aquí. I am here. I am here.) The plants have reminded me and allowed me to experience our old family adage: “this too shall pass.” They’ve helped me see both my tininess in the greater scheme of things and my greatness (especially as I move into menopause). 

But I think one of the most important things I’ve learned throughout all this is that it’s worth it to trust life, to trust in the present moment, to trust in the spaciousness and the emptiness in me and all that surrounds me… to trust in my own instinct in any given moment in the future… to trust that I will be able to know what I want / need at that exact instant… to honor myself enough to be able to listen. It is not always easy and I often don’t feel great these days, but when I feel into this mystery called life and connect to the wisdom of the plantcestors, I am reminded that I do not have to carry my mania and depression alone. I am accompanied and supported by forces so much greater than myself. ¡Aho!