The Door Was Never Locked

psychedelics call us home

When I was small,

the willow tree knew me.

I did not call it mystical.

I called it morning.

The wind had opinions.

The sea gulls carried news.

The creek listened

better than most adults.

No one had yet explained

that the world was only matter,

that dreams belonged in the dark,

or that wonder should quietly outgrow itself.

So I believed the stones.

I trusted the moon.

I let joy arrive without asking where it came from.

Then came the careful voices.

That is only your imagination.

Be realistic.

Grow up.

And like a frightened deer,

something beautiful stepped back into the forest.

Years passed.

I learned schedules,

passwords,

politeness,

how to answer questions

I never thought to ask.

Still,

every now and then,

a hawk circled overhead,

or a child laughed without restraint,

or grief broke me open,

and I sensed the old path

still waiting beneath the leaves.

Sometimes silence reveals it.

Sometimes love. (Often in fact!)

Sometimes the ancient medicines,

held with reverence,

lift the veil just enough

to remind us that nothing was ever missing.

The forest had simply waited for our return.

Perhaps this is

what growing older offers -

not an escape from childhood,

but a slow walk back toward it,

with wiser feet,

a softer gaze,

and enough courage to trust

what the birds have been saying all along.

Joy does not live at the end of the journey.

It waits where the morning light

touches the willow, where the child

still knows your name,

where the earth

has never once

forgotten

who you are.

Love. Always.

Jayne