Written By: Fabrizio Beverina
How One Seeker Transcended the Ego, Civilization, and Personal Hygiene
Enlightenment can feel somewhat like a software crash.
U.G. Krishnamurti once said, “Whatever you are doing to free yourself from the self is the self.” Which means the very search for enlightenment is its own trap. J. Krishnamurti went further: “When someone claims to be enlightened, you can be sure he is not.”
And yet, the retreats are full. The dietas are sold out. The shamans are busy.
Every year, hundreds—maybe thousands—of seekers line up to defeat the final boss of their personal video game: the ego. Some approach the jungle with sincerity, others with Instagram captions already drafted. And every so often, one of them breaks through. Not into Nirvana—but into something much more confusing, and far more aromatic.
This is the story of Nathan, a civil engineer turned spiritual aspirant who didn’t just seek enlightenment—he achieved it. Loudly. Naked. Covered in his own feces.
This is the real mystique of awakening: it’s not golden halos and cosmic bliss. It’s not whispering to God under a waterfall. Sometimes, it’s babbling nonsense in a maloka while a shaman throws buckets of water on your legs. Sometimes, it smells like shit—and yet the eyes sparkle with something real.
Leveling Up: The Video Game of the Soul
Nathan approached ayahuasca like it was a video game.
My fault, really.
I often explain to guests that ayahuasca is a bit like a game—each ceremony like a level, with a monster waiting at the end. But the only way to defeat it is not by force, but by acceptance. If you surrender—if you embrace the fear, the pain, the grief—you get the bonus level. The candy stage. Pikachu and all.
But if you resist, the monster stays. And the next time you drink, it’s still there. And the time after that. It loops until you give in—or give out.
Once, a man screamed for three nights straight, caught in his personal nightmare. Until finally, he broke down and shouted,
“I don’t give a fuck! I don’t care anymore!”
And just like that—something gave way.
He exhaled. Whispered:
“I love everything… oh, ice cream…”
But Nathan wasn’t playing that version.
He wasn’t just in a game—he was designing one. A Vedic RPG, complete with unlockable siddhis, chakra achievements, and multi-dimensional boss fights. He had read the manuals: Patanjali, Ramana, Osho, and a few self-published authors from Reddit. He knew by heart the sequence of spiritual achievements: from awakening the root chakra to unlocking the third eye to merging with the cosmic Self. He believed enlightenment came in stages.
Root chakra? Check.
Third eye? Activated.
Ego? Almost defeated.
Each ceremony was a mission. Each purge a power-up. Each vision is a step closer to the platinum trophy: Enlightenment™.
He wasn’t healing. He was ascending. Spiritually speedrunning his way to transcendence. And like a good gamer, he shouted instructions to himself mid-ceremony—“Focus. Go beyond.”—disturbing the others who were, unfortunately, not trying to unlock their crown chakra at level 42.
What he didn’t realize was that he had become a kind of Don Quixote of the astral plane, chasing windmills made of Sanskrit concepts and self-published esoteric glossaries. He wasn’t living in the jungle. He was trapped in a hallucinated India of the mind, where enlightenment was a multi-step upgrade.
But the body doesn’t care about your PDF library.
The body waits. Then it intervenes.
The Collapse: When the Body Says No
It started slowly. A night of screaming during a private ceremony. A skipped breakfast, followed by a declaration:
“I don’t think I need ayahuasca anymore. I’m almost there.”
Then, a few days later, the crash.
During the ceremony, Nathan short-circuited. He babbled nonsense. Couldn’t be moved. Lay on the maloka floor naked, muttering like a crashed operating system:
“Obsolete program! ERROR!”
The next morning, he hadn’t moved. Eyes closed. Mouth twitching. The cleaning ladies refused to enter.
I called the Maestra. She arrived with her tools—mapacho, agua florida, calm authority. She sat him up, blew smoke in his face, doused his head with floral water. He convulsed, then went limp.
“Water!” she shouted.
We dumped buckets on him—head, torso, legs.
“Open your eyes!”
And he did. Glowing. Present. But unplugged.
Later that day, I found him sitting at the edge of his bungalow, naked, staring at the river. He turned to me slowly.
He was covered in shit.
Not metaphorical. Literal. Head to toe. Smiling.
“You’re full of shit,” I said.
“What’s a little shit?” he answered.
And the way he said it—you almost believed him.
In India, there’s a sect of ascetics known as the Aghori babas. To overcome attachment and disgust, they lock themselves in rooms for weeks, smearing themselves with their own excrement and bathing in their urine. Not madness. A method. A spiritual stripping down of all social constructs.
Perhaps, in his own Western, crypto-funded way, Nathan had become an Aghori.
I brought him to the shower. As he stepped in, clumps of shit dropped from his body. A skinny dog walked by and started eating it. I laughed.
Even shit is nourishment.
Everything feeds something.
Post-Collapse: The Suicide of the Self
Afterward, Nathan was calm. Too calm. Not grounded—unplugged.
“I saw through it all,” he said.
“Work, family, money—it’s all distraction.”
He wanted to walk away from everything. From his business. His responsibilities. His teenage daughter.
“None of it matters anymore.”
And I understood. That place of pure detachment, that satori of nothingness—it can feel like truth. Like peace. But there’s a kind of spiritual suicide that wears the mask of liberation. The rejection of the human, dressed up as awakening.
It sounds like enlightenment.
But it’s just escape with a Sanskrit accent.
He wasn’t free. He was floating, unreachable, serene in a way that frightened me. Freedom without roots is not peace. It’s dissociation in a white robe.
Reflections: The Fantasy of Leaving It All Behind
Nathan isn’t an exception. He’s an exaggeration of a common pattern.
We’ve turned spirituality into vertical escape. Up and out. Transcend. Dissolve. Merge with Source. Become light. Float above all this messy, aching human nonsense.
But if your feet aren’t on the ground, if your breath isn’t in your belly, if your pelvis is clenched and your jaw is locked, you’re not free—you’re just spiritualizing your tension.
Psychedelics can offer the illusion of finality. You touch the infinite, and you think: “I’m done.” But then you return. And your inbox is still full. Your mother still calls. Your body still hurts.
That’s not a failure. That’s the point.
Enlightenment isn’t the exit. It’s the entrance.
Into the body. Into the moment. Into the mud.
If your awakening makes you less capable of love, presence, or responsibility—it’s not awakening. It’s just another fantasy. And we already have enough of those.
The Healing Arc: Dancing the Shit Out
Nathan delayed his flight. Small miracle.
We gave him huachuma, the cactus medicine of the Andes. No visions. No dragons. Just presence. A soft, heart-opening mirror that says:
“Welcome back.”
That night, we held La Danza Estática. No talking. Just candles and music. Movement as prayer. The body leading. The mind dissolves through motion.
Nathan danced naked. Not for drama—for truth. At one point, he wept on the floor. His father. His daughter. His story. Everything is finally dropping into the body.
Over the next few days, we gave him plant brews to soothe his nervous system. Bodywork. Baths. And three low-dose sessions of ketamine—just enough to help the mind let go of its grip on memory. Just enough to let his experiences settle without interpretation.
And slowly, he came back.
Not enlightened. Just present.
Not transcendent. Just alive.
No longer trying to escape himself—just learning to stay.
Epilogue: After Enlightenment, the Dishes
Before Nathan left, we sat again by the river.
He didn’t speak much. Just watched the water, quietly.
Then, softly:
“I think I mistook the light for a destination.”
That’s when I knew he was okay.
J. Krishnamurti said, “Enlightenment is not something you reach step by step… It is not in the hands of time.”
And maybe that’s all we need to remember.
There is no ladder.
No bonus level.
No “beyond.”
Just this moment. This body. This breath.
And sometimes… a little shit in the maloka.