The Spirit Weavers

Friendship, they say, weaves the strongest bonds. But when one thread unravels, the entire tapestry risks falling apart, leaving only tangled fibers and unanswered questions. I’ve always wondered how something as strong as trust could fray so easily—how a bond built over years of laughter and love could dissolve in a single moment. Perhaps we simply believed too much in the strength of the weave.
Thalia, an herbalist, brought a deep connection to nature, her remedies mirroring the art of weaving—roots, leaves, and flowers combining to create harmony. It was her idea to name our group, inspired by the way we were “weaving threads of wisdom and spirit.” She often joked that if plants had personalities, she’d be a full-time referee, to settle the disputes between nettles and roses.
The name of circle was the idea of Thalia, an herbalist, had a gift for seeing the world in metaphors. She would compare nettles and roses to difficult neighbors and claim chamomile tea had more wisdom than most people. She joked that she’d become our group’s “garden referee,” resolving plant disputes while we wove threads of spirit and wisdom.
Liora, a life coach, enriched our gatherings with her insights on transformation and interconnectedness. She even penned our motto:
“Bound by the threads of fate, weaving light through shadow, and harmony through the wild.”
And then there was me, Arthelia—copywriter by day, poet by night. My contribution to the group was turning ideas into rhymes:
Through forest deep and starlit skies,
We weave the threads where spirit lies.
In harmony, our hearts align,
Three souls as one, both bright and divine.
Our meetings began as light-hearted affairs—met weekly, sometimes over Friday night dinners with wine, other times for Sunday tea and cookies. We’d discuss philosophical musings about symbols, spirits, and the unseen world. But conversation soon turned to practice. We wanted transformation, and the allure of ayahuasca pulled us in like moths to a ceremonial flame. We grew eager to experience the healing we spoke of, and before long, ayahuasca captured our collective imagination.
At first, it was thrilling. We devoured articles, documentaries, and forums, each story of transformation more compelling than the last. Traveling to South America felt like a distant dream, but then Liora’s friend shared a contact: a shaman hosting ceremonies at a farmhouse near Lake Lucerne.
It was Thalia was the first to express doubts, when we were getting ready to attend our first ceremony.
“Have you read the articles?” she asked one evening, her brows knit together in what I came to recognize as her doom crease. “People can suffer lifelong psychological effects,” she said one evening, her brow furrowed. “And there are deaths. Actual deaths.”
“Deaths?” Liora asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes. DEATHS,” Thalia said, her tone sharp.
She didn’t look at me as she said it, but the challenge lingered. I tried to reassure her with humor. “Come on, Thalia. “But those are rare,” I said, waving a hand. “Most people have transformative, life-changing experiences. The kind where they find themselves communing with cosmic truths. Or plants. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be lectured by a sassy fern?”
She didn’t laugh. Later, as we cleaned up, she asked Liora, “What does the shaman actually do? Guide you? Or just… watch while you hallucinate?”
Liora shrugged. “They say, he holds the space. But I think he’s there to help if things get rough. They chant, play music. It’s supposed to make you feel supported.”
“Supported,” Thalia repeated, her tone distant. “Right.” She said nothing more, but I noticed how her hands lingered too long on the wine glass, her fingers tightly gripping the stem. I couldn’t help but wonder if Thalia’s doubts weren’t just about the shaman.
Thalia wasn’t amused. Later, while we were cleaning up after dinner, Thalia turned to Liora with an almost too-casual question.
“What does the shaman actually… do?” she asked. “Like, does he guide you? Or just sit there while you hallucinate?”
Liora shrugged. “He’s there to help if things get difficult, I guess. I’ve heard they chant or play music. It’s supposed to make you feel supported.”
“Supported,” she repeated, her voice distant. “Right.” She said no more, but I noticed the way her hands lingered over the wine glass, her fingers tight around the stem. I couldn’t help wondering if Thalia’s skepticism wasn’t only about the shaman.
Her doubts persisted, eventually culminating in a quiet decision: she wouldn’t join us.
The preparation week was brutal—no sugar, salt, caffeine, meat, dairy, oils or spices. By day three, I would have traded my soul for a croissant. Liora thrived on the austerity, humming melodies cheerfully as she sipped her plain oatmeal water. By day five, I was convinced it was mocking me.
The venue itself was surreal, a centuries-old farmhouse at the base of Mount Rigi, overlooking Lake Lucerne. The shaman greeted us with an air of serene confidence, his long hair tied back and his eyes twinkling like someone who had seen too much of the universe to be fazed by it anymore. He spoke softly, his words polished from years of repetition. It was as if he had delivered the same speech to hundreds of seekers before us.
I wondered what the indigenous shamans of the Amazon would think of all this—ayahuasca rituals transplanted from rainforests to a Swiss farmhouse, surrounded by people in yoga pants and Mammut jackets. Was it still healing, or had it become something else entirely? A packaged experience, marketed to the restless and overworked, promising enlightenment for the price of a weekend retreat and a strict diet plan?
The ceremony itself didn’t go as planned—at least not for me. My experience was a disaster. Liora, naturally, had an otherworldly experience. She emerged glowing the next morning, her face radiant as she described talking vines, rainbow auras, and cosmic truths delivered by a wise old jaguar. “It was like seeing the threads of the universe,” she said, awe in her voice. “Everything is connected.”
I envied her, not just for the experience she’d had, but for the ease with which she always seemed to find clarity. While she communed with the cosmos, I had spent the night locked in a battle with nausea and swirling kaleidoscope visions that felt like a cosmic punishment for my second-grade sins. I clutched the wooden toilet seat, whispering, “This will pass,” but it mostly didn’t.
As we walked back to the car the next morning, Liora was quieter than I expected.
“You okay?” I asked.
She smiled, but there was something brittle about it. “Yeah, I just… I wonder sometimes. Am I chasing something? I mean, what if I didn’t need all of this?” She gestured vaguely at the farmhouse. “What if I could just sit with myself and find the same answers?”
It was the first time I’d heard her express doubt, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. “I think you’re allowed to need a little help,” I said finally. She nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced.
The following week, as we sat in Liora’s high-rise apartment sipping tea, Thalia surprised us with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. She peppered us with questions, her skepticism replaced by eager curiosity. “What did it feel like? What did you see? Did you feel transformed?” Her usual skepticism was gone, replaced with an eager curiosity that bordered on obsessive. I assumed it was curiosity tinged with regret. But two weeks later, she dropped the bombshell.
After the usual talks, when we’d finished our tea, Thalia set her cup down carefully—too carefully—and leaned back in her chair. She wasn’t looking at us when she spoke.
“I went to the ceremony last week,” she said, her tone deliberately casual.
“You what?” Liora’s voice was tight. “Why didn’t you come with us?”
Thalia shrugged, but her eyes flickered toward the window. “I wanted to see if it was safe first,” she replied, her smile tight.
The words hit like a cold wind. I froze mid-sip, the porcelain rim of my cup pressing against my lips. For a moment, I thought I’d misheard her. I stared, trying to process the weight of her admission. Liora shifted uncomfortably beside me, her own smile faltering. “Safe?”
Talia replied as if it was just normal, “I needed to make sure, nothing would go wrong!”
The Spirit Weavers didn’t survive that night. Our shamanic bond, once a tapestry of trust and camaraderie, unraveled. Liora and I continued exploring ceremonies with other shamans. Thalia, ironically, became devoted to the first shaman she’d doubted, attending his ceremonies obsessively for two years until they had an issue about the payment for a ceremony she didn’t attend when she was sick.
Last year, we met each other at the birthday of a common friend. Thalia asked me why I had been upset that night. “Friends don’t abandon each other out of fear,” I said softly. “True friendship means facing risks together.”
She shrugged. “But I was honest.”
Honesty. That noble virtue. It felt hollow in the face of betrayal, like a brittle shield against the raw sting of disappointment. Friendship, I realized, demands more than honesty—it demands courage.
Last month, I found the bracelet we made—a string of green, gold, and red threads. It had frayed at the edges, but I couldn’t throw it away. The strongest threads, I’ve learned, aren’t the ones that never break. They’re the ones tied together again, even after the weave has come undone.