This March at the Balé, I had the honor of welcoming a gentleman from California who had booked two nights of ayahuasca ceremonies with me. He was a man in his mid-forties, yet he carried the radiant vitality of someone in their mid-thirties. Spirit ageless in the eyes of the divine.The first night unfolded with fierce intensity. We typically begin at 5 p.m., offering a second cup around 9 or 10 p.m. But this time, even my shamanic micro-dose surged beyond measure, overwhelming me, my assistant (who took the same amount), and the client alike. He wisely chose to forgo the second cup and end the journey there, a decision I endorsed. I sensed it was enough for him that night.Yet amid that first voyage, a harrowing vision pierced my soul: this man stood on the threshold of death, his time on this earth fleeting. Just prior, during a ceremony before his arrival I scanned him and a similar sense of foreboding death had arisen, leaving me deeply uncomfortable at the prospect of meeting him in person. I had only spoken with him via video call. When the vision confirmed itself in our first shared journey, the shock deepened, especially since my assistant could not join us the next day, leaving me to guide the ceremony alone. In humble surrender that night, I implored ayahuasca for counsel. The medicine whispered clearly: Call your friend Dara. Dara, son of a high-ranking Cambodian family, had journeyed with me many times before. That afternoon of the next day, just before the second ceremony, I called him shared the story with him. His response felt earthly, unilluminated: "I don't know, perhaps ask if he has a will?" I replied that such words felt wholly inappropriate; surely I couldn't tell my client, "Hey, you're going to die soon, is that okay with you?" As I prepared to end the call, disoriented by his lack of usable guidance, Dara added, "Oh, by the way, my father tried to take his own life last night." My heart stopped. "What? Is he all right?" "Yes, he swallowed sleeping pills, but his assistant found him unconscious and luckily could call an ambulance in time. He is safe now."That evening, we sipped the first cup, my was dose identical to the night before, yet it stirred no effect. Just a minimal flow of visuals, the first breeze before the storm. The second cup ignited. My client descended into a profound purge, vomiting deeply for an hour, emerging shattered and trembling and I fplunged with him in an intense trance. At some point when the the brew started to losen its grip, he retreated to his room, sealing himself in solitude. When I joined him later, he confessed, "I thought death had claimed me. I fought fiercely to return." After that, barefoot, he paced long strides in the garden, roots pressing into the earth's embrace, crown reaching toward the infinite sky. His eyes mirrored a soul stirred to its core.The next morning, clarity bloomed like dawn: Ayahuasca had prepared us for a descent into the shadowed realms and a triumphant return. Dara's revelation was the key—his father had crossed into death's domain and been pulled back, a mirror to the client's ordeal. He described his journey as a literal rebirth, emerging as a transformed being, luminous and whole.I remain in awe of ayahuasca's unpredictable tapestry, where the threads of fate weave without warning. You surrender to the unknown, yet the medicine scatters parsimonious clues—breadcrumbs of grace—so you never truly wander lost. The path is never easy, but it pulses with sacred play, as life itself should. Goethe captured happiness thus: You sit in a charming garden on a quiet summer afternoon when suddenly a door opens in the back, and a troupe of children storms toward you, shrieking with glee. The essence of bliss is surprise—and death, too, can be a divine surprise. Recall Steve Jobs' final words: "Oh, wow. Oh, wow. Oh, wow."