Into the Infinite: A 5-MeO-DMT Tale

A February sky blazing with pink cotton candy fire fades into a deep blue hue. My eyes catch a thin slice of moon rising over the hills of West Los Angeles. It’s all part of a beautiful canvas I admire while fighting through rush hour traffic to receive my first-ever dose of 5-MeO-DMT.

After painstakingly navigating through swarms of brake lights clogging the city’s arteries, I finally arrive at the home of a modern-day sacred medicine man, who has generously offered to administer the psychedelic believed to be the most powerful on the planet. 5-MeO-DMT (not to be confused with N,N-DMT) goes by nicknames “toad” and “Bufo” because it is most commonly derived from the toxic secretions of the Bufo alvarius — an amphibian species found around northwest Mexico and southwestern United States.

It provides a priceless journey to the depths of consciousness, yet humans are still hell bent on profiting off of the psychedelic ride.

Experiences like this can cost a few thousand dollars these days. There’s a long line of CEOs, executives and celebrities shelling out big bucks to tap into the secrets of the toad, either on globetrotting retreats or inconspicuous houses in suburbia. This particular man tells me a CEO of a major entertainment media brand recently stopped by to fork over $1,000 for a serving.

But tonight, for me, it’s free, and so casual that I arrive at the medicine man’s modest Baldwin Hills home as he’s doing dishes at the kitchen sink. I knock on the window and drop an impromptu secret password: “Hey man, I’m here.”

The medicine man, who I’ll call Eric, smiles big and tells me to walk around back. An open gate welcomes me to a tidy patio accented by a flaming fire pit outside “the launch pad” — a garage converted into a clean, comfortable ceremonial space. In the center is a thick foam pad covered by a colorful mandala; its twin hangs from the ceiling above. The tie-dye, hippie-chic sheet marks the spot I know I’ll be ending up tonight, but first, I take my shoes off and take a seat at Eric’s kitchen table.

Chris, an astrologically-inclined acupuncturist and herbalist who is a regular participant in this community, is there just to hang, but is considering a “microdiddy” dose while I embark on a macroride into the unknown. We talk traffic, jobs, college, our connection to Eric, and our previous psychedelic experiences before Chris mentions tonight is a New Moon in Pisces, giving newfound significance to a day I had just been calling Thursday.

But I don’t really care about astrological cycles or what day of the week it is. I’m a new dad still trying to find Zen in the art of parenthood without any hired help, all while working just enough to pay rent and plummet further into credit card debt. I can barely remember what I did last weekend or what I’m supposed to do tomorrow. Whatever it is, I’ve already made peace with procrastinating in favor of processing the mystical downloads I am destined to receive from the toad tonight.

“Ego death” is a term tossed around a lot in psychedelic and spiritual circles. Despite over a dozen trips on mushrooms, LSD and salvia, I don’t pretend to have ever experienced such a thing. “I” have always been there for these journeys. Greg — a man, a myth, a legend of my mind’s own making — has never faded out of view or dissolved as the viewer.

On this warm, winter evening in Southern California, however, I am ready to leave Greg behind, and Eric assures me the toad will kill him good.

***

“I don’t really like to say too much before I give people this stuff,” Eric says after we’ve settled into the ceremonial launch pad. “I mean, there’s not really much to say to prepare you for something like this, but just know that whatever happens, we’ve got your back.”

Chris nods in assurance, and I believe them wholeheartedly. I was fairly calm going into an experience that most may find slightly terrifying, and have only relaxed more since arriving.

The “ceremony” is really just three dudes hanging out and talking about life: Our dreams, our experiences, and our debt. Some deep-seated anxiety has already been relieved by hearing that these two men — successful by most societal metrics — owe more money to creditors than I do. But no matter the financial burden, we all agree: Fuck it.

The United States of America is in trillions of dollars of debt to other countries. The average American household debt in 2024 was $105,056. Rich Dad Poor Dad author Robert Kiyosaki proudly touts $1.2 billion in bank debt. Borrowing money is the American way, and we have to trust it will all work out in the end. Or maybe it’ll all collapse first.

Either way, we’re going to increase the odds of abundance in our lives with a manifestation prayer to kick off this New Age mystery school medicine party.

And then, hapé.

Eric gently blows the powdered tobacco up my left nostril and then my right, then to Chris, who returns the favor for our host. “Just sit with it for a few minutes,” he advises.

As naturally as a plant grows, the writer in me can’t help but think and analyze: There’s a definite high pervading my body, but it’s not like what I’ve been used to with cannabis. I look over at a statue of Buddha, a symbol of the awakened mind, and remember to be here now, shut the fuck up, stop thinking, and just be.

A few more Eternal Nows later and my butt is centered on the mandala, ready to receive initiation into the brotherhood of the toad. “Do you have any questions?” Eric asks as he loads up a vile of Bufo into a vaping device.

“Not really,” I answer.

Though the medicine man suspects I can handle a large dose without any issue, he’s decided to administer a significantly smaller portion first.

“I’ve seen all sorts of reactions to this,” Eric explains. “Some people scream bloody murder, some people get up and take their clothes off, but most people, like me and Chris, just lay there.

“Empty your lungs entirely, and then when you’re ready, you’re going to inhale slowly and steadily, as much as you can, and then when you take your lips off the piece, take one more deep inhale to push the toad as deep down into your body as you can.”

Sounds simple enough.

“Are you ready?”

I nod. I follow the instructions. My mind is clear of anxiety or expectations. I signal for the flick of the flame. I start to inhale.

“Keep going, keep going,” Eric advises as I slowly breathe in the Bufo. “You’re doing great. Keep going.”

I’ve reached my limit.

“Take one more deep inhale!”

I suck it all down. And then—

***

Everything gets blurry, fast. Control swirls out of my body, along with most of my vision. I’m puking. And I have just enough self awareness left to know it all missed the bucket.

Poor sheet. Poor pad. I don’t care. I’m dying.

“We got you, brother,” says a voice that sounds so close, yet so far away.

Who is it?

Who am I?

Who cares?

More puke.

My body is purging a black toxicity that has settled deep into its core. A collection of guilt, judgement, fear and anxiety pours out of my mouth as I shamelessly gag, dribble spit and drip tears.

Ughhh.

Too much toxic mind gunk is being purged to process it all, but there is a distinct flash of projectile political bullshit leaving my body, purifying my spirit.

Arghhhhh.

“You’re doing great, brother,” the comforting voice says. “Lay back now.”

Before a body can even hit the pad, Greg has been dissolved into a white cloud of oceanic love and light, pulsating vibrations at an unimaginably high frequency.

Ughhh. Ohhh. Woahhh. Ho-llllly. Shittttt.

Yogis, mystics and saints throughout the ages have said our most accurate description of the innermost Self is: I am that I am. Well, whatever I am right now is murmuring, “Just let go. Let it all go.”

A description of heaven I once came across declared, “Heaven is not a place; it’s a light so bright it blinds the imagination.” Right now, that makes a lot of sense.

“So this is God,” I babble in between ecstatic moans, grunts, giggles and dismay while downloading the good news: IT’S ALL LOVE AND LIGHT!

Holy shit.

It’s all good.

IT’S ALL GOOD!

There just aren’t enough ways to eMpHaSIZE in text the importance and cosmic significance of this simple, common phrase.

It’s. All. Good.

There is nothing to fear. Nothing to worry about.

Seriously: What have I been worrying about?

Just thoughts compounded on thoughts, enforced daily through societal indoctrination and conditioning, continuously impressing fear, anger, conflict and anxiety on any mind susceptible to the collective insanity we kindly call logic and rationality. The medicine dissolves layers upon layers of mental projections from imaginary entities, all of whom are grossly misinformed about the truth of existence.

It’s all so perfect before we ruin it with thoughts.

Why are we arguing all the time? Why are we fighting? Why do we constantly consume poison through every hole in our body?

“It’s all so stupid,” I mumble. “So fucking stupid.”

***

“Oh, Heaven / Heaven is a place / A place where nothing / Nothing ever happens,” sings David Byrne on Talking Heads’ 1979 song “Heaven.” And I can now confirm: He’s not wrong.

Absolutely nothing happened during my 5-MeO-DMT trip. For about 30 glorious minutes of earthly time, Greg died and went to a heaven that is not a place enclosed in golden gates, but rather simply, a state of purified being.

I can’t tell you how long it felt like I was up there, because time and space didn’t exist in this bliss. No angelic trumpets, winged choirs or chariots riding on clouds; just peace, serenity and unconditional love — or at least the lived experience of what those symbols we call words are pointing at.

“Up” is an accurate description of this heaven, only because there was a definite feeling of ascension through an incredibly high frequency of vibration that pulsated so rapidly, I feel fortunate to even remember that aspect of the launch process.

Was that the state of enlightened beings? Was that the mental plane that the Buddha resided on after facing off against Mara, the lord of illusion, under the Bodhi tree 500 years before Jesus entered the history books? Was that a taste of Christ? Unborn mind? Did I just see my original face before my grandparents were born? Or meet the Self described by 20th century Indian sage Ramana Maharshi and the Vedic mystics that preceded his testimony?

Perhaps it was a trip to infinity, a concept defined as something that is limitless, endless, and goes on forever without bounds. Was this a taste of what awaits the field of awareness after my character in the human drama dies for good?

Who knows. Certainly not Greg, who resumed control of this body after coming back down from the ineffable, finite high that characterizes Bufo, an organic goo that can pierce a veil normally clouded by human thoughts.

Eric asks if I want another dose, but much like a fighter caught in the grip of an inescapable chokehold, I’m tapping out. My mind has been sufficiently blown and I have plenty to sort through, reflect on, and integrate into my life moving forward.

This experience marks the first of many dances with 5-MeO-DMT, as well as Terrence McKenna’s drug of choice, N,N-DMT, and I’ll share more reflections from these trips with Macro readers. But for now, basking in a fading rapture with infinite consciousness, I silently watch Eric take his dose like a seasoned pro, observing from the outside as another man dares to look deeply inside himself.

Will he see what I saw? Is this Western sacred medicine man practicing the art of death and dying before my eyes? Only that mysterious force from a source we call God, and many other names, can know for sure. Meanwhile, I’m ready to live again.