San José del Pacífico: A Birthday Mushroom Trip

Today is 6/10/25, and I’m sitting in the little house with a courtyard that we rented in Antigua.

I’ve made coffee, my hair is wrapped in a towel, and I’m listening to the rain.

Volcanos sit in the distance, veiled in cloud and mist.

It is the rainy season in Guatemala now.

Sometimes the rain comes in sheets, sometimes it is light and close and fine.

Antigua is a small city ringed by volcanoes, with cobblestone streets and colorful houses. It somehow reminds me of Cusco and San Cristóbal.

These days the weather keeps changing.

Sun in the morning, rain in the afternoon, fog at night.

Maybe tomorrow we will hike a volcano. I haven’t decided yet.

At this moment, I only want to sit here quietly and write down that day, my “mushroom” journey in San José.

It was my birthday, September 19.

I happened to be back in Mexico, the country where I lived for nearly six months three years ago.

I have friends here, memories here, and many things that I love.

And the constant moving these past months has worn me out a little.

A few years ago I didn’t seem to be like this.

Back then I didn’t feel tired, I only wanted to keep exploring.

Now I want to go slower and quieter.

I want to buy fresh vegetables at the market and cook for myself.

I long for a more regular rhythm.

September in Oaxaca is the rainy season.

I love the feeling there: streets full of art and murals, markets piled like small mountains with fruits and vegetables, and the air rich with the scent of mole. It makes me feel nourished and soothed.

It was also then that I kept seeing more than six or seven kinds of mushrooms in the markets, and I realized, oh, this is the season for mushrooms. Later I learned about the psilocybin mushrooms in Oaxaca, in a small mountain town called San José del Pacífico.

This year has brought three big turns for me:

I left Argentina, after almost 3 years;

I began a new intimate relationship;

and I decided to return to China to visit my parents after 6 years.

These changes feel fresh to me, and also a little unsettling, and when I was in Peru, I once had the thought to try a psychedelic trip.

Ayahuasca made me hesitate.

Its depth and lack of control scared me.

Mushrooms looked like a gentler doorway.

Photo by

I set out on this journey with my Beans.

Before we left, I watched some YouTube videos, did some research, and started putting the trip together.

First, we had to drive to San José del Pacífico.

It’s a steep, winding mountain road, and we hit traffic along the way, I got really carsick.

At first I was nervous, because taking mushrooms felt like a big moment.

Then, somewhere along the drive, I suddenly felt calm. I put on my noise-canceling headphones and listened to tango.

Outside the window were fog and mountains and, on the bends, quick flashes of trees.

In my seat I conducted with my fingers and swayed, quietly dancing with myself.

A lot of the tension eased.

As the car slipped into the mountains, I slipped back into myself.

I looked out at the trees, rocks, and mist, and greeted them in silence.

I felt them answer back.

I’ve always loved talking with trees and plants, but on that mountain I felt a clarity I’d never known before.

We stayed at a beautiful place called Cabañas Camino al Cielo.

It felt like nature in its purest form, and the cabin owner was gentle and down to earth.

Those days were damp and cold.

The air was full of fog and the scent of pine.

At night we had to make our own fire to stay warm.

The wood was cypress, rich with resin; when it caught it crackled and popped, and the smoke was strong and comforting.

In the mornings we woke to the mountains.

The windows were filmed with mist, the trees came and went in the white, and the room held the quiet of new cold air.

The link of our hotel

On the first night, Beans and I went down to the little town for dinner. We took a taxi to a restaurant halfway up the mountain.

Inside, the lights were dim and warm, I ordered a bowl of mushroom soup.

From the kitchen came the scent of oil and garlic, threaded with tomato and woodfire.

I suddenly started to cry.

That smell and that warmth took me back to my childhood in Xinjiang.

Autumn nights were already cold.

Weekends were the only time I could be with my family, yet I always knew that warmth would disappear quickly and I would go back to my boarding school, alone and unable to be with them.

The house on weekend was always lively then.

My family was cooking and talking and laughing.

Grease in the air, cold seeping in, laughter rising, and inside me an indescribable loneliness and a sense that happiness was about to end.

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I have realized that I cry almost every year on the day before my birthday.

That night we sat high on the mountain.

Outside it was pitch black.

Only the outline of the ridges showed in the distance.

I cried for a long time.

Beans held my hand.

He did not say anything.

He simply watched me quietly and passed me clean tissues.

That night the hotel owner helped us contact a guide and arranged the next day’s temazcal and the mushroom journey. It had been raining in the mountains for days.

The original plan was for a guide to take us into the hills to pick fresh mushrooms, to take them there, and to stay with us through the whole process.

But the trail was too slick and fog covered everything, so we decided to stay in a semi open space. It sat on the mountainside. It kept off the rain and we could still hear the wind moving through the trees, the rain striking the tin roof, and the fruit dropping from the branches to the ground.

Morning of the 19th, my birthday.

Around eight we arrived at the home of the shaman.

It was a wooden house with a stack of damp firewood by the door, and the air was full of smoke, herbs, and earth.

We began with the temazcal ceremony.

We crawled into a domed stone lodge. Inside it was pitch dark and damp, and only the stones in the center, fired until they glowed red, gave off a faint light.

When the hot stones were doused with herbal water there was a long hiss, and the heat rushed over us with the scent of sage, rosemary, and a hint of pine resin.

The ceremony was divided into four stages, called las cuatro puertas, the four doors.

Each door stands for a natural element: earth, water, wind, fire.

With each door the shaman added new stones to the pit.

The temperature rose.

The air grew thicker, as if pushing myself again and again into a deeper layer of awareness.

Earth (Tierra) was greeting and gratitude.

The shaman chanted in a low voice, slow and steady. She gave thanks to the ancestors and to the spirit of the earth.

Water (Agua) was letting go.

She asked us to close our eyes and let memory, anger, shame, and grief run out with the sweat.

The steam grew heavier.

She also gave us a bowl of honey to smooth over our bodies and faces.

Wind (Viento) was prayer, and it was the first true challenge.

The heat was almost unbearable.

The air felt scorching and thin.

I wanted to go out, but a voice inside me said, “Stay a little longer.”

The shaman asked us to think of those we wanted to bless.

I thought of many people in my life, and I also thought of myself.

I cried.

Fire (Fuego / Abuelita) was rebirth, and it was the hardest door.

The shaman poured the last bowl of herbal water over the stones.

The steam burst out and the whole lodge was swallowed by white mist.

I heard only breathing, the hiss of water on hot stone, and the shaman’s low, continuous song.

The heat surged, I poured the cool drinking water over my head.

It was so hot.

For a while I thought I would not make it.

Then everything became quiet.

I suddenly felt very calm, very settled, very sure.

I do not know how long passed.

When the door of the lodge opened and cold air poured in, I felt like a new person.

The type of mushrooms we took

After the ceremony we changed into clean clothes.

The guide brought out a leaf, and on it lay seven fresh mushrooms, still holding a little earth. She called them “a family” (una familia), seven in all, some large, some small.

She asked each of us to choose the mushrooms that were ours, to cup them in our hands, and to say a few words to them, to name our intention. I told her I was a little afraid. She smiled and said, “There is no need to be nervous. This is a plant. It has no malice. It simply takes you where you need to go. Whatever you see, good or hard, is only part of the process. It will pass.”

I chose mine, held them in my palms, closed my eyes, and said quietly, “Hello. Thank you for coming with me on this journey. I trust you.”

The guide told us there are two ways to take mushrooms. One is to eat them directly. The other is to steep them in hot water to make tea, which is said to open more gently. Juan and I each ate one, then put the rest into hot water. We drank the tea, earthy and warm, and ate the remaining six.

She laid a grass mat for each of us and covered us with thick blankets. She asked us not to talk to each other during the first two hours, and not to write or record anything. Just close your eyes and let your body and spirit find their own way.

The air was cool and the rain kept falling. Wrapped in the blanket, I felt a quiet that was both unfamiliar and familiar.

After I took them, the first thing I felt was a chill. I pulled the blanket tight and curled into myself.

Beside us the guide gently shook some Indigenous instruments. The sounds felt drawn from nature, a soft rattle like grains of sand hidden inside wood.

The sound was not loud. It moved through the air.

Gradually, dreamlike colors rose before my eyes.

I cracked my eyelids just a sliver; in the distance the wind gave the trees a slow, breathing motion.

Different leaves sent me different sensations:

a rustling caress,

a ticklish waking,

a steady lift,

a tingling current.

I let myself keep feeling, and feeling, without end, until I realized the trees were waving to me: “Shikin, come, come play with us.”

Silently I answered them: “I want to play with you, too. But the shaman said I need to stay here for the first two hours… I’ll come over in a little while, okay?”

In that moment I thought of childhood: the neighbor kids calling me outside to play while my mother kept me at the desk with my homework. I’d scribble it down as fast as I could and then bolt out the door to be with my friends again.

A little childlike, a little gentle, a little sweet.

I was born on a morning just after rain.

My mother once wrote a piece: “Where did ‘Little Bird’ (your Chinese nickname) get her name? That day, I had just given birth to you. You lay beside my bed. Through the hospital window I looked out at the sky, still wet and gleaming after the rain. A bird flew past. I thought, you should be called Little Bird.”

Because she told me that story, I always carried a single imagined picture of it.

But that day, when I lifted my eyes to the sky, the sky was that same wet gray-blue, the air was damp, and a bird called twice, and in that instant, I saw myself.

What was different was the point of view: from “little Shikin.”

Knowing nothing, sleeping quietly in my mother’s womb; the dark was warm, the water-sound the rhythm of a heartbeat.

Suddenly there was light, there was air, body warmth, crying, and the image of my mother beside me.

I began to cry.

I don’t know whether that was “rebirth,”

but I knew, clearly,

I had seen myself just born.

There was a feeling of being lifted gently by love.

I don’t know if that was “rebirth,” but I clearly felt I was seeing myself newly born.

I don’t know how long passed.

My eyes were still closed; I seemed to be floating, floating and floating.

One person, no, three—slowly came into view before me:

First, Beans.

He looked a little older than he does in real life, a new depth settled around his eyes and brow, but his eyes were still his: gentle, tender, loving, playful, safe.

Then two children: their faces not distinct, yet their presence felt unmistakably real.

I was astonished.

Stranger still, later that night as we talked about our journeys, Juan told me a scene had appeared to him too:

“I saw you in a floral dress with two children. It looked like you were waiting for me. I also saw Xapiri, I’m sure thats our Xapiri cuz he has my eyes, I walked toward you and then I heard birds calling. In that moment I knew it was you, because you’re the ‘little bird.’ I felt so lucky I started to cry.”

I was so surprised I could barely speak. “How is that possible? We saw the same scene? And how did I not hear you crying?”

We burst out laughing.

I don’t know how long had passed when an urge to stretch rose suddenly from deep inside my body, like a squirrel waking from hibernation.

I slowly sat up. At first the light before me was still that faint pink. I lowered my head and looked at the back of my hand; it, too, was washed in a pale pink. I reached out and touched the ground at my feet. The moist yellow earth clung to my fingertips: cool, a little sticky. My hand returned to its own color, the earth to its own; the pink slowly faded.

My body began to move by itself, not the kind of movement led by my head, but as if my body had its own awareness, flowing like water. It felt a little like dancing alone at home: no choreography, no thinking, only stretching, swaying, breathing, following an unseen pull.

I put on my shoes and followed the little path toward the valley, breathing deeply.

My dog Carl went missing three years ago. He suddenly came to mind, that big, shaggy collie, always running ahead and then looking back at me.

I called softly into the open valley: “Carl?”

All at once, two barks came echoing back.

The sound was so much like Carl, low and gentle, not a puppy’s sharp yelp but the voice of an older dog, familiar, reverberant.

“Carl? Is that really you?”

Two more barks, with an echo.

“I miss you so much, Carl. I love you. I hope you’re happy,”

I kept whispering to the valley.

Gusts of wind came and went, lifting the soil at my feet. I heard the soft little murmur a dog makes when it’s being affectionate.

Tears ran down my face.

Then I wandered back and forth across the clearing and saw a very large caterpillar.

I crouched in front of it and watched it inch along. I don’t know how long I watched.

Just then Beans walked toward me. We looked at each other like two kids, smiled, hugged, and said, “It’s sooo cold here.”

The sun rose, and warmth slowly arrived.

I felt a little dizzy, but overall fine.

There was a tall, grand, spirited tree with a long swing that could arc so high.

The valley lay right beneath our feet, so when you swung out, everything below was a canopy of green, so far down.

Beans pushed me from behind, and I felt giddy with joy.

I was truly happy.

I was a sprite, a little girl, playing in the mountains, with the tree, with the wind, with myself, and with Beans.

I suddenly remembered a silly moment with my best friend from middle school; I laughed so hard my stomach hurt, laughter rippling through the valley in waves.

In that moment, I realized mushrooms bring out our nature, and my essence: my most original self — is that little girl: carefree, curious, kind, full of love.

It felt like I’d gone back to childhood.

And just then, there were no layers of trauma.

I was simply that pure little girl:

she runs, she laughs, she dawdles and plays, she’s impish and kind and curious;

she doesn’t worry, “What did I do wrong?”

she doesn’t try to please anyone.

She’ll stop in the street and gaze at a flower for a long time, crouch down to talk to an ant, wrap warm arms around the beings she loves,

and when she sees a stranger she’ll simply say, “You’re beautiful.”

Her eyes are bright, without agenda.

Her world has no “shoulds,” only “I want to.”

She feels light, as if her body had no borders.

When the wind passes, she laughs with it;

when sunlight touches her, she closes her eyes and receives it wholly.

She is whole, she is fluid, she is allowed to be.

I felt I had become her again, but this time she wasn’t hiding in a corner. She stepped out, barefoot on the grass, smiling without fear.

I felt so much love: love for the mountains, for the trees, for the wind, and for the me of that moment.

I felt like I was flying, laughing, so innocent, so simple, and so…

unhesitatingly, thoughtlessly, utterly happy.

A happiness that needs no reason, like a bird suddenly deciding to lift off, like a child suddenly wanting to dance.

After playing with Beans for a while, we decided to head back to our place.

We left and walked slowly down the mountain path.

Back home, he took a nap while I sat alone on the balcony in the sun.

The day wasn’t hot, but I wore only a tank top and underwear; I wanted as much of my skin as possible to meet the light.

I looked out at the sweep of green before me. My heart was calm. Everything was just right.

Later I opened my phone, and birthday wishes lit up one by one.

One was a video from my dear friend Dani, her smile bright, sunlit, so loving.

Watching her, I suddenly felt how far we’ve both traveled over the years, growing from girls into women.

And yet, at the core, we’re still those childlike little girls: simple, sweet, brimming with love.

Sunlight warmed my skin, and I felt the beginning again, that original, pure, unconditional joy.

Thank you, mushrooms. Thank you, everything.

Thank you to those who are and aren’t in my life. Thank you to my partner, “Mr. Beans.”

And thank you to my “little inner girl” for coming out and letting me hold her.

It truly was a meaningful birthday.