I saw a ghost yesterday. It was in a field. I had to stop mid-drive.
Ghosts aren’t that rare. They float between us, riding on the exhale, cradling our words, carrying the things we say about ourselves. Passing a joint is the same: cannabis becomes a ritual of shared breath, a rhythm where we breathe in and out, and space and time collapse into each other. When we light up, we bridge more than the distance between our lips with THC. We’re bridging it with smoke, with spirit, with something more ancient than the words we use to fill the chasms. Like smoke filling a basement, the walls remember every session; it becomes its own sanctuary. I know you know what I mean.
Green is my favorite color. Long before I ever rolled a joint. And driving by at 6 a.m., the mist just swirled out of the grass. A green lagoon, breathing a dew that hung in the air.
“What do you think lives out there?” My brother and I used to smoke in the woods. We’d go on long walks at night, watching dew drip from ferns, those walks where you could feel the forest breathing as we crunched into the leaves. He’d click the lighter, sparking a moment of honesty and light in the sleepy woods.
But an early morning poltergeist is something I would definitely recommend.
A spiritual experience is not something you just find in church. You can. But our ancestors believed that even the mist rising out of a field was a ghost. Seriously. In Gaelic folklore, early dew became “fairy mists.” For the Haudenosaunee First Nations, dawn mist is more than vapor; it’s the spiritual force energizing the hunters to commune with their ancestors in the fields, to …
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Author: Brother Jay / High Times
