God's in a Box on my Dresser: An Inquiry into the Human Capacity to Thrive

By Luciana Passeri

How do we thrive?

In God's In A Box On My Dresser: An Inquiry Into The Human Capacity To Thrive, Dr. Luciana Passeri takes readers on her journey to the Peruvian Amazon Jungle as she struggles with God and religion while traversing childhood abandonment, abuse, and an eating disorder that almost took her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889266860

Book preview

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GOD’S IN A BOX ON MY DRESSER

GOD’S IN A BOX ON MY DRESSER

An Inquiry Into The Human Capacity To Thrive

DR. LUCIANA PASSERI

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2023 DR. LUCIANA PASSERI

All rights reserved.

GOD’S IN A BOX ON MY DRESSER

An Inquiry Into The Human Capacity To Thrive

ISBN

979-8-88926-685-3 Paperback

979-8-88926-687-7 Hardcover

979-8-88926-686-0 Ebook

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter 1. The God Box

Chapter 2. St. Michael

Chapter 3. Childhood Abduction

Chapter 4. Damned Kid

Chapter 5. A Dieta and Ayahuasca Primer

Chapter 6. The Plane Ride: May 28, 2019

Chapter 7. The Walk In

Chapter 8. The Dark

Chapter 9. Dinner Time!

Chapter 10. Vomitivos

Chapter 11. Raputi and Vapor Baths

Chapter 12. The Game

Chapter 13. Piñon Colorado

Chapter 14. The Web

Chapter 15. I Met My Soul

Chapter 16. Ceremony One

Chapter 17. Anxiety and Death

Chapter 18. Brother-In-Law Abuse

Chapter 19. The Miracle of the Chicken Pox

Chapter 20. The Storm

Chapter 21. Occasion to Sin

Chapter 22. Confrontation

Chapter 23. Unraveling

Chapter 24. Ceremony Two

Chapter 25. Spiritual Backpack

Chapter 26. A Snake, a Sword, and Skulls

Chapter 27. The Lottery

Chapter 28. Enough!

Chapter 29. Ceremony Four, Day 28

Chapter 30. Parents’ Ballad

Chapter 31. The Chariot and the Rider

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

This book is dedicated to my ancestors and parents who didn’t know they didn’t know. I’m sorry you suffered so much. I love you.

This book is dedicated to all those who have suffered from sexual abuse. It wasn’t you’re fault. You’re not responsible. You are lovable and worthy. May you bask in the warmth of your beauty and dance on the rays of resilience. And don’t forget to kick all disempowering narratives to the curb and never turn back. You deserve to thrive and have the power to do just that.

This book is also dedicated to all those who have been affected by an eating disorder, diagnosed or not. You are not alone. You have more power than you realize. You are a beautiful, worthy, and lovable person. That you might temporarily think it’s not true does not make it so. May you too kick your disempowering narratives to the curb and not turn back. And consider signing, along with me, the letter below:

Dear Eating Disorder, You no longer have power over us. We’re taking our lives back and stepping into our power. Consider yourself vanquished. We choose to thrive.

Very Kind Regards, Luciana

Author’s Note

I wrote this book in hopes of inspiring others. My road to thriving has taken over fifty years, and though I’m still traveling, my hope is that readers will have a roadmap to clock their disempowering narratives, transform them, and experience the freedom to thrive much more quickly than I could. God’s in a Box on My Dresser: An Inquiry into the Human Capacity to Thrive will take you on my journey as I grappled with my relationship with God and religion through abandonment, abuse, and addiction.

My story will take you into my world where I lived on a little island in the Peruvian Amazon jungle where plant medicine unlocked the secrets to the human capacity to thrive that I sought. You will experience my healing interactions with the plants I was prescribed by the Shipibo shamans and journey with me through four ayahuasca ceremonies where I accessed not only the power to harness my own healing but also experienced the power of healing the legacy of ancestral traumas and belief systems. May you be challenged and inspired to step, perhaps even more deeply, into your power, fearlessly bringing your gifts into the world.

A few important notes as you read…

Trigger warning: I write about my abduction and then later the sexual abuse I endured for years at the hands of a family member. If you have been abused, please take this story slowly. Importantly, take care of yourself as you read. And note, though you will read about the experiences that left me riddled with shame, guilt, and embarrassment, please know that I am now healed. No more secrets. No more hiding. I thrive now. I know you can heal too. We all can.

If you have been spiritually abused but always thought it was your fault or have been confused by the role or authority of a religious leader who used their power to silence you, know you are not alone. Spiritual abuse left me confused and disenfranchised from a tradition I loved. It was painful to navigate. I still occasionally struggle.

Onomatopoeias: Jungle life and the experiences in ayahuasca ceremonies are difficult to express in words. I use onomatopoeias to transition the reader between memories I’m experiencing and my physical reality in the jungle. I also use them to describe my breath and the sounds of jungle critters as they help to slow the pace down in deference to the surreal experiences I had.

How do you describe a visit from an ancestor where three dimensions of reality are playing out on the same screen, and you’re the breath of it all? Or the visual and physical sensations of a plant growing inside you as you travel on the back of a jaguar? I encourage the reader to try to sound out the onomatopoeias I have written. It will enhance your experience of the read and bring you closer to the reality I experienced.

God as He: I do not perceive God to have a gender. However, I had to make a choice about how to refer to God to avoid confusion or risk slowing the read down. I chose He because I grew most comfortable with that pronoun. My intent is not to perpetuate oppressive patriarchal thinking or systems. To use a different pronoun would be disingenuous. I encourage the reader to imagine their pronoun for God where I have written He.

To those who don’t believe in God, I honor and respect you. My intent in this book is not to convert your thinking. Your thinking is not disordered, and your experience is as authentic as mine or anyone else’s. Regardless of the myriad of belief systems about God, I hope you will be able to read this story through my eyes and my journey.

Thank you for purchasing this book and walking with me…

Love, Luciana

Chapter 1

The God Box

Ba boom. Ba boom.

My heart pounded, then froze, pounded, then froze as the dark grey of dusk did her best to illuminate my path. The air was heavy with importance. The moloka on a wee island in the Amazon jungle in Peru wasn’t far from my tambo. My headlamp was perfectly secured, red light beaming from my forehead.

A chorus of bugs sang in harmony while glow worms and fireflies speckled the darkness. The caiman was making their way through the swamp looking for dinner. The jungle debris crunched beneath my feet as I walked slowly. Felix, one of the facilitators of the dieta would often remind me to walk slowly and reflectively in the jungle, slowly like a plant growing.

Felix and Safa were the facilitators for the experience, but our shamans were Shipibo. The Shipibo are an ancient Amazonian tribe in Peru who are recognized as holding the traditions of the potent entheogenic brew called ayahuasca, a plant medicine that is believed to have healing powers.

My heart thrummed with electricity in anticipation of this final ayahuasca ceremony. I felt like I could actually take flight, given the emotional weight I had untethered from my soul during the first twenty-seven days of this jungle journey.

The relational partnership between my mind, heart, soul, and body synced.

How could I have unearthed, observed, confronted, embraced, and healed from so many life traumas and narratives in just one month?

Jungle medicine is no joke, but it’s not magic, either. It simply facilitates healing like any other medicine.

My gait was strong. My mission to heal was clear. Nothing could stand in my way since so much had already been accomplished. The plants that were my medicine coursed through me, holding a power beyond what I could fully understand, but I trusted.

I can handle wherever the medicine takes me tonight. It’s a privilege to step into my power and take full responsibility for the totality of my life. I got this. Right?

Rambunctious butterflies in my gut attempted to derail my focus, but I made my breath slow and deep, which cajoled them into flying less distractingly.

I got this.

In my fifty-six years, I have danced many dances with God. This ceremony, though, would prove to be the most ineffable and unexpectedly powerful experience with Jesus that I would have thus far.

A draped mosquito net feigned walls and the door to the moloka. It was riddled with little holes, imperfections patched together with toilet paper framing our sacred space. At the entrance, a single candle cast a warm glow that dimly lit the sacred space. I found my way to my mat, where a waft of calm engulfed me. In front of me were a roll of toilet paper, a barf bucket, and an ashtray to put the mapacho ashes in. Mapacho is sacred tobacco grown in the jungle that’s rolled like a cigarette. It’s strong! To my left was a neatly folded fleece blanket scarred with burn holes, as if sharing its own sacred story.

I prayerfully set up my altar. I laid out a beautiful handwoven Shipibo-patterned prayer cloth. My rosary was carefully placed atop the cloth, its beads ordered to create a mantra of sacred devotion. From a little pouch, I removed my shaman-carved wooden pipe and gently packed it with mapacho. I set my lighter next to the pipe that was now resting in the hole of the toilet paper roll so as not to tip over and put my headlamp to the side. My preoccupations evaporated like incense as I exhaled, leaving me yearning for answers to my life’s lingering questions. I could feel the fabric of the universe around me, expanded and peaceful. I sat transfixed by my soul and prayed.

Dear Jesus, my gratitude for your friendship runs deeper than your oceans. Thank you for guiding me to the jungle to reunite with you. To heal. May I be able to live out in thought, talk, emotions, and behavior the life you have called me to live—to be in service to self and others.

Growing up Catholic

Consuming psychedelic plant medicine in the Amazon jungle is the last place a good Catholic girl like me would expect to find herself. Growing up Catholic, I learned very specific things about God, like what He did and didn’t do, what He liked and didn’t like, if I was lucky, how He would allow me into heaven or unlucky, send me to hell. I loved my faith and steeped myself in it, dedicating my life to it and supporting other Catholics in being Catholic.

I hoped to be a beacon of light in a dark world. I wanted to be an inspiration to others. As it turns out, though, God writes straight with crooked lines; I’m a crooked line.

Jesus is my bestie. My devotion, gratitude, and love for him are indescribable. My conscious relationship with him started when I was only four years old while walking alone one day in a little pine forest near my home. My little girl sadness and loneliness must have beckoned him to me.

I can’t really explain it, but my exposure to him in church on Sundays must have paved the way for my little self to understand his voice when he began comforting me on my walks.

He and I spent countless hours walking and playing together in one of my outdoor sanctuaries. He taught me that the plants and trees loved me too. He encouraged me to walk barefoot through ankle-deep muddy streams to connect with the earth (with him), to climb trees, and to collect colorful leaves to later be ironed between wax paper and made into bookmarks.

I love you, Luciana, Jesus would say while we walked in the woods together. He wasn’t just saying he loved me, though. He showed me love. Play in the trees! Climb with me, he said one day. The invitation was all I needed.

I can reach the lowest branch if I jump. I know I can!

Boing, boing!

I got it. I got it! The smell of pine blanketed me. I scurried up the little branch stubs that protruded from the tree, higher and higher.

I felt Jesus’s love in that tree.

Exhilarated from the climb, it hadn’t occurred to me to look down until the earth below caught my eye while looking for a place to put my foot. I paused. Fear threw my equilibrium out of whack and my heart constricted.

Rest here, right here, Luciana. You are safe, Jesus said. My heart was still racing, but somehow I could squeeze breath into my restricted chest space as a waft of calm came over me.

Jesus had a way of teaching me about what I could handle through these excursions in the woods by experiencing exhilaration and fear. Once, in a panic, I called out to him as the little pyromaniac in me decided to experiment with fire in the same woods he taught me to climb trees.

The oranges, greens, and reds of the maple leaves were vibrant on the day I snuck matches from my parents and coyly made my way to the backyard tree line. Matches felt powerful. Having watched my parents light hundreds of matches to ignite their cigarettes, I was confident. Confidence turned to panic, though, as I bullishly struck the match against the lighting strip. Heat radiated through my fingers, and the match plummeted to the ground. My heart leaped, and adrenaline pulsed through my body as I ferociously stomped on the fire that started. I felt naughty.

Whew! Hmmmm huh.

Breathing would calm me. I didn’t realize until much later in life how powerful intentional breaths could be. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Jesus. Tragedy averted. Yup, Jesus has always had my back.

He was always there for me, but as my life took a sharp turn, I couldn’t bear to be seen by him. Shame and guilt would flood me, and my heart raced at the very inkling of telling Jesus about the abuse I endured. I had to pretend I was fine.

Jesus was patient. He ultimately gave me the courage to step away from traditional therapies to deal with the sexual abuse I endured as a child—therapies such as talk therapy, which was proven to help people like me who had suffered from multiple complex childhood traumas. I used an eating disorder to sort of keep it together for over twenty years, to bury the emotional, cognitive, and physical consequences of the traumas. I would later learn this wasn’t unusual.

Maybe you can relate to what I mean by trying to keep it together. On the outside, I was a productive human being. I was happy and enjoying much of life and my relationships, especially my relationships with my husband and three daughters. On the inside, I was a mess.

The traumas and how I was trying desperately to heal them were robbing me of my ability to thrive. Jesus ultimately taught me that I am designed to thrive, though. We all are. I just couldn’t seem to make it happen back then. I’m confident my bestie ultimately led me to the little island in the Amazon jungle, to the healing medicine known as ayahuasca. And God knows, I was desperate to heal.

None of the therapies or bargains I struck with God healed the traumas or their associated disempowering narratives. None helped me connect with God so I could connect with myself. Or maybe, to connect with myself so I could connect with God—a reality I came to learn was necessary for my true healing. Little did I know that to connect with self, my relationship with God, with my bestie, would have to first unravel completely.

God in a Box

Like a spiritual sentinel, our God box is our sacred real estate where we keep our beliefs about God—our definitions of God. Our values and protected stories of faith, love, and hope are whispered into its drawers from which we take direction. Those directions align with a particular set of rules, norms, or dogma; anything outside of that direction is either flat-out wrong or incomplete. Even atheists have God boxes. It’s just that their stories about God are different. Defining God as nonexistent is still defining Him.

Our God boxes are like trusted spiritual confidants where out of respect for their authority, we dare not challenge their wisdom.

A dresser is like a majestic altar in our intimate spaces. We pass the dresser that is the stage to our God box every day, not registering the box’s tremendous influence—perhaps even taking its presence for granted. Although we may take its presence for granted, it serves as a powerful animating force in our lives, influencing how we think, talk, emote, and behave in the world.

The box may be metaphorically decorated in countless ways, be of varying sizes, or even be made of different materials, but the bottom line is when we define God, we have confined Him to a box. When I had God neatly defined and resting in His box, I abdicated my spiritual authority to connect with God outside the dominion of my religion.

By keeping God in a box, we miss out on knowing the fullness of our potential to truly experience God, to partner with Him. With God in a box, we are unable to sit with the full range of human emotions or to fearlessly bring our gifts into the world. And if that weren’t enough, when we keep God in a box, we are thwarted from living our best lives as we were designed to live.

People have God boxes, but religions and other institutions can have them too.

I know I’m not the only one who yearns to know the divine beyond the walls of dogma, or who has questioned their relationship with God or even felt dammed or confused by religion. The question: Who is God? is a pervasive one. And the power and role that organized religion plays in the world is a curious one. As much as I have needed to question the role that religion has played in my life in order to heal cognitively, emotionally, and spiritually, you won’t find me religion-bashing in this book. Organized religion can provide a beautiful framework for some people to connect with God and experience a lovely sense of community.

Human Suffering

Even with community or God in our lives, it is undeniable that we humans suffer tremendously, and sometimes that suffering takes the form of post-traumatic stress disorder caused by sexual abuse. I was sexually abused as a child. It might surprise you to learn that according to Child USA (2020), one in five girls and one in thirteen boys is a victim of child sexual abuse. These are the reported numbers. The number of sexual abuse victims is actually much higher. Take me, for example. I did not report the sexual crimes committed against me. I’m confident mine are not the only ones.

Why aren’t these crimes routinely reported? Predators have power over vulnerable victims, often scaring them into silence. The power of the predator, combined with intense shame and guilt for being abused, along with childhood confusion about tattling, are often why victims stay silent. Disempowering narratives that stem from abuse, such as, It was my fault and I’m unlovable can also silence children. These are some of the things that kept me silent.

More than just the suffering caused by post-traumatic stress disorder wounds plague our society. PTSD is often just the first link in a chain of wounds that stretches out from that initial childhood trauma to eventually immobilize a person cognitively and emotionally, impeding their ability to thrive. Unhealthy tools like food, alcohol, drugs, shopping, pornography, or gaming that we use to manage trauma are a national epidemic. When it comes to food, according to an article published by the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (Outlaw 2008), Sixty-five percent of American women between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five report having disordered eating behaviors.

Abuse is connected to eating disorders. Approximately one in four people with an eating disorder have symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder like I did (Tagay et al. 2014). But I’ve learned that patterns that have imprisoned me for years, and the painful emotions associated with them, can be transformed. Shame, guilt, embarrassment, confusion, distress, pain—all were turned on their head during my jungle journey as my relationship with them and divinity was transmuted.

Month in the jungle

So, there I was, in the Amazon for an entire month, about to drink ayahuasca for the fourth time. What is ayahuasca? It is a jungle psychedelic plant brew that contains dimethyltryptamine (DMT) along with other compounds. Ede Frecska (2016) and colleagues have scientifically demonstrated it to enhance self-reflection, reminiscence, ethical sensation, prosocial behavior, creative thinking, and a sense of redemption. It has also been shown to help people manage PTSD and its symptoms. Overall it can help people discover a deeper purpose in life.

Though not for everyone, ayahuasca is a therapeutic tool for which I have indescribable gratitude. Drinking ayahuasca in a controlled and therapeutic setting with trained shamans freed me from the bondage of complex childhood traumatic experiences. My month in the Amazon proved to be the healing salve I needed to navigate the watershed of traumas, abandonment issues, anxiety, and my eating disorder.

It helped me open my God box, a box I didn’t even realize existed, and have the courage to peek inside. When I peered inside, God’s abiding love captivated me in swirling waves of enraptured peace. Spellbound, head bowed in humility, I was finally able to deeply understand the power we humans have to heal ourselves and support others in doing the same. Now it was time to do the work of healing. My commitment was unwavering. I was not alone.

A bridge was built during my month in the Amazon jungle in 2019—on one side my glistening soul’s purpose and relationship with God and, on the other, a massive ball of intertwined dysfunctional cognitive-emotional patterns. Ayahuasca is medicine to be sure, but as I learned, it doesn’t go down easy. It’s not a panacea. This story is about my walk with God as I slowly liberated Him from the box on my dresser. It’s a story about suffering but also redemption. Ultimately, it’s a story of taking full responsibility for my total being and stepping into my power.

Dear Jesus…

I always prayed before going into the ceremony, but on this night, the night of the final ceremony, I had an especially profound experience.

"I’m here, Luciana. I’m right here." As I began to pray, Jesus immediately entered my awareness as a dear friend might.

My heart waltzed tenderly, Hi there, bestie! Please protect me tonight. Please guide me. I am here and ready to do the work. I want to be fully healed so I can help you heal others and the planet.

I sensed an aura of seriousness.

"Oh, Luciana, I love you so much. Are you sure? I love you no matter what the answer."

Yes!

His loving and compassionate presence swooned and nestled into my bosom.

"Okay, thank you. Are you ready, Luciana? No matter what happens tonight, Luciana, I will be with you. Even if the pain feels unbearable, I will be here."

Thank you. I can handle it, I said. I want to handle it.

By now in my life, I was so confident in our relationship that I naturally responded affirmatively and without fear. Little did I know what was to come.

"Thank you, my dear. I love you," Jesus said.

It was now my turn to drink. I approached the maestros and sat in front of them on the ground cross-legged, continuing to pray as they poured the muddy brew into a communal cup. They prayed into it before passing it to me.

In receiving the cup, I asked for a final blessing from Jesus, took a deep breath, put the wooden vessel to my lips, and drank the medicine.

Chapter 2

St. Michael

Kindergarten was well underway on this dark night when Jesus beckoned my little spirit.

"La-di-da, la-diddy-da, di-da," I hummed as I skipped to my parents’ bedroom that was next door to the room I shared with my big sister Lisa in our little brown rambler on Cooper Avenue South in St. Cloud, Minnesota. My levity was a necessity.

Being home alone didn’t bother me. I was totally used to it. I knew I could handle whatever came my way, even though I was scared out of my wits half the time. Given my chronic aloneness, except for the visits from Jesus, I had already learned to control my mind and to remain fearless when things got really scary. This came in handy in the years to come but somehow, for now, my parents’ big comfy bed would do the trick.

The basement could get scary, especially when the wind kicked up and tree branches and debris scraped against the egress windows, but my parents’ room felt cozy to hang out in when I was alone.

My intent on this stormy night was to catch up on my prayer reading and find a new prayer to learn. Just in case this didn’t go as planned, though, I decided to create a plan B. So, before I scurried up my parents’