Memoirs of a Wordless Story

Piercing the Veil of Māyā

Film from my trip –during the retreat– in Aljezur, Portugal

It took me a few weeks to sit down and write this, but now I feel ready to share it. I came to Portugal to assist at a retreat with my spiritual teacher, Hareesh, and the Kula (tantrik community). When I arrived, I had no idea how impactful this retreat was going to be—for me, and for many others. It’s now more than clear to me that when we practice with intention and devotion, sudden and deep shifts can happen.

I’ve assisted at many retreats in the past—particularly with my Buddhist teacher and sangha in México, experiencing beautiful and profound realizations. They shaped, in many ways, the foundation of my spiritual path. But it’s said that on this path we must study with two or three teachers (traditions or lineages) to fully taste and embody the nectar of the teachings. This is something I can now confirm.

The retreat began intensely. We woke up at 6 a.m. and went to bed after 9 p.m., attending meditation sessions, satsangs, embodiment practices, and more. At night, I noticed that some samskaras—undigested emotional experiences, or what we might call trauma—were surfacing, manifesting as intense, irrational feelings, visions, and vivid dreams. It wasn’t the first time I experienced something like this, so I simply relaxed into the experience and let my energy body digest it.

Then, after a few days engaging in many practices related to dissolution, vacuity and death, designed to help us realize our essence-nature, something unprecedented happened. After a long, deep meditation, I truly felt with my whole being that the sense of self—the “I”—was a mere illusion. A mental construct, without substance. In the past, I had glimpses of this during meditation, but this time was different. It wasn’t a fleeting experience. It was an irreversible shift. Something struck me inwardly. I felt a “crack” at my core. The veil of maya tearing apart. I felt like floating in the vast space without form. As if, until that moment, my whole life had been a dream.

Spontaneously, seconds before coming out of my meditation, I felt and thought: I’m ready to die. So I opened my eyes, intending to write it down in my notebook. I grabbed my pen and then… the indescribable. I couldn’t even write the words. I was catatonic. The mere act of writing had no meaning. There was no “I”.

For the next few hours, I walked the edge of a razor blade. On one side: terror, anguish, desperation, unfathomable anxiety. On the other: pure, blissful presence, joy, and an incomparable lightness and freedom. I kept swinging between the two.
And of course, I thought: Okay, this time it’s real. I’ve gone completely crazy.

A little later, walking down one of the dirt roads of the retreat center, I unintentionally crossed paths with my teacher. He asked:
“So, how are you feeling? I noticed you had a deep meditation.”
I answered:
“I don’t know. I’m walking the edge of a razor blade, between anguish and bliss.”
He replied, smiling:
“I see. Well, why don’t you let yourself fall to the blissful side?”

After a short conversation, he walked away. I turned around, and suddenly I found myself immersed in what felt like a “psychedelic trip”. Everything was bright and colorful. So alive. Fresh and new. The sun, the wind on my skin, the birds chirping… my breath. Every single moment appeared luminous, unique and precious.

The trip didn’t stop there. It hasn’t stopped. And It won’t.

The only question in my head was: how the hell am I gonna explain this to my family. I couldn’t stop laughing.

I spent the next weeks traveling alone. Observing. Contemplating the landscapes, the people, the sky. Simply living. Like a child who had just arrived into the world. And to be honest, I took me some effort to share this writing, not because of its content, but because I was enjoying so much the experience by itself, without the need of translating it into words. I felt that the mere act of talking about it would disturb its pureness.

So why? Why share this now?

The story doesn’t end there.

While walking through the streets one afternoon, I saw a little girl, maybe 12 or 13 years old, in a motorized wheelchair. She was accompanied by her grandmother and her assistance dog. I didn’t just see her with my eyes—I saw her with my heart. I felt her pain. Her suffering. I felt it deep in my bones. I began to cry in the middle of the street—and I still cry when I think of her.

I didn’t fully understand what was happening. And then, suddenly, the pain intensified. I felt not only her suffering, but the suffering of the world—of all sentient beings. Even now, writing these words, it doesn’t quite make sense to my rational mind. But it doesn’t matter, because for my heart is real.

In the days that followed, I began missing my family deeply. My daughter. My mother. My siblings. My friends—even those who have already left this world. I missed them. I treasured their presence, their love, their uniqueness. Just like with suffering, I felt all the love in the world, pulsing in my heart, running through my body, extending in all directions, reaching every single being.

Then I understood:

I understood my place—here, now. I felt completely aligned with my dharma. It wasn’t about building a company, launching a project, or creating a new retreat or meditation program. My dharma doesn’t have a fixed shape, but it can take on as many forms as it needs. I understood that this path doesn’t end with the self—it continues through sharing, especially in moments of joy, grief, and everything in between.
I saw that even though life is unfolding perfectly, I still have a voice—and with it, the precious gift of carrying a message.

And if you’re reading this, it’s for you.
Whatever feelings you’re experiencing right now are exactly the ones you need to be feeling.
Embrace them.
Sit with them.
Listen to them.
Contemplate them.
Love them.

And trust what you are yearning for. Keep following it—because it is the thread of life itself, calling you toward your destiny: freedom and love.
Let it guide you back to yourself.