The Second Initiation: A Tale of God’s Light

Gather close, dear soul. This is not a story of fantasy, nor of distant legend. It is a story carved into the bones of a man who walked the fire path twice, into the jungle heart of Gabon. It is a story etched into the nervous system, the psyche, and the soul. Let these words carry you, not as entertainment, but as initiation—for what was lived was no mere event, but a transformation, a death and a rebirth, a remembering of what has always been.

It was the solstice. December 21st, 2024. The world turned inward on the longest night, and Jesse—warrior, father, son of the stars—returned to the Source. A sacred village hidden in the folds of the Fang tradition, where spirit breathes through trees, and Iboga is not a medicine, but a teacher, a mirror, and a gateway.

Upon arrival, the way opened with simplicity and laughter. No masks here. Only truth, and truth requires no performance. He was given a number. Not a label, but a place in the symphony. Number three. Harmony. Trinity. Mind, body, soul.

And so began the days of washing. Not merely of body, but of burden. Buckets filled with herbs and fragrances. Ritual baths that soaked into the marrow. Knots tied and spoken into with trauma, pain, and blockage—then released behind the back, a physical surrender to the invisible.

Five times a day, the waters came. Five times a day, Jesse met himself. In the heat of scalding showers, dubbed “Gabonese acupuncture,” in the layers of mud rubbed into skin then shed, leaving him raw and reborn again and again.

Each bath stripped away illusion. Each enema dislodged more than waste. The layers of a lifetime—of addiction, false pride, heartbreak—came undone. The pain of a father who was there and not there. The ache of a daughter taken during a storm of instability. The chase for control, for meaning, for escape. Released.

And then came the forest.

The jungle was not silent. The trees spoke. The kingfisher appeared, reminding him to sit in patience, to wait—not with passive weakness, but with warrior focus. The inchworm crawled slowly at his feet, whispering the ancient Fang word: malembe. Slow, child. Slow.

And then came the wood.

On Christmas Eve, Iboga entered him again. The sacred root, bitter and wise, flowed into his belly and lit the corridors of his being. The villagers sang. The fire crackled. The whole of creation, it seemed, leaned in to listen. Jesse found his place beneath the stars, amidst the ancient trees, resting in the arms of his teachers—Bassé Iboga, bassé Enticelle , bassé Yaya.

In the dark, the sacred began to reveal itself.

He looked for God. He expanded outward, further and further. Stars. Galaxies. Dimensions beyond measure. But he did not find what he was seeking. Not out there.

So he turned inward. Smaller. Smaller still. Down to atoms. Then quarks. Then the space between. Until in the infinitesimal, he found it. The One. The All. The pulsing, shimmering essence of existence. Light that sang. Knowledge that breathed. Love that held the code of the cosmos. That is God, it said. And that is you.

And so he returned. As all heroes do. But not the same.

There was the temple, where he was adorned in powder and paint. Where the community walked him through the jungle, singing songs that called the spirits. There were the immense heaps of wood bark placed before him—more than ever before. And he ate.

And he danced.

And he purged.

And he was baptized—not in water alone, but in fire, in lightning, in wind, in the hands of ancestors who came through rain and thunder. He was struck by the voice of the storm. The fire of the sky entered his chest, and he knew. He was that light. He had always been that light.

Addiction fell off his body like old skin. Sexual distortion turned to sacred union. Numbness transfigured into feeling. He saw the trap house of his past, where once he served as a dark shaman, a dealer of numbing potions. And now he saw himself among medicine people, feeding souls instead of silencing them. The dichotomy of light and shadow collapsed into wholeness.

He saw his daughter, Forrest, as a guide. A being like him, not from here. Sent to support his journey, to remind him of the truth: that we are not broken. That healing is remembering. And that play, too, is holy.

And when he asked his name—his true name—it came: God’s Light.

Not a name for ego to wear like a crown, but a name etched into his spirit by the divine feminine, who said: you are not from here. You have carried an entity since birth. And you have died to be free of it. You have returned to wholeness.

And in that wholeness, harmony is born.

Harmony is not passive. It is not floating in bliss. Harmony is active alignment. The rhythm of thought, body, and soul playing the same song. It is found in honoring the feminine, walking slow like the inchworm, listening like the kingfisher, laughing with the kitten, and letting the sacred wood rearrange your bones.

Harmony is the path to the divine. When you live in harmony with yourself, you walk in step with the universe. With Source. With God. With the All. And in that state, your life becomes ceremony. Your breath becomes prayer. Your steps, blessings.

This is the story of the second initiation.

It is Jesse’s. And yet, it is yours too. For every soul called to the fire, to the root, to the rhythm of truth, must walk this path in some form. And if you hear it calling—if the drumbeat echoes in your chest—it means you are ready.

Welcome home, child of light. The work continues.