My Alchemy Journey: How I Taught Myself Spagyric Alchemy

I did not set out to learn spagyric alchemy. I want to be honest about that from the first line, because the version of this story where I studied a text and applied it faithfully would be a cleaner story, and it would not be true.

What actually happened is that I kept separating her.

The first batches, and what they taught me by ruining themselves

In the early months, I approached Blue Lotus the way I had approached almost everything else in my life up to that point, as a problem to be solved with method. Trials. Variables. Careful notes. I treated her like a scientist treats a sample, and for a long time she gave me back almost nothing for it.

When I rushed her, when I handled her carelessly or tried to force a result on a schedule that suited me rather than her, what came out the other side was bitter, slimy, and undrinkable. Not disappointing. Ruined. Every single time, the same outcome, as though the result depended less on my technique and more on the state I brought into the room with me.

I did not want to believe that at first. It did not fit the model I had spent a decade building my professional life around, that skill and technique were the variables that mattered. But the jars did not care what I believed. They just kept coming out ruined.

Separating without knowing it had a name

So I kept going, and somewhere in that repetition, without deciding to, I started separating her into parts. Pulling out what was volatile and fragrant. Purifying what remained. Learning what each piece actually did on its own before I tried putting anything back together. I did this because she kept showing me there was more to find, not because I had read that this was the correct method.

Only much later did I learn that this had a name, and that people had been doing exactly this, separate, purify, reunite, for thousands of years. Spagyric alchemy. I had walked onto an old path guided by the plant herself rather than by a book, and when I found out the tradition already existed, it felt less like discovering a technique and more like discovering that I had already been initiated into something, without knowing it.

The prayer I did not expect to say

Before that recognition, though, there was a harder month. I had exhausted every technical approach I knew, and nothing was landing. So I did something that had no place in the scientific model I had been using. I prayed. Not to a god I could name easily. To the flowers themselves, to the jars sitting on the counter, to whatever was moving inside them that I could not see and could not measure.

I prayed from one full moon to the next, because that turned out to be the length of time she seemed to be asking for, and by then I had run out of arguments to make instead. Somewhere in the middle of that month, I stopped treating the prayer as a task and started simply carrying it with me through the day. That is when the work actually began to change.

What it actually cost, and what it actually gave

I will not pretend this was a quick or comfortable process. It cost months I cannot get back, more failed batches than I ever counted, and a period of real isolation, since almost no one knew what I was doing or why. What it gave me, eventually, was a craft I did not learn from anyone, built entirely from paying attention to what worked and what did not, and a strange, humbling fact that still governs everything I make: the very first, simplest tincture I ever produced gave a response as real as the most complex elixir I have made since. Not because it was stronger. Because I was present for it, the same way I try to be present now.

I still think about those ruined early jars more than I think about most of my successes. They were not failures. They were her, teaching me the only way she was willing to.