Cannabliss

For 16 years, I’ve been in a mostly steady, occasionally separated relationship with cannabis. The longer this relationship has gone on, the more ill at ease I’ve become.

When I was younger, I barely gave my use a second thought. Some folks would reach for wine or whiskey in the evening—I’d roll a joint. To each their own, and I’ve been fortunate to not fall prey to stoner stereotypes, making my habit feel more okay.

Rare was the instance where I’d collapse on the couch in a daze, feasting on snacks, slipping away into some digital realm—TV, movies, video games. Instead, I’d go to the gym or take a walk, clean my home or have a bath, putter in the garden or play with pets. Nor did I let smoking seep throughout my day, save for special occasions. I’d wait until all my chores, tasks, and responsibilities for the day were tended to. I considered myself a productive stoner, and held a wee bit of pride in that fact.

Similarly, I never struggled when circumstances dictated I go without for any length of time. At most, I’d miss the ritual and gentle unwinding, rather than the high.

In other words, my relationship with cannabis seemed a blissful, positive one. For years and years, we continued this happy dance, enjoying each other’s company.

Discord between us didn’t appear until I began seeing a Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner, who informed me that my lungs were one of my weaker organs, and that I’d do well to stop smoking.

Naturally, I resisted—despite knowing his advice was sound. Bobby Yang has never let me down with his suggestions for leading a healthier lifestyle. But I didn’t—don’t—want to break up with cannabis. I don’t want to set the bliss aside.

At the time of writing, despite having only smoked a handful of joints since April 2024, I still find myself missing the evening, starlit ritual of relaxation.

So in pursuit of exploring this internal tug-of-war, I’ve turned to metaphor:

There are two of us.

One, seated comfortably in the evening glow, deftly rolling a joint with the ease of long-practised hands. The other, watching, arms crossed, skeptical but not unkind.

"Again?" The Watcher asks.

"The moon has risen," The Roller replies. "The work is done. The chores are handled. The day is coming to a close. What reason is there not to partake?"

"That’s not an answer."

"You’re not an answer. It’s not a problem."

The Watcher says nothing, but doesn’t seem convinced. The Roller continues his process, tapping the end of the joint against the wooden tray, turning it over in their fingers, enjoying the balance, admiring yet another tight and smooth final product.

"You know how this goes,” says The Roller. The first pull is sharp, warm, and comforting, followed by a slow exhale, smoke curling into the night air. The music settles into the background like an old friend. And then… Presence. Fullness.

In detail and depth I can’t seem to access otherwise, I notice the way my body moves, feel the weight of each limb, and the sensations nestled into my muscles. My thoughts stretch in new, curious directions. The yoga mat beckons, or the stars do."

The Watcher softens, just slightly. "I know, but…"

"But what?", bites back The Roller.

"You know what. The smoke, for one."

The Roller sighs. "Yes. I know. But I love the process—the rhythm, the pause, the hands-on ritual. Edibles can’t replicate this ritual. And vapes feel so… detached."

"But what about Bobby’s advice? Your lungs? Your skin?"

The Roller exhales through their nose, drumming fingers on the tray. "Yes, I know. I see what you see. I see the trade-offs. But tell me—what about the way the world opens up? How simple sensations become profound and insightful? The way my body, mind, and spirit soften into the moment? How I look up and find myself blissfully adrift in a sea of stars? Doesn’t that all count for something too?"

"Of course," begrudges The Watcher.

They sit in silence for a while. The Roller holds the waiting joint in one hand, unlit, a lighter in the other, quiet. The Watcher’s pensiveness is palpable.

"So what’s your answer?" The Roller finally asks. "Is this a problem? Or just… A part of me?"

The Watcher doesn’t answer for a time—before answering with a question:

“Do you think you’d still find the stars beautiful without a joint in hand?”

“I don’t know,” The Roller responds. “But do you think I’d notice them as often?”

For now, the question lingers in the air, swirling like smoke, waiting for an answer.

With love from the forest,

~ Alexander

P.S. This week’s second Whimsie is a hard maybe. 

For today, I’m embarking upon a ceremonial psilocybin journey. Despite having entered the psychedelic realm many, many times over the past decade, I’ve never been guided by someone else—only ever the guide, the facilitator, the support.

I plan to pen a Whimsie digesting and divulging the experience once I’ve had time to process, but for now, I’m preparing to have a quiet, soft, slow, remainder of the week. If I feel called to write in the following days, I shall. If not, I’ll catch you next week.