The Inner Light

Just Breathe / Crybaby Wannabe

Last week’s psychedelic therapy journey was both more and less than I’d hoped for. Less in the sense that I had hoped to enter that well-documented realm of universal love, a place where I could plainly see that everything — including you, God, myself, even my Parkinson’s — is nothing more or less than the pure vibration of love.

That didn’t happen. There was something missing. Despite consuming four grams of Golden Teacher mushrooms, I never lost myself or dissolved into the non-dual world of quarks and consciousness, where everything makes perfect sense and we are all of us gyrating within the same Mobius hula-hoop. This was slightly less true after we added some K to the mix, at which point I became the tip of an arrow shot into the center of Indra’s Net. Ketamine, you rascal... There were some small revelations in that space, a vision of the intense blue diode of my own consciousness shining in an infinite field, beset by strange structures. Briefly, I felt the true nature of what I am, and did not find it wanting.

In the days that followed the session, however, I felt a deep and consuming sense of loss, of low-grade depression, dissolution, the blues, as if my edges were torn and blurry against the fabric of the indifferent sky. When I spoke with my guide, she suggested that the truth gradually emerging from my journey was this: I remain filled with unprocessed grief; a deep despair around my fate that I have never really faced.

She is not wrong. I have never truly given myself permission to “let myself go” and, with sobs and lamentation, mourn the loss of identity that I have already experienced, and will continue to experience in the weeks and months and years (?) to come.

Tide pool photo by Alex Grodkiewicz, Unsplash.com (edited for size)

Much of the time it feels as if I am in some sort of a coastal tide pool, surrounded by sharp and/or slippery rocks. Though my feet are comfortable in the warm water, I’m aware that there is no way out of this false comfort zone without crossing the dangerous border. My guide suggested that one thing I might take away from my journey is an awareness of this stuck-ness and the courage to un-jam it, by inviting the unrestrained release required to pass through a chapter of profound loss.

But whenever I lie down to make a start of it, my thought process seems to begin from a place of self-pity — and that never flies. Feeling sorry for myself would be a delusion of grandeur, as if I’d been singled out for some cosmic lesson. But no; I haven’t been. There’s plenty to mourn, but none of my opening inner dialogues seem to work.

What does work, oddly (and what I may finally turn to) is watching (or even invoking) some specific movies and TV shows. Not sad per se, but ones that end on a deeply moving note of beauty and revelation, of friendship and generosity among my fellow creatures. One such film, the final scenes of which invariably elevate me to tears, is Pixar’s Coco — when the central character’s beloved great-grandmother, in the throes of dementia, is transformed by a song he plays on her late husband’s guitar.

Resurrection poster / Scene from Coco © Pixar

Another reliable epiphany is Resurrection (1980), starring Ellen Burstyn as Edna Mae McCauley, a Kansas woman who emerges from a fatal traffic accident with miraculous healing powers. Her troubled suitor, played by Sam Shepard, can’t quite decide if she’s doing the work of God or the devil. Though her healing gift is real, it’s ultimately too much to manage; but when we rejoin Edna at the end of the movie, the final scene is so moving that I can’t even describe it without tearing up.

And then there is The Inner Light, perhaps the most beloved episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Captain Jean-Luc Picard is rendered unconscious by an alien probe, and falls into a deep dream state during which he experiences (within about 25 minutes) an entire lifetime: one that includes marriage, close friendships, children, grandchildren, a career, and the gradual mastery of a wooden flute. This life takes place on another world, centuries or even millennia prior. That world’s climate is being destroyed by a change in orbit, and the scientists fail to find a solution. But if they cannot save their world, they can at least preserve a sense of what it meant to live in that society, at that time.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard encounters the alien probe / © Paramount Pictures

To this end they build a hypnogenic space probe that will convey, to those who intercept it, a complete experience of a life in that doomed world. The episode’s final scenes — at the probe’s launch, and of Picard’s “return” to the Enterprise after his alternate lifetime — are profoundly affecting.

Okay, so those, and almost any episode of The West Wing (truly; watch it and weep).

I did try one other thing. A friend of mine who does breath work came to my house and spent an hour coaching me in deep breathing, somewhat like the Wim Hof Method. I lay on my back, saturating my brain with oxygen, and let my body go. It felt like I was becoming an electric eel; a feeling as intense as the mushrooms. Every limb and fingertip was vibrating. It did seem to jostle some of my Parkinson’s symptoms; I did a fair amount of shaking, and my dyskinesia was more pronounced. But I did not reach the threshold of tears.

So where does this leave me? I know what I need, what I have to do, and I suspect there is a pathway to that place of deep grief that doesn’t require me to start with the forbidden question “Why me?” It might be as simple as being in the arms of a certain person while I explore that territory. I know who that person might be; though when I will see her again is uncertain.

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Here are a few other bits of news I’d like to share with you.

I still haven’t heard back from the phase 3 clinical trial I applied for, which involves implanting stem cells into the dopamine-producing part of the brain. I got as far as a long preliminary interview and a requisition of my medical records, and thought I might have heard something back by now, but no word so far. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’d love to be part of that trial, as all-consuming as my participation may be. As my goddaughter said to me yesterday, “It’s a job.” But so worth it, if the treatment works!

For those of you who live in the Bay Area, I will be doing a book launch event at Burning Man headquarters in San Francisco on Wednesday, June 17 from 6 - 8 PM. I’ll be in conversation with Stuart Mangrum, the director of Burning Man’s Philosophical Center and host of the Burning Man LIVE podcast. We will talk about Out of Nothing, Everything, a collection of my far-ranging conversations with Burning Man co-founder Larry Harvey during the four years before his death in 2018. (The book was previously available only as a PDF; it's now a physical object.) Harvey was an extraordinary human being, a genuine visionary, and the many hours I spent with him in his Alamo Park apartment were among the most rewarding of my career. The exchanges are fascinating, and all credit goes to Larry. (As per Terry Gross, “All I did was ask.”) There will be wine and snacks, and Burning Man HQ is a fun place to visit. Hope to see you there.

Finally, I’d like to let you know about a workshop being led by my longtime friend and colleague Perry Garfinkel (Buddha or Bust, Becoming Gandhi). The subject is “Spiritual Travel Writing” – a theme that has pretty much shaped my own writing career as well. The setting is beautiful Kripalu, and the dates are Aug. 21-23. Perry is an excellent writing coach, and this workshop could sharpen the lens through which you view your travels.

As always, thank you for reading. And if you can, please do support this Substack with a basic paid subscription. It would be especially helpful right now.