This is a draft account of my expereince of a workshop in Califoirnia.
Commens and additions welcome as always.
We heard about a workshop to be run by some very experienced people, but
our first approach was met with denial. Next day another of the organisers
came up and, after checking us out individually, invited us to join the
group. The workshop was to be structured and we would have to accept that
and be prepared to submit to those running the session. We could make requests,
but we would have to accept decisions made by the staff.
We were told when and where to come, to fast the previous day, to bring
sleeping bags and photos of people close to us and that the session would
involve mushrooms and LSD with Ketamine as an optional extra, but little
else, not even who else would be there. It was all very hush hush.
It began in the evening, so we spent the morning relaxing in a Redwood forest
as a way of winding down before driving to the venue. It was a remote but
comfortable house in the hills, a beautiful wild setting surrounded by nature
with no other buildings in sight.
We soon learned that this was no amateur event but was organised by extremely
well qualified people in their forties, including a research psychologist
and two practising psychiatrists. They were in fact following on the work
of the late Salvador Rocquet who used to run a centre for such events in
Mexico until he was stopped by the local police. Several of them had attended
many of his sessions before starting to run their own.
The participants were similarly well established professional people including
a research scientist, a film director, the wife of a well-known therapist
and yet another psychiatrist. All but one had previous experience of psychedelics,
but I was surprised that most of them were strangers to this particular
work, like we were.
We arrived at six pm and had time to relax and learn more about the event
before it began at eight. We recognised some of the other participants;
in fact we had taken part in another workshop with two of them in Brazil:
small world. There were nearly as many helpers as participants, all busily
preparing for our session, and I was impressed to see that the sound system
not only had four speakers but was equipped with a mixing deck.
At 8pm we were brought together and, after a brief silent meditation on
our intention while holding hands, the nights session began by us filling
in two questionnaires. These were the Hartman Values test, and consisted
of 18 statements which we had to place in order of how true they were to
ourselves.
Next we were given three sheets of paper and asked to draw Me, My Shadow
and finally God. I was inhibited and self conscious about the drawings,
and worried about how they might be interpreted. Would I have a chance to
explain? Should I write "This wall is my defence" in case they
got the wrong idea? Or should I just do such simple pictures that there
was no need to interpret? All the others got on without a murmur, so I got
on with it too.
Lastly, we had to write the answers to the questions: "Who am I?"
and "What do I want to get out of this session?" This was easy
for me: once started, I could scribble on for pages: writing is my medium
for self expression while art is not.
Our responses were collected and we were asked to get to know one another
by discussing our hopes and fears for the session. I said I wanted to make
use of all this professional support to open up more than ever before, as
I believed that letting go was the key to having a valuable spiritual experience.
The others all had rather similar hopes except for one: he was on a quest
to find hidden treasure. He had spent a whole night in an Inca sacred temple
where he had had a vision of a hidden vault very close to him, but having
failed to locate it with echo sounding equipment he hoped to use the session
to re-enter the vision and this time to remember the details of where it
was located.
Meanwhile we could see into the next room where our answers to the values
test were being fed into a computer for analysis while other staff went
through our drawings and writings. This was a little disconcerting and made
a clear separation between 'us' and 'them'. At the time I thought that this
was purposeful, but on reflection I think it was a mistake.
Eventually we were told to end our discussion and that we should hold silence
until the session ended next day. We were now going out doors to perform
a ritual.
Once outside, we were pointed out the North Star so we could orient ourselves,
and led to a grassy area where we formed a circle, acknowledged the four
directions and were taken through a series of stretching and loosening exercises
in the moonlight, ending in a sung prayer of intention.
Then we walked in silent procession to another spot where we again formed
a circle and a coloured candle-in-a-glass was passed around as we sang.
This was repeated in the open under the stars, under tall trees and by a
stream, each time the words of the song being adapted to the place and with
a different coloured candle.
Lastly, we were asked to select a stone (or "rock") by its feel
from the side of the stream, first cleanse it in the clear spring before
focusing on our intention for the session and using the stone as an anchor
for it. Then we returned to the house with a final look up at the stars
to confirm our orientation. I appreciated the care and preparation that
had gone into this ritual, but apart from the stone which I seemed to fit
my hand and held tightly, I was more aware of my stumbling about in the
dark than anything else, so I was glad to get back.
The room had been laid out with our sleeping bags placed where we should
be; no choice. We laid our stones in the corner of the room and formed a
circle with the mushrooms we were about to consume in the centre. Incense
as used by shamans in Mexico was lit and passed round; our neighbours held
it for us while in turn we wafted smoke over ourselves as we focused on
our intention for the night.
Finally we were asked to settle in our places and were presented with a
bowl of dried psilocybin mushrooms, each weighed out according to our needs
as judged by the staff (I later learned that the dose varied according to
our body weight from 5 to 6 grams). A slide show unexpectedly began; images,
mainly religious, were flashed on the wall as we ate our mushrooms. They
were dry but chewy and tasted very nice, perhaps because I had not eaten
for over 24 hours by then. It was now midnight.
Soon we were told to put on our blindfolds and to keep them on in silence
for the whole night, no exceptions. If we wanted anything we should raise
a hand and one of the staff would come (and lead us to the "bathroom"
if necessary).
I was never quite sure when the mushrooms started to take effect as they
were mild and came on very gradually. I tried to get comfortable but my
head kept being brushed against, so I wriggled away only to find my feet
knocked against someone else. People kept stumbling into me, and even though
I realised they were being lead to the loo, this made it hard to relax.
The music was loud, and I found the choice surprising; instead of harmonious
chords smoothly transporting me into a sacred space, I found it quite disturbing,
creating suspense like film music.
That lead me to see the whole event as some king of experiment in which
we were the guinea pigs: the psychological test, all these doctors discussing
us behind our backs, not being allowed to take off our blindfolds, the upsetting
music... What was going on? Fortunately the paranoia was short lived and
I was able to come to terms with being on the main road to the loo and let
go a bit more.
By now the music was more uplifting and I began to enjoy it. I expected
the effect to come on stronger and allow my internal dialogue to dissolve,
but instead I found it was intensified. I became annoyed by my perpetual
chatter and felt it was blocking any deeper experience. For ages, I seemed
to be in a state where on one hand I thought "Wow, this is the way
to hear music!" and on the other "So what? This is not what I
came here for." I was later told that this mushroom stage lasted for
three and a half hours.
The change was marked by someone popping a small sweet pill into my mouth
and whispering "Hold this under your tongue". I knew it was acid
and was ready for a change, especially one that might dissolve the internal
dialogue. I waited for a change and I think it happened, but the truth is
that I can't remember! Later on I learned that the dose varied from 100
to 120 micrograms except for one person who was thought to be a hard nut
to crack: he got 200.
One and a half hours later again another whisper: "We need to get your
shirt off for an injection in your arm." I wore a buttoned shirt between
a long-sleeved vest and sweater which got hopelessly tangled after the injection
and was aware of their attempts to sort out my clothing in the few seconds
before the drug took effect, but fortunately my earlier paranoia was over
and I laughed at their predicament.
Almost immediately I was aware of a rattle as though someone was flipping
through the pages of a magazine behind my ears. In fact I had a visual image
of this as though each page contained a philosophical statement or question
concerning my identity. These kept pace with the pages being flicked: first
a question, then an answer that led to a further question on the next page
and so on.
First I asked 'Who am I?', answered by 'The one who is asking', then 'How
do I know that exists?', answered by 'Asking is proof of existence', then
'Do I only exist to ask?' answered by ... These questions flashed through
in a seemingly logical way but leading to less and less grounded conclusions.
I then tried to take stock of what was happening and questioned whether
I was certain there was a 'Me'. Yes, I felt sure. But 'Me' was not part
of my body, a realisation that made me aware that I should be concerned,
although I actually did not care. I tried to visualise by body lying there
so that I could identify with it, but without success. I moved my limbs
just to check they were part of me, but I was still left unconvinced. They
existed, but might be anyone!
If 'Me' did not mean my body, then what did it mean? Perhaps it was just
part of some amorphous being-ness. And what of my body; could that exist
without 'Me' returning to identify with it? I certainly existed. Yes, in
my reality I did exist without my body, but would I exist in another person's?
I felt as though I could just as well return to another body or not at all...
what then? I felt as though walking along a cliff top, aware of the danger
but also finding it seductive.
I reached a state where I was convinced that my existence was in the balance,
and that it was my choice, which depended on my belief, that would determine
whether I continued to exist as an entity or sink back into that amorphous
collective consciousness, or whatever it was. It was as though I was both
Schrodinger and his cat! Most of this was verbal although I did have an
image of my existence as a point swinging on a thread that was bound to
break, and that my destiny depended on where it landed.
Intellectually I knew this was of the utmost importance, but since I was
observing from outside of 'Me' I could see that it really didn't matter!
There was no emotional content to make me hang on to my identity. Whether
that point, that essence of 'Me', was united with my body or dripped back
into the pool was not significant because it did not imply any loss. I decided,
but only just, to come back.
As the Ketamine wore off, I returned to enjoying the music. This time i
felt more indulgent without interference from internal dialogue and the
sound was simply superb. The Tibetan monks were singing in magnificent,
sumptuous halls. The synthesised pan pipes were exquisite in each component
of that subtle combination of sounds that made up each note, and the notes
were pitched and so subtly spaced as to form a pattern with its own beauty
in addition to the music made up of notes. What an incredible sound system!
I wanted to curl up with Anja, but did not feel at liberty to do so.
Finally, my blindfold was gently lifted and I was offered some juice. By
then I thought I was 'back to baseline', but as I tried to sit up I realised
how spaced out I was, and in fact this lasted all day. The time was now
9am, and for the next three hours we took turns to relate our experiences.
I looked over at Anja, nervously at first in case she was in another space.
But she connected and we stared into each other's eyes without blinking.
It became a game as to how close we could get without breaking the unwritten
rules during the several hours of that followed whike people related their
experiences.
A woman was crying for the loss of expressing her love to her husband and
children whose photos she held: she had shown her shadow side to them for
years, and grieved over lost opportunities to express her love for them.
This had tormented her until she was given LSD; that had changed her view
to seeing the opportunities for softening in the future. She had also felt
sexual in the session and realised that she could enjoy her sexuality by
herself, she did not have to depend on another person.
Then the man who wanted to locate the treasure spoke. He was in a completely
different space: he said that he had been given the answer, the answer to
so many of the world's problems and it was of vital importance, yet it had
slipped away as he was coming back. It was a technique concerning the interaction
of isotopes of heavy metals. He sweated as he struggled with intense frustration
as he tried to hang on to the fading 'knowledge' and bring it back. I felt
sympathy for him: I saw him as an alchemist who had just been handed the
'philosophers' stone' on a plate and had dropped it, but the others were
not impressed.
Another man enthusiastically told us how he had vomited, and the bits in
his vomit represented bits of rubbish that he was getting rid of. He had
also seen the importance of keeping close to his relations. The scientist
experienced a lot of imagery about his past, and felt that he was able to
file it away usefully. Everyone reported a profound experience of some kind.
©Nicholas Saunders 1976
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