world, and to view myself as an
individual, was suddenly infused with new life.

17. On High

"How would you like to get out of the spiritual rut you are in?" Rama
asked me in the spring of 1984.

"I would like that very much," I replied. I knew that there was
something wrong with my life. For years I sought enlightenment, but
was no longer happy. For years I sought the Spirit, but was no longer
animated. For years I sought the Self, but was no longer me. I was
ready to try anything, I told him.

He offered to give me LSD. "I suggest that you take it," he said.
"But you should only take it if it feels right."

In the past he had used Chinmoy's line that hallucinogens damaged the
subtle body. But the potential benefits, he now explained, outweighed
the risk, provided that a fully enlightened teacher was around to
supervise. "Don't worry," he added with a smile. "I am very familiar
with the drug."

I was startled by the offer. As a teenager, I had responded to similar
solicitations with: "I'm high on life--drugs would just bring me
down." But the buzz of youth had long disappeared, and I knew that the
rut ran deep. Sensing, too, that three years before Rama had diffused
my internal conflict with Stelazine, I wondered if LSD could quell my
recently resurfacing doubts.

There were other factors involved. Months before, Rama had asked Tom,
the bass-guitar-playing disciple who had finally moved west, to compile
a tape of songs from the late '60s. "I want to tap into the people who
had been involved in the early consciousness movement," Rama explained.
Subsequently, the list of musicians whose songs Rama played at Centre
meetings and at public lectures--without regard for copyright law--grew
from Tangerine Dream, Walter Carlos, Jean Michel Jarre, Vangelis, and
the Talking Heads, to now include the Beatles, Cat Stevens, Traffic,
and Jimi Hendrix. Perhaps my decision regarding the LSD was affected
by the music. Perhaps it was affected by my fascination with the drug
scenes in the Castaneda books. Perhaps it was affected by my
realization that, according to the dictates of Rama's etiquette, there
were grave karmic consequences for those foolish enough to ignore his
suggestions. I told him it felt right.

Roughly one hundred fifty miles east of the beaches of Los Angeles, in
Joshua Tree National Monument, was a rock climbing route called
"Therapeutic Tyranny." Less than ten miles away, by th