"To speak of one's emotions without fear or moral ambition, to come out from under the shadow of other men's minds, to forget their needs, to be utterly oneself, that is all the muses care for." - Yeats

   To briefly recap, I had a subtle shift, or, if you like, an awakening experience in 1973, at the feet of Sant Kirpal Singh, which I won't exactly describe as an experience of 'no-self', since 'nothing' had changed, my self was enigmatically still there, just the sense of ownership was seriously nicked, and the sense was present that whatever Is had always been the case. I didn’t become the universe, or disappear, or feel high, or have a mystical experience, no, it was much simpler. I wasn’t the Void, nor did I experience a void, I was simply...nothing. Not a BIG nothing, just an ordinary nothing. Truth was, I neither knew who or what I was nor who or what I was not. It was a mystery, and has remained so. I wrote of it as if a 'spoke' had been removed from my inner being. It was subtler than subtle. So subtle that it couldn't be taken away. This is as close as I can come to describing what has become a fairly common ‘event’ for an increasing number of people.

   In spite of this, as time passed, however, I was perplexed as to why I still felt very bad, even extremely bad, on an emotional and bodily level. After some years of trying to simply remain aware of my state, which wasn’t really a state. and finding that that didn’t change very much, I went into therapy for several months on two occasions, in 1977 and 1984 - primal-type therapy as I had resonated with the books on that type of process (Moon in Scorpio, square Pluto in the eighth house, probably explained the attraction). However, I was still quite 'shut-down' and the results were disappointing and also mixed. While I processed a certain depth of personal pain, at some point I found myself losing contact with what I call the true liberating principle. That is to say, I identified with the personality that had been wounded instead of the state of unknowing mystery I had been initiated into, and progress was slow. Very interestingly, on the other hand, at certain times I would also spontaneously 'wake up' out of the therapy, and find no-one or no-problem there psychologically speaking and nothing to work on! Of course, the therapists accused me of resisting, but there really was no point in continuing.

   So...fast forward thirty years: other teachers, two careers, “a wife, two kids - the whole catastrophe!” (Zorba) - just kidding. The two and a half decades after that shift were a time of incarnating and becoming a basic human being, struggling to adapt a neurotic and inverted by tendency body-mind back into ordinary life on a new basis. There were many moments of doubt, and even bouts of rage at my guru(s) for (to my own mind) telling me lies or leading me astray. Maybe three or four times in such a desperate state I tore down my bookcases and ripped up precious spiritual books, smashed murtis and photos, only to buy them back one at a time later when I regained composure and my faith returned. But I felt no remorse at engaging in such primitive behavior. Being a good boy or devotee was no longer a psychological option. Ramana Maharshi said, "Hate or love, it is all the same; the thought of Him will take you there." There is also a Sufi proverb that says, "You can meditate for fifteen years and get one inch closer to God; or you can be really angry and be with Him instantly." Further confirmation of this is found in the Srimad Bhagavata, where a verse says that "intense devotion can not bring one to His feet as quickly as hate":

   "The principle villains in the myths of Rama and Krishna were actually great devotees. They were told that before taking birth that if they would consent to being the primary antagonists of the Divine incarnations, they would attain liberation in only one life at the hands of their Lord whereas if they served him as devotees it would take several lifetimes."

   For instance, Ravana was given this choice and became the great enemy of the Avatara Rama in the epic the Ramayana:

   "A great ascetic and yogi, his hatred of Rama became so intense that his mind never left the thought of Him for even a moment. Thus Ravana ultimately became totally absorbed in Rama and was liberated when he was finally killed by him in battle." (1)

   In the apocryphal gospels Judas is depicted not as a betrayer of Jesus but as a close devotee who had a task to perform. These are just examples of a principle; I had no such grandious role to play. In modern language this might be summed up as the Gospel of Thomas states, "if you don't bring up what is within you, it will destroy you." Anyway, there were episodes like this during long years of searching for understanding, and there were more to come.

   After much suffering and some amusement as well, however, I felt I was finally emerging from the woods into what I call basic sanity. I still considered myself a spiritual practitioner, for lack of better words, although I had no formal practice, other than random contemplation and study, and just being a normal person, albeit with an enigmatic 'hole in my head' (as explained in Part 1 of this article). Unfortunately, I also had another hole, one in the heart, that needed work on.

   While experiencing an increasing sense of well-being, health and fitness, in fact the best of my life, and my original awakening never entirely submerged, Pluto crossed my Ascendant while Saturn was opposing my Mercury and a couple other significant transits including Uranus were simultaneously going on. I call this the intervention of Grace. This time around (for those who have read my original biography) I felt totally crushed which developed into melancholy; my ultra-running “second-life career” [I was running 100k’s, back and forth across the Grand Canyon, up Mt. Whitney and Pike’s Peak, across Mt. Washington and the Presidential Range, through Yosemite, etc., from the age of forty-nine to fifty-six] gradually ground to a halt, in stages, and I re-entered a dark night of the soul I gone through for many years before but felt I had come out the other side of. It started gradually one day after completing a long run. I was training for the Western States 100-miler, a major event that spans the mountains and canyons from Squaw Valley to Auburn, California, a total of 18,000 feet of elevation change from the snow to the heat, an all day and all-night deal. My condition was super and I felt good. So I stretched things a bit and in practice ran a 25 mile, five hour back and forth route that I had created from my house over two ridges to the top of our local "Arunachala", the sacred Mt. Tamalpais. I felt in such good shape that I did it four times in one week! At the end of the last run, however, I developed a hyperventilation syndrome that lasted for two days. Concerned, my wife drove me to a local emergency clinic, my first visit to an MD in thirty years. He found nothing, which is what I expected, but prescribed trazadone as he concluded I was depressed. Not knowing exactly what to do I followed his instructions. After a few days I dropped the trazadone, but lay low for a month before resuming running, thinking maybe I overdid it. The non-runners out there may not be able to relate to why anyone would even want to do such a thing as ultra-running, and I never planned on it. It started after first hiking on our local mountain, falling in love with it, getting an inheritance which allowed me to spend more time outdoors than at my office, then seeing "old" guys running on the mountain and thinking, "hey, maybe I can do that."

   So at age forty-eight, for the first time since I was seventeen I started running. I set a goal to train for a year and enter our local 100-year old famous race called the Dipsea. This is a strenuous peddle-to-the-metal seven-miler over two mountains from Mill Valley to Stinson Beach, with about 1400 runners on each other's heels and full of dangerous, hair-raising full-speed descents. That worked out well, and I was then challenged to enter the "Double-Dipsea," which is fourteen miles out and back over the same grueling route. That led in a couple of years to taking the plunge and doing the "Quadruple Dipsea", 28 miles and 8800 feet of ups and downs, at which point my wife questioned my sanity. But I was deep into the local running culture by that time, and, to my delight, found that the longer distances appealed to me. It seems that when I get into something, I end up going all the way. In this case, it felt joyful and satisfied a deep soul urge, not just a search for an endorphin rush or ego gratification. Being in nature, gliding along like a gazelle, was inspiring and spiritually satisfying. The next challenge was a 50k, then the monstrous Miwok 100k (62 miles) over seven major hills, through the beautiful Marin headlands, over Mt. Tam, and beyond, and back! That's a twelve hour run. Believe it or not, it was my favorite. I knew a man in his mid-seventies still doing hundred-milers, so it no longer seemed "impossible."

   Anyway, after getting back into top shape since the bout with hyperventilation and, perhaps, depletion of neurotransmitters (I was pretty methodical and careful with my training, ate well, got good rest, but was a bit lax on taking the necessary anti-oxidants and supplements that my body required in order to do what it was doing), slowly breathing problems came back and became more insistent, making me back down from the running at times, accompanied by a slow descent into a full-blown depression. Simultaneously, deep buried feelings I had been trying to get to for years, then finally ignored when my efforts at coaxing them to the surface ended in failure, started to erupt of themselves. So, while still running, though at lesser and lesser levels, I went back into therapy, this time with a spiritual lady with a good feel for esoteric processes and the power of presence. Before revealing that graceful ‘initiation,’ I need to point out that the running didn’t come to an instant and complete stop. I got back to a relatively high level of ability several times (like running a successful 100k) before quitting for good. In fact, during the initial year of therapy, there were two parallel processes going on. One, deep, buried feelings coming up, and, two, a renewal after many years of a variety of what I would call non-mystical spiritual experiences occurred, both during running and in my normal daily life. The latter happened especially for a time after I had placed a portrait of Ramana Maharshi on my nightstand.

   On one routine solitary mid-week run on the Dipsea trail, I experienced extreme and unusual fatigue about two miles into a long climb up the portion of the course called ‘Hogsback.’ It seemed oppressive and I gradually ground to a halt. My inner being felt rudderless and listless. As continued running became literally impossible, I began almost absent-mindedly trimming some branches that were overhanging the trail. Gradually I felt myself becoming motionless, almost like a dead man. In fact, I felt like I was dying in a way, empty inside. In an instant, a renewed shift occurred, much like the original one years before but this time inclusive of my whole body such that inner knots were released and I spontaneously began to run back to Mill Valley which I reached in record time, seemingly effortlessly and in a sense of wonder. The thought came to me of a quotation from Talks with Ramana, “finally, one becomes helpless, in spite of the sadhanas; the Self reveals itself.” This revelation or recognition lasted for the better part of the day, then became more ordinary and less energetic once again.

   Over the next month or so, on numerous occasions I felt both a numinous ‘knowingness’ in the mind or consciousness, as well as the core of the heart begin to expand to the point of lovingly embracing or engulfing me, tears of joy would come to my face with a smile I couldn’t wipe off; this was experienced not just as something that was miraculously happening to me, but more directly as myself. This went on whether walking into the bank, sitting at the dinner table, or just sitting in my car. I could neither do anything to bring it on nor could I stop it from happening. Indeed, one of its primary characteristics, and why I classify it as ‘non-mystical,’ was because it felt like an awakening of and as myself. It was an intuitive recognition, not phenomenal or objective in any significant way. And it was not new, only a deeper feeling of what I had always known to be the case. I felt like I was coming home, and was home, at the same time.

   On another occasion, I felt a different aspect of this process. Upon reaching the top of Mt. Tamalpais after a base to summit run, I became overwhelmed with the fear of death, felt myself sinking into what I felt was the void, and I hid myself behind the lookout tower from the people gathered there. The fear eventually passed, it seems I was not ready to let go into it. Other times, more commonly, I would simply be realigned with the original simplicity of the sense of being nothing, but, as before, in an ordinary way and with no better means of describing it. I felt like I was finally getting ‘out of the woods’ this time, and that something great was dawning in my being. But, as I said, this was only half of what was starting to happen - the brighter half. These experiences eventually faded, like all experences do. For while it had been real, in that I intuited it as Me, not just an experience, in truth at a subtle level I still really did experience it as something still happening to me. Other times on the mountain, feeling down, I would start to cry, calling out to her, “you are my real home now,” as she was a truly holy place. Swami Vivekananda had hiked there in the 1890’s, Chogyam Trungpa had called Mt. Tam ‘the most spiritual place in earth,’ and many saints and sages, native American holy men, and ordinary buddhas had walked her slopes for centuries.

   What was to follow, in my present understanding, was meant to help to undermine this illusion of a distance between myself and its experiences, and draw my sense of self into a more fundamental basis in reality. Perhaps these experiences were preparatory for the descent into darkness in the psychological dimension that was to follow and take center stage for several more years. For, while these experiences weren’t mystical, like experiences I had pursued as a youth, I still clung to them as an alternative to the realities of my daily life. Now I will talk of what went on in ‘therapy.’ I put therapy in quotes because this process became rather unconventional, yet, in retrospect, was just what I needed. Like everything else, however, I truly don’t understand anything of what happened - or ‘didn’t happen’ - or is happening or ‘not happening’ now.

   My therapist was wise, not speaking much unless invited to, but just accepted my self and all of its story, both spoken and unspoken. My projections onto her were near-perfect. She embodied my inner Goddess, almost becoming a Quan Yin for me, at least for a time. I knew it, and that was the existentially painful part. I told her so, and she was fine with that. There were no formal rules between us, except those of the natural integrity of the heart. One result was that I began to cry my heart out, for a few years, something I had never been able to do before, having been just too blocked. Here the tears were from inner emotional pain and wounding, but also from a deepened yearning of the soul. I would leave her office, and late at night would feel an immense, cosmic loneliness that overwhelmed any personal attraction I may have naturally felt for her. Yet there was more, a subtle, but visceral alchemical process that was quite personal. It was quite unexpected, uncomfortable, but worth revealing as I have gone so far already and have much more to tell. At first, my feelings related to having no home anywhere, of wanting to be home, to go home, both the home of my parents and childhood, to see my earliest, most innocent and precious friends, and also return to an imagined pre-natal home somewhere in heaven. I also found myself longing to be with this lady, in whom I only saw the divine and not the human; I knew it was not reality and nothing could or would ever happen, but my subconscious did not know. In some sense, I was in over my head, which was a good thing. In fact, it was perfect at the time. Part of this was no doubt due to the spiritual ambience of the therapy room. Tibetan thankas and other wall hangings and statues decorated the room, what I called the 'sanctuary,' and helped me to relax from the burdens of the inner and outside world. These art objects, however, included one thanka prominently situated that portrayed a very obvious classic tantric pose. That in itself created extra heat to the situation, and began to do a number on my subconscious anima projection. While I initially had superficial romantic feelings for her, however, they were never of a sexual nature. In my mind, besides the fact that I was loyal to my wife, and loved her, and had also gradually become relatively free at last of the lust I had in my early teenage and young adult years, a sexual relationship just didn't feel right. The images just literally wouldn't form in the mind, despite its mechanical attempts to do so. Plus, I didn’t want another wife; what I was unconsciously looking for was rather a ‘mid-wife.’

   Yet in the therapeutic setting (not talk therapy, but open ended feeling sessions that lasted up to two hours, sometimes with only a few words spoken, and sometimes with direct but unplanned silent gazing), after a comfortable friendship and trust had been established over about a year or two, subliminal images began arising unasked for and unexpectedly from my depths, that literally made my skin crawl. It is difficult to describe - no, not difficult, but more like embarrassing. I hope the reader may grant me some compassion for the honesty of my disclosure. All of this happened quite spontaneously and was unmotivated. Feeling as if my own life force was waning, I became overtaken by urges that I at first tried to repress, but then simply allowed to co-exist with my allowable sense of reality. What I am trying to say was that I felt myself wanting to drink up life, in particular, projected as her life, her very life juices. I craved to suck up and drink life, in particular as represented by her vaginal 'juice'. I felt an almost irresistable pull in that direction. My super-ego wanted to pull back, but deep in my soul I was propelled to surrender to the (entirely subjective) experience, as if some part of me wanted to reclaim myself. This was not something I had any previous inclination or particular desire for, and I truly felt I was perhaps going crazy. But this urge or need began to develop much further. I had no 'distance' from my experiencing. Any yogic or 'philosophic' means to do so had vanished long ago. This new reality was entirely subliminal and intensely visceral. In my inner being I found myself wanting to suck, drink, soak in 'life-juice', and to crawl into her vagina and up through her cervix into her womb, where I saw myself as finally contented, at peace, and at home! I tried to reject any regressive, Freudian or uroboric interpretations of any kind, but it was difficult not to 'feel dirty.' But, I intuitively rejected that, knowing I had not done anything wrong, nor would I. It was simply happening. This I confessed to an elderly astrologer friend of mine whose only response was, 'that's beautiful.'

   On an inner, subconscious level, my soul knew what this was about. Of course I confessed everything to this mysterious lady who simply accepted my reality with no judgement. My heart was actually dying to tell her what I was feeling, and I did, totally. It was a mother thing, perhaps a divine mother thing. I also felt like I wanted her to 'birth' me, and then grow up together just loving each other, which I also told her. This was all unfolding in my mind over the course of about a week. Eventually, the power of the projection began to fade and she assumed human proportions. But not before a strange thing occurred to me one night. I awoke in the early morning hours in a state of emotional aggitation and also with a big erection! This was actually most unusual as I had pretty much lost all lingering interest in sex for the sake of release during my years of running as well as generally as I grew older. However, there were no sexual feelings with this. At that moment I was in psychophysical turmoil, wanting out of my skin. Instead of enacting a tendency, refined over the years, of trying to ignore the situation and just go back to sleep, I spontaneously and without any sexual intent simply placed my hand on my penis. In that instant, still half asleep between dreams and waking, the effect was amazing and immediate. It felt like someone had sunk a huge hypodermic needle of heroin into my heart. My helpless pain and anxiety immediately drained away and I slept like a baby for the rest of the might. I believe this was a subtle form of alchemy that 'connected' my heart with my genitals and did away with the last vestiges of animal propensity in that area. Anyway, it felt like it was over.

   I remembered Ramakrishna responding to one of his young monks who had asked him to take away lust from his heart, and the sage said, "if I did so your life would feel insipid." Paramahansa Yogananda said a similar thing, telling a disciple that "if he suddenly found himself without desire that he would feel like he had lost his best friend." Yet in my case it seemed like a natural process, for which I was essentially happy to be free from. It had been a burden for too long, perhaps too many lifetimes.

   I saw adds on the TV for Viagra, full of diabolical and subtle programming geared to get old men to grasp at lost youth and waste their remaining life powers, warning them to call their doctors for "erections lasting for more than four hours," and seeing them react automatically saying, "FOUR hours, give me some of that stuff!" It made me laugh and yet feel sad at the same time, sad for the depths our culture had fallen to.

   I had been in the habit of journalling my thought and feelings as they arose as grist for the mill of our therapy sessions, and on two occasions after taking ambien I fell asleep at the computer late at night and forgot to shut it down. As fate would have it, my wife came upon my writings, full of all the grisliest details, including the feeling I had at times that the only place I felt 'at home' and at peace for even a little while was in the therapist's office, and when I came home that day she cried like a baby and said, "you are supposed to love ME!!" I tried my best to convince her not to take it personally, that it was only my stuff coming up, that I still loved her, and that it wasn't left there for her to find and read, but it took a while for her to forgive and trust me. Somethings are just too hard to be honest about. Especially when it is the simple reality or unreality that one's spouse cannot realistically be all in all for ones needs, especially in the psycho-spiritual domain. It is a beautiful thing to have a 'soul-mate' that complements you 'perfectly' - so-called - but not necessarily optimal for working out ones karma. Some things must simply be lived through. My wife was perfect for me. The hidden hand of fate or destiny knows best, and one is blessed if he can see it working in his or her life. I have been blessed.

   Again, though, a point was inevitably reached where I found myself re-identifying with the psyche to a degree that left me feeling rudderless, especially when tears no longer kept me company, and I sensed that this round of therapy was coming to a close. I had more existential human issues to face. They said "the revolution will not be televised," just so, the "evolution will not be therapized." Once again, there were also enigmatic days when I found myself awakened, with no problems, and therapy pointless. So I stopped.

   But, Pluto will not let you get off so easy. Five years had gone by. I kept falling into the depths of fear, despair, and pain, despite my faith and continued awakened state, and bought into the advise of friends and therapists who suggested I try various drugs, namely anti-depressants, tranquilisers, and sleeping pills (as I had developed extreme insomnia as well). The drug-taking had started out slow and benign, first a little Valium and Ambien courtesy of my local dentist, but grew and grew to an insidious point, and before I knew it I was addicted. Things only got worse. My most distressing symptom was a psychosomatic breathing problem distinct from the hyperventilation episode that made me feel completely undermined at the core, a helpless, void-like sense of dissociation from both breath and body. I tried homeopathy, chiropractic, and nutrition, along with the increasing intake of drugs, none of which 'worked', except for the tranquilisers. I had by now stopped running, my greatest passion. My writing avocation, previously electrified by a transit of Uranus over my natal Mercury after being dormant for a decade, dried up as I confronted inner demons and a growing monkey on my back. This also was a big blow to my self-image as a natural healer (I'm a chiropractor by trade). I was falling apart and I knew it. I had my chart done by a few trustworthy astrologers and fellow travellers. Tim Smith of Wisdom's Goldenrod Center said that Pluto was always a friend to those who are on the path - even if it is at the cost of ones sanity! That was not exactly a consoling thought, but I knew it was accurate. I remembered my old college buddy Gary Borgida who turned schizophrenic while on the spiritual path, and a man who committed suicide while I was at Sawan ashram in 1973, and got scared. How could this be happening?, I would ask and ponder deeply.

   It took a few years, but finally I hit rock-bottom and, with serious doubts and trepidations, but basically humbled and submitted to guidance, however against the grain, I let myself be led by the hand by 'professionals' who had my 'best interest' at heart. After burning through three or four psychiatrists and every drug they could think of, I succumbed to accepting a week of (barbaric) ECT treatments (electro-convulsive therapy - totally surreal, I can still ’smell’ the hospital from time to time wafting through my brain) which were stopped as the doctor confessed that it was “turning me into a vegetative state.” So much for his confidence and moral support. Actually, on one level at the time I found that observation amusing, partly a result of my cryptic sense of humor and partly due to a still present confidence in the Real Dimension. The only effect from this extreme measure, however, was that I couldn’t remember much of anything for a month. In this day of passwords, PIN numbers, and access codes that was a real hassle.

   That fall I flew to Chicago to see the successor in the lineage of Kirpal Singh, Sant Rajinder Singh, to try and get some spiritual support, which I had done a few times previously. But it was, on the surface level at any rate (which is not the best way to judge such matters), a fruitless endeavor. There was to be no turning back. I returned home with his kind and consoling words, “you’re going to be O.K.” They helped, as I could feel they were coming from a deep soul, but I continued to go downhill, despite the help of spiritual friends, and contemplated suicide a couple of times. Because of a lack of attentiveness, perhaps due to the drugs, I had four fender-benders in one month, and my wife and step-son took away my car keys without my permission. For the next month I had to be driven to any appointments I had, and also had to walk a mile to and from my office, rain or shine, in order to keep seeing patients. Normally, that would have been a good excuse to get a little exercise, but I was in an almost constant state of exhaustion. Not being able to drive was a major inconvenience and also a big blow to my self-image as a man. After several aborted drive-bys (I had an emergency car key stored in a secret place letting me sneak out of the house) I worked up the 'courage' to enter a store and buy a gun - but thankfully never picked it up. Instead, before the ten-day mandatory waiting period was over I made the fortunate mistake of confiding my plans to a chiropractor friend, who called my psychiatrist (drug pusher) and the jig was up.

   Finally, under protest, I flew alone to an expensive holistic residential treatment center in the Arizona desert called Sierra Tucson for thirty days that put a $50,000 dent into my retirement fund to try and get straightened out. My wife and family basically had given me an ultimatum. I cried bitterly for hours while waiting alone at the airport and for most of the flight. Twice the flight attendants called me to the back of the plane and asked me if I was fit to fly, as this was the first of two stops. I eventually broke-down and popped a seroquel to calm myself. When I arrived at the intake office of Sierra Tucson I felt normal; however, the next morning I woke up in pain and yelling in agony. I basically was extremely uncomfortable in the body. Unfortunately, the facility’s ‘natural methods’ for detox included an initial aggressive approach to giving out medication, which reached huge proportions by anyone’s standards, but still was less and less effective. I can’t begin to tell you how much stuff I was taking just to try and get some sleep - I am sure it would kill me or a horse if that much were taken today. Yet then my condition was such that it barely made a dent. Whereas at home ten mg of seroquel would give me a day’s peace and a night’s rest, there even two hundred mg, with 15mg zyprexa, and 20mg klonopin wouldn’t knock me out! That mixed with a few over-the-counter relaxants made a hefty cocktail. For a time, in the morning they put me on 10mg of dexedrine to get myself going, at the same time I was taking serequel or klonopin three times a day to calm down! I was later told that, while essentially relying on natural methods they were aggressive on the drug regimen in the beginning because so many patients arrive in such a state that they are unable to work the program. Yet it wasn't really helping and I felt like I was heading toward the Valley of the Dolls and would end up like Judy Garland (bless her soul). I thought frequently of my Guru and felt ashamed, but also yearned to be again at his feet. My life passed in front of my eyes in a blur. "How did it come to this?," I would ask, before collapsing into tears. More than that, weird groans and desperate cries issued forth from my bodily depths like a tormented animal in pain.

   Shortly after arriving at Sierra Tucson, I was given zyprexa one night for sleep. Within an hour my heart rate went up to 170 and wouldn't come down through medication. The paramedics came and gave me an EKG en route to the ER, which confirmed Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome which had been diagnosed a few months before at home but which I hadn't thought was important. This time the doctor explained what it meant. Essentially, there is an extra electrical pathway from the sino-atrial node to the ventricles, and if the electrical impulses go down that way one can get tachycardia (rapid heart rate) and die. So, the next day I went down to Tucson Medical Center and had a procedure known as an oblation where they threaded a needle through my femoral artery up to the heart and cauterized the piece of tissue that was the cause of the problem. While waiting for my ride I was moaning and weeping in the lobby of my lodge, and the nurses said if I didn't calm down [i.e., shut up] they would send for an ambulance to transfer me downtown. Knowing that would set me back an extra grand as my insurance was only a catastrophic plan forced me to suppress the emotion. I felt my life was over. During the procedure there was no pain, I wasn't unconscious, and was back the same night. Yet a sense of my mortality was growing. Only a few years before I was running like the wind through the mountains in a second youth; now, I was getting a heart operation like an old man!

   Despite the drugs, powerful unconscious energies were upswelling, keeping me awake. The body-mind, I later concluded, with an inherently strong constitution was struggling against the mind’s attempts to numb it out. It wasn’t until the last week of my stay that I actually slept more than two hours a night (which can really make one raw), and I attribute that to a sleep apnea machine, purchased after another couple of nights in a hospital for a sleep study. One thing after the other kept the castle of my ego crumbling. I thought I had given up, that I had had enough, but I guess I hadn't, not quite yet. Anthony Damiani was once asked, “Can you surrender without knowing it?” He replied, “Don’t worry, it will be the most agonising thing you’ve ever gone through.” Anthony was right.

   Throughout my stay my blood pressure also became a cardiologist's nightmare. Whether it was because of the extremes of internal vigilence due to the eruption of unconscious content, or both that and the wide variety and quantity of pharmaceuticals injested, on any one day (or morning or afternoon) it would range from 160/105 to 120/80 (normal). My pulse rate (which, as a runner, had stabilised at about 50, but as a non-runner was 70-75), would swing from 50 one morning, to 105 the next, and even vary that much in the same day, even without my conscious awareness of it. So they put me on high blood pressure medication, which didn't eradicate the wild swings, but brought it down maybe ten per cent. Later I learned that that's about what you can expect from each BP med. Which is why they often keep increasing the dosage, or prescribe multiple medications. I had been a near-vegetarian for forty years, I thought, this shouldn't have been happening! It was humiliating, heck, my mother was on blood pressure medication - I wasn't that old! or was I?

   In restrospect, I conclude that the extremes of heart rate and blood pressure were due to the same causes as the insomnia: my body's inherent resiliency and attempts at restoring the system to normalcy. I later read:

   "The heartbeat in young, healthy people is highly irregular. But heart beating patterns tend to become very regular and predictable as people get older or as their hearts become diseased. The greater the HRV [heart rate variability], the more complex the heart's beating patterns are and the healthier the heart is." (2)

   During my stay I had frequent melt-downs and had to have the evening-weekends counsellors come to my room on numerous occasions to talk me out of a deep hole. I would hit my head against the wall because of the pain I was in. An expensive water bottle given to me at the start of my stay had to be replaced a few times at my own expense because I would inevitably break them out of frustration against the wooden beams of the lodge. Many nights I would go out alone to the far reaches of an open field encircled by a walking track and yell into the high desert, begging to God, Master, Jesus, Mom and Dad, the universe, for help, I felt so alone. The kind of alone that people can't help you with.

   The daily routine at Sierra Tucson consisted of light exercise (optional), a two-hour group therapy session, CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) and DBT (dialectical behavioral therapy), psycho-drama, outdoor activites, weekly one-on-one therapy sessions, free time in the pool or weight-room, twelve-step groups (optional, but heavily weighted for those who were there for alcoholism, child abuse, and eating disorders, and the twelve-step culture permeated the entire environment), meditation (optional), a host of modalities such as somatic experiencing, somatic release, massage, accupuncture, EMDR (elective), and 'homework', consisting of, for the mood disorder group I was in, writing three grief letters, constructing a life 'timeline', and filling out a large packet of introspective questions including a daunting fifteen page one called 'is my life manageable?' Most put these assignments off until the last minute as they seemed quite overwhelming when first received. On the last day of my stay I finally read my “is my life manageable?” essay to the group and, according to the therapist, was the first one ever to receive a standing ovation. It was gritty, street-talking, heart-bareing, and also reflective of a re-awakening to what I call my 'basic self,' or which some refer to as 'sound mind,' which is essentially when the inner becomes as the outer. It was the return of a recognition in consciousness that my ‘case’ was basically unreal. Or, one might say, when there is no more hope, one stops trying - trying to get better, to be somebody with a problem. I am not saying it happened in a snap, for I had really gone far down the road to ruin. But there was light at the end of the tunnel. As Shakespeare wrote, "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven." Yet, that had a part in it, too.

   During week three of one's stay they had what was called 'family week'. This was to be a turn-around for me. Although I was fearful anticipating it, my wife and two grown stepsons flew out for four highly structured days of activities. On day one we didn't see each other, as they had their own classes and groups, getting familiar with the therapeutic model and language of the place. Day two was the big one, affectionately called 'levelling.' Here, in group, the patient sits in a chair opposite each family member who, in turn, eye to eye, gets to read some prepared observations and comments about things that had bothered them about you. I was deeply moved when each of my stepsons, now in their early thirties, were in tears as they told me how devastated they would be if anything happened to me. My wife tried hard to hold it together but couldn't as she told me with emotion I had never seen in her before how much she had missed me the past five years and wanted me back. During this the patient was not allowed to give any feedback. On the second day, the roles were reversed. They were each in the 'hot seat' while I read my feelings about things they did or ways they behaved around me. This was much less intense than day two. At this point, my feelings seem petty compared to what they had revealed. I had little to say, other than that I was proud of them and that I loved them. Day three was a wrap-up, with some role-playing and boundary setting. After lunch, the four of us were sitting outside when finally it was time to go. My eldest step-son (a fire-chief captain) said good-bye and sweetly placed a kiss on the top of my head.

   All of these years, no matter how I tried to give my step children things I never had, like taking them on nice vacations, ski trips, golfing, mountain climbing, teaching them to drive and buying them cars, etc., I never could shake the feeling of being the 'bad step-dad', because, lacking the genetic tie and natural love connection, as kids do they were always pushing my buttons and it was hard not to react, and not always in a nice way. But to hear their confessions made me realise how much of an impact I had made on their lives, and I was affected deeply. I guess I wasn't so bad after all. I knew it before intellectually, but not emotionally. I had blamed myself for taking them away from their father, flying them across the country from Louisiana to California, even though I married my wife after she had gotten a divorce. However, after being in the natural beauty of the Golden State, they came to call their previous home 'Lousy-ana' !

   Looking back, it was a period of difficult, although ultimately rewarding, 'householder sadhana.'

   Eventually, through a loving environment, a good therapist, serious inner work, surrender, and, basically, the 'grace of God', I began, despite the drugs, to notice a growing certitude of my self (the deep 'me'), that slowly started coming out of a terminal nose-dive into the snake-pit. After returning home there were a few very difficult months, but my sense of ‘self’ as opposed to ego defenses came back and creativity amped up beyond what I never expected to see again. Saturn had moved on, Pluto sextiled my Mercury and the writing took a new and deeper direction. With each exercise in drafting a new article that comes magically from somewhere within and without, almost like automatic writing, I feel my frontal cortex regrowing after the indirect 'trepanning' from the ECT. And the soul gets affirmation, too. I am back at work, effective and efficient, and relative harmony reigns at home once again.

   Even so, with all this, as Papaji often said, “nothing ever happened.” (LOL). Reminds me of a famous story about Krishna explaining the power of illusion that goes like this:

   "The Sage Narada once asked Sri Krishna to describe maya. Sri Krishna said, 'Very well, but first you must go and bring me a little water to drink.' Narada went to a nearby village to get the water, and there he met a young woman to whom he was instantly attracted. They were married, had several children, and were very happy. Then came a terrible flood and all the houses were washed away. Narada was struggling in the water to hold on to his wife and children, but they were pulled away from his arms one after another. He was trying to stay afloat himself when he heard Sri Krishna's voice calling, 'Oh, Narada - where is my water?' Then Narada understood what maya is."

   According to the bhakti saints of India, maya is the creative aspect of God as the Divine Mother. According to the vedantins, it is the power of illusion. But, as essentially an aspect of Brahman, the illusion of maya is an illusion itself! Nevertheless, we should never get too egotistical about maya, thinking, 'maya has no power over me', lest we forget God. One stupid mistake - even though there are no mistakes - gotta say that to remain politically correct - can lead one down an endless labyrinthine chain of confounding karmic events. Great beings have fallen due to the bewitching wiles of maya. Technically, I had not forgotten God or my Master, never doubted it really, but perhaps I was relying too much on myself, which was essentially the same thing.

   An image of the disappearance of the sense of ‘dilemma’ comes to mind from the movie “City of Joy” with Patrick Swazy, where he plays a doctor in the slums of Calcutta who befriends a man harrassed by Indian mobsters. The final scene has the camera raising up from the action on the street, the city lights gradually receding to but a point on the planet, as if the whole drama was insignificant and ‘never happened.’ That’s how this whole saga seems to me.

   So that’s my story on the limits of 'awareness' in keeping one free from descending into pain and despair!

   It is also a story of the power of grace to hold one in its arms while tempering one like a sword thrust again and again into the fire only be made stronger in the end. For the thin human reed can only take so much strain before it breaks. “There but for the grace of God go I.” Those words mean more to me now. People I know still do not yet have total faith in my process, but I sense, hope, and have faith that it is real and enduring. After all, it's been going on my whole life and is not separate from me anyway. Yet there is a deeper trust that wasn’t there before. What did Anthony enjoy quoting from Taoist sage Wang Yang-Ming? “One will die a hundred deaths and undergo a hundred sufferings.” That's what my enlightened friend told me about Kirpal Singh when I was in India, that "he had died many times." Baba Sawan Singh used to say,

   ”When a true saint takes one under his wing he is anxious to compress twenty lifetimes into one, and if we expect to compress twenty lives into one, we must pay for it.”

   Without knowing it, I had basically asked for both barrels back in 1973 when I had surrendered in a heap at the feet of the Master, without exactly knowing that I was doing it, or what I had in fact 'volunteered' for. But grace takes you at your word. It knows better than you do whether or not you really mean it. I consider the whole sequence of events karmic purification, for lack of a better explanation. The beauty of it is that I have never known exactly what is going on. If I did it would no doubt have spoiled it. It has actually been a bargain, however.

   In another sense, what I realised was that the meaning of what had 'happened', outside of time, in 1973 was, as Jesus expressed on the cross, 'it is finished.' That is, I could finally rest in the assurance that all is well and that I am complete, perfect, and 'finished' always and already, no matter what may appear to suggest otherwise. This takes a leap of faith and does not imply there is not more to endure or that this is somehow 'the end.' The 'finish' and the 'end' are not the same.

   Since getting back from Arizona in March of 2011 (this written several months afterwards), I have engaged in a strengthened natural regime. I am almost off all drugs. My psychiatrist in an interrum day-treatment program back home, when I asked him, "how long will I have to take the zoloft?", replied, "well, at your age one can expect to take it for the rest of your life." Mentally I said, "you're crazy! That's no way to live!" I began a taper and noticed no difference whatsoever. No running yet - that life seems over - but lots of immune, brain, mood, and cardiovascular boosting nutriceuticals, including flax oil, fish oil, 5000 I.U. Vitamin D3, Resveratrol, 5-HTP, PS (phosphatidylserine), L-Tyrosine, vitamin E (especially gamma-todopherol, the primary brain cell anti-oxidant), Chlorella, Spirulina, Wheat Grass, Rainbow Light multi-vitamin-minerals, Red Rice Yeast, CoQ10, 200SX Nat. Mur. homeopathic, and Vitamin C 2000 mg. The fish oils and 5-HTP are also as effective long term as any anti-depressant, and without side effects. For the vegetarians out there, you can take flax oil, supplemented with a vegetarian source of DHA made from algae. I was pretty conscious of all of this before, but it still couldn't stop the 'primal tide' from occuring. [By the way, anyone out there on statin drugs for cholesterol, keep in mind you can get the same results with fish oil, red rice yeast, and CoQ10 - they even come in one pill from Nordic Naturals. If you are on statins, moreover, if your doctor hasn't told you you need to take CoQ10, he is guilty of malpractice, in my opinion; statins destroy CoQ10, which can lead to heart damage and is an essential nutrient for all cellular metabolism. And then there are the unpredictable side effects: rhabdomyalisis (muscle breakdown and weakness), jaw necrosis (bone death), tumors, and a whole host of things that Mandy Patinkin descending a spiral staircase glowingly warns you about on TV!]

   To harmonize the etheric and subtle bodies I had acupuncture treatments three times a week for a month, then two, now one, from a nationally recognised master of the art. I was never very sensitive to the needles before, but something had changed inside and I can now really feel the flow of the meridians. At my first visit I had him check my blood pressure, which was an astonishing 105/50! I quit the BP medication, and things stayed the same. So, what do they know? When I left Sierra Tucson they had wanted to up my dosage. Now BP is stable at 117/75. By the way, my accupuncturist has been at it forty years, worked on Chogyam Trungpa and knew the Karmapa, and we share a lot of stories. I get regular chiropractic, too - after all, for me it's free due to professional courtesy! I walk, stretch, jog a little, and, while I am still serious (Capricorn rising, Saturn in Virgo exactly trine the Ascendant and opposite Mercury), I cut myself some slack as well (Sun, Mercury, Mars, and Venus in Pisces - I'm basically an easy guy).

   Swami Ranganathananda, translator of the Vivekachudamani of Sankara, says that the brain is the seat of buddhi, discriminative intelligence, in the body, and he theorized that the frontal and prefrontal cortex was an evolutionary development to allow fuller expression of that critical faculty in human development. So it seems reasonable that it would pay to keep it in shape. Anthony once said, "why do you think they went to all that trouble to give you all of those brains if they weren't meant to be used? They'll be enough, believe me, if you use them." All levels need attention, we are living beings, after all. To say that it is all 'consciousness' may or may not be philosophically correct, but it isn't always too practical. Anyway, thanks for listening. I hope this story is useful for someone. As the reader will see below, not all advaitists disbelieve in the telling of 'stories'. It can be good for you. They aren't happening to 'no-one,' they happen to you. You may not know who 'you' are, but that's who they happen to!!

   Big breath......aahhhh......Okay....

(1) Ram Alexander, Death Must Die: A Western Woman’s Life-long Spiritual Quest in India with Shree Anandamayee Ma (Varanasi, India: Indica Books, 2006 (2002), p. 199, 424
(2) Stephen Harrod Buhner, The Secret Teachings of Plants: The Intelligence of the Heart in the Direct Perception of Nature (Rochester, Vermont: Bear & Company, 2004), p. 105