It was 1970, and I was sitting in the office of Dr. Kurland, the medical director at the Maryland Psychiatric Hospital, the epicenter of leading-edge psychedelic research. I was twenty-four years old, armed with only a bachelor’s degree in psychology and my own psychedelic experiences. My years at the Esalen Institute (www.esalen.org) as a residential fellow and staff member had given me the connection to Stanislav Grof, who arranged the job interview. Dr. Kurland was very kind to see me. Although he had no intention of hiring me, he did give me some fatherly advice: “Go to graduate school.”

      I eventually followed his advice, but by then the federal government had passed the Controlled Substances Act, which essentially outlawed research into the therapeutic benefits of psychedelic drugs, including marijuana. These substances were deemed to be both dangerous and without medical benefit despite hundreds of research articles that explored how psychedelics could facilitate the therapeutic progress of psychiatric patients, alcoholics, and terminal cancer patients. The US government under President Nixon, in a reaction to the cultural revolution of the sixties, declared a “war on drugs” that was not consistent with the available research findings. This decision stopped all further scientific exploration.

      I gave up my dream of doing psychedelic research. I completed my PhD and pursued a more conventional research career, receiving a prestigious New Investigator Award from the National Institutes of Health. But in 1982 when the NIH called to ask for my next grant application, I had to tell them, “I’m pregnant, and I’m going to stay home with the baby.” The conversation ended immediately. I left my research career a few weeks before my daughter was born and changed the course of my professional life from research to private practice.

      I saw clients for thirty-five years, specializing in well-educated, high-functioning people who wanted to clear up unresolved issues from childhood or to work on personal relationships. These people were essentially the same kind of people who went to Esalen workshops. They had some sense of a spiritual path or interest in their psychospiritual development. I also led workshops at both Esalen and the Omega Institute, and as a result, I had the opportunity to see how people integrated psychological insights from intensive workshop experiences into weekly psychotherapy and then how they translated their learnings into daily life.

      Although I loved doing psychotherapy and leading workshops, I continued to mourn the loss of my research career. That is, until I heard the voice of Grandmother Ayahuasca: Do the research, she told me.

      But I get ahead of myself. How I found ayahuasca, or how the spirit of ayahuasca found me, I will never fully understand. I hadn’t been searching for the medicine; I’d never even heard of it. It was February 2005, and I was living in New Jersey, innocently searching for a tropical beach vacation, which is certainly a very sane endeavor. A friend told me of a retreat center nestled between the rain forest and the Pacific Ocean on the remote coast of Costa Rica. I registered immediately for a retreat with only a glance at the lectures and program offered for that week.

      Needless to say, I was surprised when the woman organizing the travel arrangements called to ask me about my intentions. I didn’t know what she was talking about. She explained that the retreat included two ayahuasca ceremonies. I told her I’d get back to her with my intentions, and I immediately turned to a book about ayahuasca that I’d bought years ago but never read: Ayahuasca: Human Consciousness and the Spirits of Nature, edited by Ralph Metzner. I’d had spiritual experiences with psychedelics when I was in my twenties, and now that my daughter was grown, I felt free to renew my interest, especially with an opportunity like this falling directly into my lap.

      I knew immediately what my intentions would be. Six years before, when my father was dying, I brought him to my home with hospice care. The sound of his death rattle filled the house, shaking me to my bones. The slow rhythm of his breathing echoed inside me, hollowing me out as I wondered which breath would be his last.

      During one of those moments, as I was waiting for his next inhalation, the universe exploded inside me. I felt the space within me expand outward in all directions at once. I saw sparks of multicolored lights in the shape of a tunnel through space, dark space all the way out to the ends of the universe.

      All of a sudden, I was rushing through this tunnel, pulled from my body, and launched into space. I quickly realized that I was out of my body, traveling fast. I was scared. With a jolt, I brought myself back down into my heart-pounding body and looked around the room through new eyes, as if seeing for the first time. I could almost feel myself in my brain, behind my eyes, where the seeing actually occurs.

      I calmed down with slow breaths, but I had no idea what had just happened. My brain kicked in and scanned for similar experiences. Years ago, during an earthquake in San Francisco, the walls of the hotel ballroom had buckled and waved like ribbons in the wind, but this wasn’t an earthquake. Nor was it a psychedelic experience. I wasn’t on anything. Shaky and pale, I found my way to a chair, as if sitting down would increase my connection to the earth.

      After my dad’s death, I tried to figure out what this experience was all about, wondering what had happened to me. I described the experience again and again to my wide network of spiritual friends — Buddhists, psychologists, teachers of Transcendental Meditation, shamanic practitioners, spiritual directors, Jungians. No one had a clue.

      Finally, I talked to Carol Hegedus, a friend who had worked for the Fetzer Institute and brought Bill Moyers’s Healing and the Mind program to television. She’d been studying Rudolf Steiner and intuitively knew what had happened to me. “You went with your dad as he was leaving this world,” Carol explained in a simple, matter-of-fact way. “You went partway with him.” Something inside me became quiet and still. No wonder I had been so frightened — I was afraid that if I didn’t come back to my body, I would die along with my father. This explanation made sense to me, reaching deep into my bones with a knowing certainty.

      My dad had been in a coma, in the final stage of dying.