The second surprise came when Howard and I started to discuss the curious coincidence that both of us were in the profession of putting people to sleep. In commenting on various means of inducing altered states of consciousness he asked if I had ever smoked pot. I replied that I had occasionally done so, but that the only chemically induced "high" that had proven entirely satisfactory involved the use of an obscure drug called ketamine. To my amazement Howard was well acquainted with ketamine which was, he said, a common and quite reliable anesthetic agent sold under the brand names of Ketalar and Ketaject. For the most part it was used to anesthetize children and animals. He himself had not made much use of the substance at the Public Health Hospital, but it was a legitimate surgical aid. Normally it was administered in knock-out doses in conjunction with potent narcotics and under circumstances that precluded any in-depth study of its psychological effects. Consequently, he had never heard of it being used for consciousness-raising purposes and doubted that many other physicians had either.
Here again was the end of a golden thread that seemed to lead nowhere. Nevertheless, I resolved to remember all the flattering things this charming man had said. Even if his personal concern for my welfare was nothing more than a friendly ego-massage the thought that someone like this could care would help sustain me during the miles and hours ahead.
My return trip to Vancouver, which lies one hundred and fifty miles north of Seattle, turned out to be a curious affair bringing some unexpectedly high and low sets of circumstances. The lows came about for a tangled variety of personal reasons, including the inexplicable happenstance that I became the target for a vicious onslaught by certain unknown persons who were willing to stoop to any means to discredit our work. My TV program was canceled by an impersonator claiming to be me, and a vulnerable young female journalist who had interviewed me for the local newspaper was sufficiently intimidated to withdraw the story. Repeated phone calls to my coworkers in Ojai conveyed scandalous lies, while psychic attacks were launched which even strong-minded Mac was hard-pressed to repel. The climax came when a phone call to Barbara Devlin in Ojai informed her that I had been critically injured in a car crash. Shortly after, a follow-up call conveyed the sad news that I was now dead. The callers were insistent that the word be passed on to my family. Considering the fragile health of my parents the shock could have had horrendous consequences and I was grateful that Barbie did not accede to this demand. Nevertheless, the word of my death went out and I was unavailable to explain that, in the words of Mark Twain, the rumor was "greatly exaggerated."
"Why did they do it?" a friend later asked.
"I honestly don't have any idea. The only explanation I have been able to glean is that a certain woman who is a witch was jealous because she didn't get regressed."
"Now, Luv," he protested incredulously. "No one goes to all that trouble and expense just because of being passed over for a regression session."
As it turned out this skepticism was justified and the calls were eventually traced to a sick-minded ill-wisher in Ojai. However, it still amazes me that this kind of irrational opposition should have come from three different places simultaneously, even though I am aware that any step forward provokes resistances from so-called "dark forces." It was all part of the queerness of that low ebb in the tide of my personal progress. Looking back, I recall thinking, "I suppose this is what they call a dark night of the soul. But I haven't lost faith. And my course of action is perfectly clear."
At that juncture I had obtained my passport and sent for the papers that would have admitted me to India. The plan was that after my writing stint in Maine I would leave directly for the Far East where I would remain indefinitely meditating and pursuing the spiritual disciplines so long neglected in my hectic American life. I was tired of preaching the value of yogic disciplines and then not having time to practice them myself. Three substantial new books were ready for publication, Ananta Foundation would be in good shape with the money I had earned, my children were married and doing well, and my friends would be friends forever. The work would go on. For the nonce my karmic debts were paid and the Himalayas were beckoning.
The correspondingly high points of my repeat trip to Vancouver were provided by the succession of marvelously warm, talented, and enthusiastic people who came for hypersensing sessions at the Mystic Arts Bookstore. What really brought me through that period, however, was the boundless benevolence of Kareen and Peter Zebroff who, without knowing how tired I was, invited me to stay at their superbly beautiful home in the Canadian Rockies. There they showered me with such an abundance of loving kindess that I was physically and spiritually healed. As many of the readers of this book will know, Kareen is the shining star of a daily TV yoga program which for more than seven years has been beamed all the way across Canada, and is also a TV celebrity in Germany. In addition, she is the mother of three charming daughters, the author of five books, and a supremely gracious hostess.
Unfortunately, it was at the very time when I was most hard-pressed that the message was delivered to me at the Mystic Arts Bookstore that Dr. Alltounian had been trying to reach me from Seattle and would I return the call. The only number given was for the Seattle Public Health Hospital and I had scheduled my appointments so tightly from eight in the morning until ten at night that there truly wasn't time to get to a telephone. Besides, I thought, what is the use of leading this dear man on? I live a thousand miles away, am on the verge of leaving for India, and at this point have absolutely nothing to offer. (Somehow my thought about rescinding the vow of poverty had completely escaped my mind.)
Two days later after my second hypersensing session of the morning I was greeted by a sweet-faced lady who, I assumed, was the next client. As usual I inquired into her background and asked what problems or relationships she wished to explore. By now my routine was so set that it took a while to grasp that her name was Marwayne Leipzig and she was not scheduled to be regressed. Rather, she had driven up from Seattle to deliver two letters from Dr. Alltounian. I was stunned. "But Seattle is one hundred and fifty miles from here. You mean you came all this way just to deliver two letters!"
Recovering from the shock I felt like the proverbial penny looking for change. Now because of my idiot selfishness in not finding time to return those calls this lovely woman had driven almost three hundred miles for naught. Mentally I calculated the cost in gasoline and felt sick. Why did I let these things happen? Moreover, Marwayne was no ordinary housewife with nothing better to occupy her time. She was one of Seattle's most prestigious astrology teachers and, as I was later to realize, one of the busiest and most productive people imaginable. And she had known Howard, who had come to her as an astrology student, less than four months. What else could I do, then, except to promise to stop by and see the persistent Dr. Alltounian on my way back through Seattle and explain the situation in person. It might be pleasant to spend a few hours with him anyway, I thought. If he comes to know me better some of the glamor of being a public personality will rub off and he'll see that I'm not all that special.
Strangely enough, after I did spend the allotted few hours with Howard the impasse seemed less dense. After greeting me warmly he handed me an elegantly wrapped package and exclaimed, "Marcia, I know my destiny is either with you or through you." Opening the box I saw that he had presented me with a most beautiful and unusual pendant. "Wear it always," he said. "I think it has healing powers." I asked him to fasten the chain around my neck, and since then have seldom taken it off.