Nope.
What they talked about, in great detail, was the history of communism, class struggle, and the kibbutz movement. They never got around to Abraham Lincoln.
When I was little, I used to wish my father could be more like Shimon.
Shimon is an old friend of my parents. He lives in Israel—where I was born. He and his wife have two daughters, on whom he dotes. Even before my conscious memory of him begins, there are stories in my family of the particular affection Shimon showed for me, and of how eagerly I looked forward to seeing him. Shimon is expressive, warm, even effusive. I could always feel, from the time I was a little girl, how much he enjoyed my company. The last time I saw him, a couple of years ago, he remembered having visited our apartment in Jerusalem when I was a toddler. He said that I brought a little chair into the living room, sat down in front of him, and regaled him with my firm opinions on all manner of subjects. He no longer recalled what I had said, but he did remember how much he’d enjoyed listening to me. I have no memory of that particular moment, of course, but I have the clearest sense memory of Shimon’s dry kiss on my cheek, of the warmth of his big hand, missing the tip of one finger, enfolding my little one. We moved from Israel back to Montreal before my third birthday, and after that I saw Shimon only rarely, but whenever I did, I would feel a rush of excitement, as if something that had gone missing a long time ago was about to be returned to me.
In my mind Shimon was always old, though he can’t have been more than forty-two or -three the first time I sat on his lap. On that last visit, in 2014, he was ancient, but his eyes still sparkled with pleasure when I walked in his front door. He cracked walnuts for me with his trembling yet still-strong hand, placing the nut meat in my palm just like he did when I was seven years old. I am a middle-aged woman, and I had not seen Shimon for more than twenty years. As I sat there eating the nuts he cracked for me, I felt beloved.
How many other Shimons have there been over the years, older men whose company and attention I have eagerly sought, who listened when I set my (little) chair down in front of them? My high school English teacher Mr. Bennett. Derrick Bell, my constitutional law professor. John Cillag, a Hungarian gentleman with whom I struck up a conversation in a Budapest museum while researching my novel Love and Treasure; afterward, we corresponded by e-mail, met for coffee, and he was kind enough to read drafts of the book and offer helpful suggestions. A wise and gentle educator named Tom Little, head of Park Day School in Oakland for thirty-eight years before his untimely death in 2014.
And Dr. James Fadiman.
After he sent me the memo outlining his protocol, I asked Dr. Fadiman if he’d be willing to talk to me, not really expecting him to agree. I figured he was inundated with e-mails from people like me, people seeking a solution to some problem or a resolution of some pain. But he sent me his telephone number, and one evening, after I’d settled the kids for the night, I called him.
Fadiman’s voice is deep and avuncular, and when he is smiling you can hear it. We ended up talking for a long time, and not just about the intricacies of microdosing. We talked about my moods and the troubles in my marriage. There was something in Fadiman’s voice and manner that made me feel I could confide in him, ask him for advice, seek and possibly earn his approval.
A couple of weeks later, at Fadiman’s invitation, I drove down to Palo Alto to attend a lecture he gave on the topic of psychedelic research and mental health. After the talk, I went up to the stage to say hello. I was a little tentative, not wanting to intrude or impose. I didn’t know if he would be as eager to meet me as I was to meet him.
Fadiman is a youthful seventy-six, hair still mostly brown, with sleepy eyes and a trim brown beard, only lightly threaded with silver. The moment I told him my name, his face lit up with the smile I had heard over the phone, and he gave me a warm, fatherly hug.
During that long first phone call of ours, in the course of which I had confided more to Fadiman than I’ve confided to my father in my whole life, he asked me why I thought I was drawn to microdosing, what I thought I was looking for. My answer at the time was “the ability to manage my moods and enjoy my life,” but now it seems to me that maybe a more accurate answer might have been: “This.”
If so, then it’s probably the sad truth that nothing, not even Dr. Hofmann’s magical “problem child,” can give me what I’m looking for. I’ll never have the father I’ve hoped for, wished for, needed all my life. But today, for whatever reason—thanks maybe to Albert Hofmann, or Jim Fadiman—when I called my father and settled in for the usual lecture, I didn’t get impatient. I didn’t get annoyed. I hung in there through the intricacies of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact (or maybe it was the Great Purge), thinking, Look, this is the father you got, and he’s the only father you have. Might as well let the man talk.
Day 7
Microdose Day
Physical Sensations: Activated.
Mood: Giddy.
Conflict: None.
Sleep: Slept well.
Work: Amazing.
Pain: Didn’t notice any.
I’m feeling good today, perhaps a little too good. I am happy and cheerful, but my words are tumbling out faster than I can control. This feels a little like hypomania, that energetic state of mind that can be productive and pleasurable, but can also lead to risky, impulsive behavior. Though I’m not experiencing any delightful yet troubling euphoria, I am certainly disinhibited. This afternoon, I found myself telling the physical therapist who was working on my shoulder all about my experiment. I have, since I began taking the microdose, been so circumspect, confiding in only one or two very close friends. Yet here I was, gushing to a virtual stranger about microdosing and how it was making me so productive and happy. Ironically, one of the things about which I waxed poetic was how much less impulsive I’ve been. I have been feeling a certain unfamiliar control, I told her. I’m still getting triggered by the kids, the dog, the husband, the Internet, but for the last couple of days I have felt as though there is a little room around these triggers, space for me to decide how to react, instead of just reacting. But of course there I was, lying on a table, supposed to be breathing deeply and silently, and instead babbling on like a psychedelic twit.
My work, however, went beautifully.