I’ve grown impatient with how long it’s been taking me to heal from my open-heart surgery. In the first two months after I came home, when people asked how I was doing, my answer was, “Amazing.” And that’s genuinely how I felt. Amazing. No more pain pills. No more pain. I could make my own breakfast, do everything I always have done. Just not as much. And not as quickly. 

But now four months out when people ask how I’m doing, I answer, “I’m fragile.” I’m not used to being fragile. I’m tired. I’m frustrated that I haven’t been able to do that much. Shouldn’t I be able to be back to “normal” by now? 

I wanted to do a mushroom trip for part of my healing, but my doctor says it’s too dangerous after such serious surgery. Plus, I have the added issue of atrial fibrillation. Apparently one can experience heart palpitations during the seven-hour psychedelic journey. 

My interest in psychedelics began in the early Seventies, when my teacher, Ram Dass, shared his spiritual odyssey in his landmark book “Be Here Now.” But as interested as I was, I was also terrified that I would never come back from such an intense experience. 

 However, everyone was experimenting, and they seemed to survive, so when I turned 32, I finally smoked my first joint. But I did it with great care and caution. 

In the past four decades, things have drastically evolved: Medical marijuana is legal in many states. Recreational drugs are legal in many states. Plus the stigma is not what it was. Plus I threw caution to the wind.

So with Michael Pollan’s most recent book, “How to Change Your Mind” (a scientific exploration of the therapeutic potential of psychedelic drugs), my desire to investigate deeper levels of consciousness has reawakened.

A few of my close friends who have done mushroom trips keep raving about their experiences. They all say similar things. They say they now understand that everything is connected, that we are all one. They were able to go back in time and see their young selves. They watched, literally watched, as their egos melted away.

So here I am, finally not afraid to try something so radical, and because of my new medical conditions, I am barred.

I’m obviously not going to go against the advice of my good doctors. 

So the other night (and without the help of any alternative substances), I pretended I had taken the mushrooms. I lit a votive candle and put on music at 396 hertz (which I heard was the right frequency for best results while meditating). My imagination must be operating on all eight cylinders (if you think I know how many cylinders there are, you give me more credit than I deserve). I actually, in my head, was able to travel back in time. 

Don’t ask me how in the world this happened, but maybe it was because I had been listening to Alan Watts, the British writer and self-styled philosophical visionary. 

The night I reconnected with my younger self, I had googled an old tape of his on YouTube. And what he said made powerful sense to me: Most people are asleep, living the conventional dream, the collective trance, the agreed-upon fiction. When you are wronged, you fight back. But waking up, you realize that every time you act from compassion for yourself and for others, you let go of negativity and become more of your authentic self, with no axe to grind, just love to give.

And what is that fiction? That human beings are accidental flukes, that human nature is fundamentally flawed and untrustworthy.

Maybe because I had just heard an extra dollop of woowoo, I was somehow able to reach back to Little Nancy. (Yes, I was little once.) And what happened is still blowing my mind. 

I suddenly had a vivid memory of being about 5 on a seesaw. I was at the top, and the little friend I was with got off and walked away. I plummeted to the ground and lost my breath. I knew I was dying. My mother was nearby with my sister, but because I had no voice, no sound came out. I must not have cried, and I must not have ever told her. 

That memory triggered another. I was 7. My older cousin Nate lifted me up in the air by my ears, with all the relatives laughing and cheering him on as he yelled, “Bullet head!” I don’t know which was worse, the physical pain or the humiliation, but I remember laughing too. What a good kid to play along. 

 Where do traumas go when they are not acknowledged? 

I continued my mushroom-without-mushrooms trip, and had three more flashbacks that were equally powerful.

 Over the years in the writing workshop, when people have written their early nightmares, their secrets, their broken-heart stories, I have called these childhood calamities tiny murders, slices on the trusting hearts of little people, chipping away at their innocence. But I hadn’t ever gotten this closely in touch with some of my own. Until the other night.

I feel as if this column is different from my usual fare. It might be a bit closer to the edge, but I’m feeling closer to you all. Sharing bits of my life with you all feels safe. 

Maybe you will try a mushroom-without-mushrooms pilgrimage of your own.

If you do, I’d be honored if you’d share it.