• • •
FRITZ TOLD ME what to expect if I were to work with him. It would mean
returning here for three days, sleeping in the eight-sided yurt, where we
would also do “the work.” The first afternoon would be a warm-up or get-
acquainted session, using either MDMA or breathwork. (I explained why
in my case it would have to be breathwork.) This would give him a chance
to observe how I handled an altered state of consciousness before sending
me on an LSD journey the morning of the second day; it would also help
him determine a suitable dose.
I asked him how he could be sure of the purity and quality of the
medicines he uses, since they come from chemists working illicitly.
Whenever he receives a new shipment, he explained, “I first test it for
purity, and then I take a heroic dose to see how it feels before I give it to
anyone.” Not exactly FDA approval, I thought to myself, but better than
nothing.
Fritz doesn’t take any medicine himself while he’s working but often
gets “a contact high” from his clients. During the session he takes notes,
selects the music, and checks in every twenty minutes or so. “I’ll ask you
not how you are but where you are.
“I’m here just for you, to hold the space, so you don’t have to worry
about anything or anyone else. Not the wife, not the child. So you can
really let go—and go.” This, I realized, was another reason I was eager to
work with a guide. When Judith and I had our magic mushroom day the
previous summer, the simmer of worry about her welfare kept intruding
on my journey, forcing me to stay close to the surface. Much as I hated
the psychobabble-y locution, I loved the idea of someone “holding space”
for me.
“That night I’ll ask you to make some notes before you go to sleep. On
your last morning, we’ll compare notes and try to integrate and make
sense of your experience. Then I’ll cook you a big breakfast to get you
ready to face the interstate!”
We scheduled a time for me to come back.