I was in Peter’s cabin in southern Oregon, in the summer of 1981,
Peter had finished Seminary in 1965, & having done a stint as a
Chaplain in the Navy, or maybe it was the Army, he declined to be ordained,
& went to work selling books for New Directions,
In 1967, he’d been hitting up book stores for
James Laughlin, & he stopped in
San Francisco—took LSD, & tried briefly
To become King of the hippies & realizing there
Were too many pretenders to the throne, he
Then retreated to southern Oregon, where
He bought a very small cabin in the woods & went on forays
For Amanita mushrooms every fall and spring on the Oregon coast,
He’d dry hundreds of them & step into an altered reality most every day, then
Run ten miles & in his mid-forties he looked like an athlete in his twenties,
Peter had an estranged wife in northern California & a young daughter
& was dating a nurse from the Psych ward in a Medford hospital,
When I met him, & the first time I was in his cabin, on a round oak
Dining table was a copy of Wasson’s, Soma: the Divine Mushroom of Immortality;
An ethno-mycological study—the cover a stark-white layout
With two bright red Amanita Muscaria mushrooms w/white spots,
You will see this entheogenic mushroom in illustrations
Of Grimm’s fairy tales & even Disney’s Snow White, but Wasson’s contention
Is that this mushroom was instrumental in prehistoric world religion
& that is widely held now, as a naturalistic explanation of religion
& the summer after college I house-set my English professors apartment in Cambridge
& read this book, & Peter, impressed that I knew anything about it
Proceeded to let me sample, his stash of Ammanita Pantherina’s which were not red
but the color of gold leaf & fruited out in the springtime & stronger than the Muscaria, &
two weeks after I’d had several small doses, I came over one morning for coffee,
& Pete fed me six dried pancake-size mushrooms
I went up on his roof & about an hour later he gave me five more with water,
I laid down and looked at the forest, took in the madrone trees and Douglas fir
over Pete’s house & though slightly nauseous I began to get really high,
I moved slowly off the roof from a ladder &
I came down & made my way around his house & out to a postage stamp size
Lawn of about hundred square feet that was adjacent his house, & then
Down a path, beside his driveway & a small pond he’d made, with a pole
Bridge arcing over the top & transplanted river iris in the bank where a spring fed in
& I continued up the path where there were a number of Washington Lilies, whose
trumpet shaped white flowers on stems five to six feet tall, exuded a fragrance
that can waft 50 feet or more & these radiant lilies are named for Martha Washington
& walking by this air filled florescence in white flowers nodding facing outward
pale-lavender on the outside & tiny purple spots on inside, tips slightly curved back
I continued toward & into a stand of Ponderosa pine with black oak & Douglas fir mixed in
& now a dry balsam smell & now I was about a hundred yards from Peter’s cabin
& suddenly there was a man walking ahead of me I’d not seen before
He slowed, I got closer and I noticed the man was in a grey robe &
He turned around & I saw clearly this man was Jesus, & as
He turned I noticed a demeanor that was not one of annoyance, but
Yet it was as if he had been distracted by me, from some other more pressing intention, &
He had looked like this was going to be a necessary explanation for a too
Inquisitive child, & I had said nothing & yes
there was seemingly white light when I got close, much like the lilies
“I’m going to show you something,” He said,
“that most people don’t get to see until they die..” & then
He touched me on my forehead with the flat part of a right forefinger bent slightly inward,
His hand making a half fist, & instantly inside me & every atom, every molecule of every plant,
& every rock, & every tree & the water, the air & the bright blue summer sky—became
Love, as a base of experiential reality more real than anything I’d
Ever known, or have known since, & love was very apparently— the construct of everything
& it was all pervasive & all around me,
& in me, & then breathing deeply, Jesus having since departed,
I staggered back to Pete’s house where there were now three people sitting on his lawn
& I loudly announced to everyone that,
“All there is, is love!” & they laughed as
I announced this over & over—& I told no one about the Jesus
Part of this story—for about 35 years,
& I do not think I was supposed to..
I did assume this was a drug induced phenomenon, a vision none-the-less,
This phenomenon in the charismatic world is called an open vision,
Then after having again, my own subjective yet, extra earthly always unexpected
Sober encounters with this same Jesus, though not as Christophany, as I’ve described, so
Eventually, I discounted naturalism as a notion & a base construction of reality
& just accepted that yes, of course it was Jesus,
& yes, I needed that, & I needed to know this was so, once & for all & always
You see, one week before this encounter I was in Rock Creek Canyon & I—a stoned hippie,
Had scratched in large letters, on a rock, “God is Love,” & I knew this was true, only as philosophy &
Left it there for someone to find, & that this Jesus found me, & straightened this out &
He has been finding me in my own wondering ever since,
Now a reality & then a notion, but that notion now brings barrier, while this other is
As faith, eternal sustenance, sure goodness, & loving kindness, &
Because it really is true that despite everything else, really,
Love is all there is.