Making Sense with Sam Harris - #1 — Drugs And The Meaning Of Life

Episode Date: June 5, 2014

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Drugs and the Meaning of Life Everything we do is for the purpose of altering consciousness. We form friendships so that we can feel certain emotions, like love, and avoid others, like loneliness. We eat specific foods to enjoy their fleeting presence on our tongues. We read for the pleasure of thinking in other person's thoughts. Every waking moment, and even in our dreams, we struggle to direct the flow of sensation, emotion, and cognition towards states of consciousness that we value. Drugs are another means toward this end. Some are illegal, some are stigmatized, some are dangerous, though perversely

these sets only partially intersect. Some drugs of extraordinary power and utility, such as psilocybin, the active compound in magic mushrooms, and lysergic acid diethylamide, LSD, pose no apparent risk of addiction and are physically well tolerated, and yet one can still be sent to prison for their use, whereas drugs such as tobacco and alcohol, which have ruined countless lives, are enjoyed ad libitum in almost every society on earth. There are other points on this continuum. MDMA or ecstasy has remarkable therapeutic potential, but is also susceptible to abuse, and some evidence suggests that it can be neurotoxic. One of the great responsibilities we have is to educate

ourselves, along with the next generation, about which substances are worth ingesting and for what purpose and which are not. The problem, however, is that we refer to all biologically active compounds by a single term, drugs, making it nearly impossible to have an intelligent discussion about the psychological, medical, ethical, and legal issues surrounding their use. The poverty of our language has been only slightly eased by the introduction of the term psychedelics to differentiate certain visionary compounds which can produce extraordinary insights from narcotics and other classic agents of stupefaction and abuse. However, we should not be too quick to feel nostalgia for the counterculture of the 1960s. Yes, crucial breakthroughs were made, socially and psychologically, and drugs were central to the process. But one need only read

accounts of the time, such as Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem, to see the problem with a society bent upon rapture at any cost. For every insight of lasting value produced by drugs, there was an army of zombies with flowers in their hair shuffling toward failure and regret. Turning on, tuning in, and dropping out is wise, or even benign, only if you can then drop into a mode of life that makes ethical and material sense and doesn't leave your children wandering in traffic. Drug abuse and addiction are real problems, of course, the remedy for which is education and medical treatment, not incarceration. In fact, the most abused drugs in the United States now appear to be oxycodone and other

prescription painkillers. Should these medications be made illegal? Of course not. But people need to be informed about their hazards, and addicts need treatment. And all drugs, including alcohol, cigarettes, and aspirin, must be kept out of the hands of children. I discuss issues of drug policy in some detail in my first book, The End of Faith, and my thinking on the subject hasn't changed. The war on drugs has been lost and should never have been waged. I can think of no right more fundamental than the right to peacefully steward the contents of one's own consciousness. The fact that we pointlessly ruin the lives of non-violent drug users by incarcerating them, at enormous expense, constitutes one of the great

moral failures of our time. And the fact that we make room for them in our prisons by paroling murderers, rapists, and child molesters makes one wonder whether civilization isn't simply doomed. I have two daughters who will one day take drugs. Of course, I will do everything in my power to see that they choose their drugs wisely, but a life lived entirely without drugs is neither foreseeable nor, I think, desirable. I hope they someday enjoy a morning cup of tea or coffee as much as I do. If they drink alcohol as adults, as they probably will, I will encourage them to do it safely. If they choose to smoke marijuana, I will urge moderation. Tobacco should be shunned,

and I will do everything within the bounds of decent parenting to steer them away from it. Needless to say, if I knew that either of my daughters would eventually develop a fondness for methamphetamine or crack cocaine, I might never sleep again. But if they don't try a psychedelic like psilocybin or LSD at least once in their adult lives, I will wonder whether they had missed one of the most important rites of passage a human being can experience. This is not to say that everyone should take psychedelics. As I will make clear in a moment, these drugs pose certain dangers. Undoubtedly, some people cannot afford to give the anchor of sanity even the slightest tug. It has been many

years since I took psychedelics myself, and my abstinence is born of a healthy respect for the risks involved. However, there was a period in my early 20s when I found psilocybin and LSD to be indispensable tools, and some of the most important hours of my life were spent under their influence. Without them, I might never have discovered there was an inner landscape of mind worth exploring. There's no getting around the role of luck here. If you are lucky and you take the right drug, you will know what it is to be enlightened, or to be close enough to persuade you that enlightenment is possible. If you're unlucky, you will know what it is to be clinically insane. While I don't recommend the latter experience, it does increase one's respect for the tenuous condition of sanity, as well as one's compassion for people who suffer from mental illness.

Human beings have ingested plant-based psychedelics for millennia, but scientific research on these compounds did not begin until the 1950s. By 1965, a thousand studies had been published, primarily on psilocybin and LSD, many of which attested to the usefulness of psychedelics in the treatment of clinical depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, alcohol addiction, and the pain and anxiety associated with terminal cancer. Within a few years, however, this entire field of research was abolished in an effort to stem the spread of these drugs among the public. After a hiatus that lasted an entire generation, scientific research on the pharmacology and therapeutic value of psychedelics has quietly resumed. Psychedelics such as psilocybin, LSD, DMT, and mescaline all powerfully

alter cognition, perception, and mood. Most seem to exert their influence through the serotonin system in the brain, primarily by binding to 5-HT2A receptors, though several have an affinity for other receptors as well, leading to an increased activity in the prefrontal cortex. Although the prefrontal cortex in turn modulates subcortical dopamine production, and certain of these compounds, such as LSD, bind directly to dopamine receptors, the effect of psychedelics seems to take place largely outside of dopamine pathways, which could explain why these drugs are not habit-forming. The efficacy of psychedelics might seem to establish the material basis of mental and spiritual life beyond any doubt,

for the introduction of these substances into the brain is the obvious cause of any numinous apocalypse that follows. It is possible, however, if not actually plausible, to seize this evidence from the other end and argue, as Aldous Huxley did in his classic The Doors of Perception, that the primary function of the brain may be eliminative. Its purpose may be to prevent a transpersonal dimension of mind from flooding consciousness, thereby allowing apes like ourselves to make their way in the world without being dazzled at every step by visionary phenomenon that are irrelevant to their physical survival. Huxley thought of the brain as a kind of reducing valve for mind at large. In fact, the idea that the brain is a filter rather than the origin of mind goes back at least as far as

Henri Bergson and William James. In Huxley's view, this would explain the efficacy of psychedelics. They may simply be a material means of opening the tap. Huxley was operating under the assumption that psychedelics decrease brain activity. Some recent data have lent support to this view. For instance, a neuroimaging study of psilocybin suggests that the drug primarily reduces activity in the anterior cingulate cortex, a region involved in a wide variety of tasks related to self-monitoring. However, other studies have found that psychedelics increase activity throughout the brain. Whatever the case, the action of these drugs does not rule out dualism, or the existence of realms of mind beyond the brain. But then nothing does. That is one of

the problems with views of this kind. They appear to be unfalsifiable. We have reason to be skeptical of the brain as barrier thesis. If the brain were merely a filter on the mind, damaging it should increase cognition. In fact, strategically damaging the brain should be the most reliable method of spiritual practice available to anyone. In almost every case, loss of brain should yield more mind. But that is not how the mind works. Some people try to get around this by suggesting that the brain may function more like a radio,

a receiver of conscious states, rather than a barrier to them. At first glance, this would appear to account for the deleterious effects of neurological injury and disease. For if one smashes a radio with a hammer, it will no longer function properly. There's a problem with this metaphor, however. Those who employ it invariably forget that we are the music, not the radio. If the brain were nothing more than a receiver of conscious states, it should be impossible to diminish a person's experience of the cosmos by damaging her brain. She might seem unconscious from the outside, like a broken radio,

but subjectively speaking, the music would play on. Specific reductions in brain activity might benefit people in certain ways, unmasking memories or abilities that are being actively inhibited by the regions in question. But there's no reason to think that the destruction of the central nervous system would leave the mind unaffected, much less improved. Medications that reduce anxiety generally work by increasing the effect of the inhibitory neurotransmitter GABA, system would leave the mind unaffected, much less improved. Medications that reduce anxiety generally work by increasing the effect of the inhibitory neurotransmitter GABA, thereby diminishing neuronal activity in various parts of the brain. But the fact that dampening

arousal in this way can make people feel better does not suggest that they would feel better still if they were drugged into a coma. Similarly, it would be unsurprising if psilocybin reduced brain activity in areas responsible for self-monitoring, because that might in part account for the experiences that are often associated with this drug. This does not give us any reason to believe that turning off the brain entirely would yield an increased awareness of spiritual reality. However, the brain does exclude an extraordinary amount of information from consciousness. And like many people who have taken psychedelics, I can attest that these compounds throw open the gates. Positing the existence of mind at large is more tempting in some states of consciousness than in

others. But these drugs can also produce mental states that are best viewed as forms of psychosis. As a general matter, I believe that we should be very slow to draw conclusions about the nature of the cosmos on the basis of inner experiences, no matter how profound they may seem. One thing is certain. The mind is vaster and more fluid than our ordinary waking consciousness suggests, and it is simply impossible to communicate the profundity, or seeming profundity, of psychedelic states to those who have never experienced them. Indeed, it is even difficult to remind oneself of the power of these states once they have passed. Many people wonder about the difference between meditation and other contemplative practices and psychedelics. Are

these drugs a form of cheating, or are they the only means of authentic awakening? They are neither. All psychoactive drugs modulate the existing neurochemistry of the brain, either by mimicking specific neurotransmitters or by causing neurotransmitters themselves to be more or less active. Everything that one can experience on a drug is at some level an expression of the brain's potential. Hence, whatever one has seen or felt after ingesting LSD is likely to have been seen or felt by someone somewhere without it. However, it cannot be denied that psychedelics are a uniquely potent means of altering consciousness. Teach a person to meditate, pray, chant, or do yoga, and there is no guarantee that anything will happen.

Depending on his aptitude or interest, the only reward for his efforts may be boredom and a sore back. If, however, a person ingests 100 micrograms of LSD, what happens next will depend on a variety of factors, but there is no question that something will happen. And boredom is simply not in the cards. Within the hour, the significance of his existence will bear down upon him like an avalanche. As the late Terence McKenna never tired of pointing out, this guarantee of profound effect,

for better or worse, is what separates psychedelics from every other method of spiritual inquiry. Ingesting a powerful dose of a psychedelic drug is like strapping oneself to a rocket without a guidance system. One might wind up somewhere worth going, and depending on the compound in one's set and setting, some trajectories are more likely than others. But however methodically one prepares for the voyage, one can still be hurled into states of mind so painful and confusing as to be indistinguishable from psychosis. Hence the terms psychotomimetic and psychotogenic that are occasionally applied

to these drugs. I have visited both extremes on the psychedelic continuum. The positive experiences were more sublime than I could have ever imagined, or than I can now faithfully recall. These chemicals disclose layers of beauty that art is powerless to capture, and for which the beauty of nature itself is a mere simulacrum. It is one thing to be awestruck by the sight of a giant redwood, and amazed at the details of its history and underlying biology. It is quite another to spend an apparent eternity in egoless communion with it. Positive psychedelic experiences often reveal how wondrously at ease in the universe a

human being can be, and for most of us, normal waking consciousness does not offer so much as a glimmer of these deeper possibilities. People generally come away from such experiences with a sense that conventional states of consciousness obscure and truncate sacred insights and emotions. If the patriarchs and matriarchs of the world's religions experienced such states of mind, many of their claims about the nature of reality would make subjective sense. A beatific vision does not tell you anything about the birth of the cosmos, but it does reveal how utterly transfigured a mind can be by a full collision with the present moment. However, as the peaks are high, the valleys are deep. My bad trips were without question the most harrowing hours I have ever endured, and they make the notion of hell, as a metaphor if not

an actual destination, seem perfectly apt. If nothing else, these excruciating experiences can become a source of compassion. I think it may be impossible to imagine what it is like to suffer from mental illness without having briefly touched its shores. At both ends of the continuum, time dilates in ways that cannot be described, apart from merely observing that these experiences can seem eternal. I have spent hours, both good and bad, in which any understanding that I had ingested a drug was lost, and all memories of my past along with it. Immersion in the present moment to this

degree is synonymous with the feeling that one has always been and will always be in precisely this condition. Depending on the character of one's experience at that point, notions of salvation or damnation may well apply. Blake's line about beholding eternity in an hour neither promises nor threatens too much. In the beginning, my experiences with psilocybin and LSD were so positive that I did not see how a bad trip could be possible. Notions of set and setting, admittedly vague, seemed sufficient to account for my good luck.

My mental state was exactly as it needed to be. I was a spiritually serious investigator of my own mind, and my setting was generally one of natural beauty or secure solitude. I cannot account for why my adventures with psychedelics were uniformly pleasant until they weren't, but once the doors to hell opened, they appeared to be left permanently ajar. Thereafter, whether or not a trip was good in the aggregate, it generally entailed some excruciating detour on the path to sublimity. Have you ever traveled beyond all mere metaphors to the mountain of shame and stayed for a thousand years?

I do not recommend it. On my first trip to Nepal, I took a rowboat out on Pua Lake in Pokhara, which offers a stunning view of the Annapurna Range. It was early morning and I was alone. As the sun rose over the water, I ingested 400 micrograms of LSD. I was 20 years old and had taken the drug at least 10 times previously. What could go wrong? Everything, as it turns out. Well, not everything. I didn't drown. I have a vague memory of drifting ashore and being surrounded by a group of Nepali soldiers. After watching me for a while as I ogled them over the

gunwale like a lunatic, they seemed on the verge of deciding what to do with me. Some polite words of Esperanto and a few mad oar strokes, and I was offshore and into oblivion. I suppose that could have ended differently. But soon there was no lake or mountains or boat, and if I had fallen into the water, I'm pretty sure there would have been no one to swim. For the next several hours, my mind became a perfect instrument of self-torture. All that remained was a continuous shattering and terror for which I have no words. An encounter like that takes something out of you. Even if LSD and similar drugs are biologically safe,

they have the potential to produce extremely unpleasant and destabilizing experiences. I believe I was positively affected by my good trips and negatively affected by the bad ones for weeks and months. Meditation can open the mind to a similar range of conscious states, but far less haphazardly. If LSD is like being strapped to a rocket, learning to meditate is like gently raising a sail. Yes, it is possible, even with guidance, to wind up someplace terrifying, and some people probably shouldn't spend long periods in intensive practice. But the general effect of meditation training is of settling ever more fully into one's own skin and suffering less there. As I discussed in the end of faith, I view most psychedelic

experiences as potentially misleading. Psychedelics do not guarantee wisdom or a clear recognition of the selfless nature of consciousness. They merely guarantee that the contents of consciousness will change. Such visionary experiences appear to me to be ethically neutral. Therefore, it seems that psychedelic ecstasies must be steered toward our personal and collective well-being by some other principle. As Daniel Pinchbeck pointed out in his highly entertaining book, Breaking Open the Head, the fact that both the Mayans and the Aztecs use psychedelics while being enthusiastic practitioners of human sacrifice makes any idealistic connection between plant-based

shamanism and an enlightened society seem terribly naive. As I discuss elsewhere in my work, the form of transcendence that appears to link directly to ethical behavior and human well-being is that which occurs in the midst of ordinary waking life. It is by ceasing to cling to the contents of consciousness, to our thoughts, moods, and desires, that we make progress. This project does not in principle require that we experience more content. The freedom from self that is both the goal and foundation of spiritual life is coincident with normal perception and cognition, though admittedly this can be difficult to realize. The power of psychedelics, however, is that they often reveal, in the span of a few hours,

depths of awe and understanding that can otherwise elude us for a lifetime. a few hours, depths of awe and understanding that can otherwise elude us for a lifetime. William James said it about as well as anyone. One conclusion was forced upon my mind at that time, and my impression of its truth has ever since remained unshaken. It is that our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness. While stalled about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without suspecting their existence, but apply the requisite stimulus and at a touch they are there

in all their completeness. Definite types of mentality, which probably somewhere have their field of application and adaptation. No account of the universe in its totality can be final, which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded. How to regard them is the question, for they are so discontinuous with ordinary consciousness. They may determine attitudes though they cannot furnish formulas, and open a region though they fail to give a map. At any rate, they forbid a premature closing of our accounts with reality. I believe that psychedelics may be indispensable for some people, especially those who, like me, initially need convincing that profound changes

in consciousness are possible. After that, it seems wise to find ways of practicing that do not present the same risks. Happily, such methods are widely available.