Raising my consciousness is a herculean task. Most of my friends will tell you it can’t be done without a diesel winch and some seriously heavy steel cable. My consciousness pretty much hovers around waist high.
I lived in Berkeley from 1968 to 1971 and saw no evidence that getting your mind higher was a worthwhile endeavor. And the smoke made my eyes water. So I’ve pretty much let my consciousness seek its own level.
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