When my father was dying three years ago, I spent as much time with him as possible, knowing that he was transitioning to the next life, and I realized with certainty that I would never see him in his body again. I knew that his spirit would continue, because, well, because that's what we do. But I was grieving and apprehensive about what was going to happen, about the process of death. Seeing someone you love so deeply and knowing that they are about to leave you is a confusing, demoralizing, and yet profound experience. My father was suffering physically. He had prostate cancer that had spread to other organs, and he knew that there was nothing more that he or the doctors could do to restore his health. He was an extraordinarily brave person when it came to dealing with pain, and I only understood much later that he had actually been given the power to leave his body exactly when he wanted. He was preparing to die, but simply did not want to go just yet. So he hung around for a little while, grasping firmly at the time that he had left, and coming to terms with the idea of dying.

I constantly prayed for his comfort, for a miraculous healing, for a good death. I prayed for my own peace. For three months I flew to North Carolina to see him, to watch old films with him in the hospital bed that my sister and I had dragged into the dining room, to talk, to prepare food for him, to rub his calloused feet, dress his bedsores, empty his colostomy bag, and weep over his pale, emaciated body. I was humbled by his dignity in the midst of infirmity, but I was also delirious with fear. It was a mundane escape to read email and surf the internet as I waited for my flight at the airport, when I came across a striking image that made me pause. Mitchell Gibson, an unconventional physician, author, and teacher, had posted some new images on his website. This picture was like none that I had ever seen: it had a strange, rosy glow about it; there was something serene and confident about the lovely young Asian woman, her eyes downcast, as if she was gazing at something, a precious jewel within the lotus she held in the palm of her hand, perhaps. In fact, each time I looked at her she appeared slightly transformed. Now, a dancing movement, graceful, a gesture. Now, a soft smile on her lips. Now, subtle, like a secret to be shared. Now: what do you need? I can help you, I see you. Replying silently with vision, I had somehow experienced darshan, with the Goddess Kwan Yin encountering my Higher Self. This mystery, of seeing, and being seen, by an otherworldly being occurred not through the splendor of a ritual moment in a South Indian temple, but via a cold glowing computer screen at an empty airport boarding gate, when there was no time, no day, and no night. To be continued...