The call comes at 3:17 AM—that hour when the veil between different forms of consciousness seems thinnest. Rebecca Tsou, half-asleep in her Brooklyn apartment, fumbles for her phone, instantly alert when she sees her mother’s name on the screen.
“Bǎobèi,” her mother says, using the childhood endearment she reserves for serious moments. “Your Great-Aunt Mei has passed.”
Rebecca sits up in bed, the news creating a sudden hollow space in her chest. Great-Aunt Mei—her father’s oldest sister, keeper of family stories, the matriarch who had remained in Taiwan when Rebecca’s parents immigrated to America. The woman whose letters, written in beautiful traditional characters that young Rebecca couldn’t read, had arrived faithfully every month throughout her childhood.
“When?” she asks, her voice steady despite the internal shift she’s experiencing.
“Three hours ago. Peaceful, in her sleep.” Her mother’s voice carries both sadness and calm acceptance. “Your father is making arrangements. We fly to Taipei tomorrow. Will you come with us?”
Ten months ago, Rebecca would have immediately calculated professional obligations, pending deadlines, the inconvenience of last-minute international travel. The journalist observes this habitual response arising—the checklist of practical concerns already forming—but doesn’t immediately identify with it.
“Yes,” she says simply. “I’ll come.”
After hanging up, Rebecca sits in the predawn darkness, observing the different responses arising within her committee of minds. But beneath these familiar responses, Rebecca notices something new emerging—an integrated awareness that holds these reactions without being defined by any of them.
The flight to Taiwan spans thirteen hours and multiple worlds—from JFK’s frenetic energy to the hushed efficiency of Taipei’s international terminal. Rebecca sits between her parents, observing the subtle shifts in their demeanor as they approach their homeland. Her mother, usually reserved and practical, grows increasingly animated, her English giving way to rapid Taiwanese as she points out changes in the airport since their last visit. Her father, typically the more expressive of the pair, becomes quieter, his gaze turned inward as if already communing with memories and ancestors.
As they exit the terminal into Taipei’s humid embrace, Rebecca notices her father scanning the crowd with uncharacteristic intensity. His face brightens as he spots someone, his hand lifting in greeting.
“Xiānshēng Lin!” he calls, using a formal title that translates literally as “born before” but carries connotations of both respect and spiritual lineage.
An elderly man dressed in simple but immaculate clothing steps forward from the waiting crowd. Despite his age—Rebecca estimates at least eighty—he moves with fluid grace, his posture neither stiff nor slouched but naturally aligned.
They exchange brief condolences regarding Great-Aunt Mei before Lin turns his attention to Rebecca’s mother, greeting her with respectful affection. Then his gaze shifts to Rebecca herself, his eyes widening slightly in what seems like recognition despite their never having met.
“And this must be your daughter,” he says, switching to perfect English. “The seeker who has found her way to the Way through unexpected paths.”
Rebecca feels a jolt of surprise at both his language fluency and the specific terminology—the Way pronounced with particular emphasis, exactly as the Wayists in America had spoken it. Before she can respond, her father places a hand gently on her shoulder.
“Xiānshēng Lin was my teacher in daofa before we left Taiwan,” he explains. “He has agreed to assist with Aunt Mei’s passage rites and to meet with you, if you’re willing.”
During the taxi ride through Taipei’s bustling streets, Rebecca leans toward her father and speaks quietly. “You never told me you shared the drafts I sent you. Why?”
He responds matter-of-factly while taking in the once-familiar but evolving cityscape. “It’s always interesting to see how Dao Fa adapts like water to its new container. Every culture shapes it in their own way. It’s a beautiful thing to share.”
“But you don’t even know if I’ll ever become a Wayist,” Rebecca continues.
Her father turns to her with an almost quizzical expression. “Everybody is on the same path, you know. You do know that, don’t you?”
Rebecca feels something shift inside her—for a moment she is simply his daughter again, not the accomplished journalist or spiritual seeker, just a child receiving gentle correction from a patient parent. She nods, understanding flooding through her.
When they arrive at her uncle’s home—where the extended family has gathered for funeral preparations—Rebecca experiences another dimension of this integration. Relatives she hasn’t seen for years greet her with a warmth that transcends their limited shared language and infrequent contact. There’s recognition of connection that exists beyond personal history or regular interaction—a belonging based on something more fundamental than individual identity.
Great-Aunt Mei’s body has been prepared according to traditional customs, resting in the main room surrounded by offerings and memorial displays. Family members take turns sitting vigil, some chanting traditional prayers, others simply maintaining respectful presence. The atmosphere carries neither oppressive grief nor detached formality, but a quality of mindful transition—honoring both the pain of separation and the natural progression of existence.
“She lived fully,” comes her father’s voice as he enters the room quietly. “Ninety-seven years of presence in this world.”
“Tell me about her,” Rebecca requests, realizing how little she actually knows about the woman whose passing has brought them across the ocean.
Her father settles beside her, eyes resting gently on his sister’s peaceful face. “She was the family storyteller,” he begins. “Not just recounting events, but preserving the wisdom embedded in our lineage. She could trace our family’s connection to Lotus Society teachings back fourteen generations.”
“Lotus Society?” Rebecca questions, the term vaguely familiar from her studies but lacking specific context.
“One expression of Dao Fa in China,” her father explains. “What you’ve been calling ‘Wayism’ in your writing. Our ancestors practiced these teachings when they were forced underground during various imperial persecutions.”
Rebecca processes this information, pieces of her research connecting with family history she’d never fully explored. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asks without accusation.
Her father smiles gently. “I tried, in my way. But wisdom cannot be transmitted through mere information. It must be discovered through lived experience.” His hand briefly touches hers. “You needed to find your own path to these teachings rather than accepting them as inherited obligation.”
The private ceremony takes place before dawn in a small October garden in full bloom behind her uncle’s home. Only a few family members are present—those her father identifies as “initiates in the lineage”—along with Xiānshēng Lin who officiates with quiet authority.
“We stand at the threshold between worlds,” Lin explains in English, apparently for Rebecca’s benefit. “Not to prevent passage but to illuminate the path. Death is not an ending but a transition—the butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.”
The metaphor resonates with Wayist teachings Rebecca has studied, the parallel reinforcing connections between these seemingly separate traditions. As the ceremony progresses, she observes her own responses with practiced awareness.
As dawn illuminates the garden, the ceremony concludes with a shared meal—simple food offered first to Great-Aunt Mei’s spirit and then consumed by participants. This communion across apparent boundaries between living and dead, physical and non-physical, past and present, creates an experience of integration Rebecca finds both intellectually fascinating and spiritually nourishing.
After the meal, Xiānshēng Lin approaches her directly. “Your father tells me you’re documenting your journey with the ego’s sanctification,” he says, his English precise but warmly accented. “Would you walk with me? Perhaps I can offer perspectives from our lineage’s understanding.”
[The chapter continues in the printed book.]