Upon hearing these words in early 1999, my whole being shifted, as if some particle of matter had settled in each of my cells. My breathing changed and my body changed with it. The next day I sought and found a Buddhist meditation center where I could sit. All I wanted was to sit, breathe, and be still, sensing that some momentous event would transpire and that I had to prepare for it. The event, of course, was the inevitable death of my beloved second father, who raised me since the age of five. He married my mom in Cape Town and we moved the next year to Boston, where she completed her residency at Tufts, he opened a photography studio, and I discovered Bugs Bunny and how to talk like an American. But in that moment, I didn't know that I would begin a path that would stretch out in both directions, towards the past and the future. My first father died when I was three years old. His sudden loss, preverbal, inscrutable, and never spoken about, left me hollow and mute. My second father's diagnosis of terminal cancer gifted me the opportunity to be present for both fathers at their moment of death.  His transition was my transition, because it afforded me a miracle; to rinse out the fabric of past karma, and potentially change the future. I didn't know this at the time. I just knew I wanted to be present for an event that felt deep and precious, the transitioning from one life to another, an event of slow departure, holding open the doors of space to allow all the time and light to evaporate; the metaphysics of death. To read more about my journey, and how I experienced a kundalini rising, how this informs every moment of my life, and is the technology behind Gaia Sound-body, click here