If the doors of perception were cleansed . . .

"If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite." Thus wrote William Blake, and this timeless quote became the title for Aldous Huxley's public, psychopharmacological exploration of consciousness in the mid-1950s—as well as inspiring the chosen name for the inimitable band, The Doors.

It is a quote that has been on my mind the last several days, as though I am looking at it from both end of the telescope. At the one end, is my 93-year old father, whose sight has been diminishing over the last several years to the point of near-blindness. When I went to visit him recently in England, to introduce him for the first time to his 18-month old grand-daughter, his poor sight was very clear to see. No more so than in the layout out of his room, which focused around an easy chair with the important things all within an arm's length, and then an expanse of space—it looked a little like Captain Kirk's seat on the Enterprise.

And as I ran today, I carried that image with me, of my father at the helm of his "ship," moving towards uncharted waters—to dock at the final port, at least in this life's journey. He shared with me once, when I asked him is he was frightened by the thought of dying, that for him, death would just be "like the lights going out . . . then nothing." Now that, to me, is a frightening thought.

So now, from time to time, I run with a particular vision in my mind and heart. Today, with the fresh, crisp, morning air like a cauldron in my lungs, I ran with that vision again. It goes like this . . .

At the moment of my father's passing, I'm there, right with him. At his bedside yes, but also as he moves to where I like to think we will all go—somewhere where we can experience what has been called a "peace that passes all human understanding." As my father "wakes" into this new place of consciousness after leaving his earthly body behind, he looks a little surprised. He realizes (that is he sees with "real eyes,") that this is very different from what he expected. He can't see me, though I can see him, and I can feel what is taking place inside of him—I can feel this flower of joy opening inside of him, blossoming, a wave of freedom surging through him as a lifetime of worry and concern fall away.

I cry as he has this experience. Each time in my visualization. I'm running and I'm crying. And then I am laughing as the joy rises in me too. I'm running and I'm crying and I'm laughing. I must be quite a sight—especially at 5 in the morning in the dark!

And a hand reaches out to my father. It's his great friend Colin, who died several years before him. Colin has eagerly volunteered to be my father's guide, to orient and welcome him. And as my father's hand clasps Colin's, and a complete link is made to this new world, my father turns and sees me, and he laughs like a child again. "I had no idea," he says simply. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have worried so much. I just didn't know."