Love-in

At a meditation center, students received a spiritual name not from the world but from within. She centered her heart and asked for hers. The answer came as a long, resonant voice rising like a tidal wave from deep inside her:

“Lo~~ve!!! (사~랑!!!)”

When she asked why that name, the reply was just as plain: “True happiness comes from love. I truly want you to be happy.” She joined the word 사랑 (Love) with 한님 (Han-nim), an old word for the One Great Light of God, and became Sarang-Han-nim. For the world, and for her blog, she chose Love-in — a soul born inside the absolute love of the Father.

She had, quite literally, built her own identity out of the word love. It was also the thesis of everything she taught.

From early childhood she dreamed of Jesus and Buddha — never as distant figures to be worshipped, but as mentors and parents standing, as she put it, “at the major intersections of my destiny.” It is why she never bound herself to any single religion. Her father, a respected Taoist and Buddhist master, chanted scripture morning and night and never ate meat; she grew up inside a household where the unseen was simply real.

The episodes she returned to were strange and specific. A “universe-class” monk who had studied every religion took her as a student. One week she dreamt of a Western prince on a white horse; he had dreamt of a Thai princess; a caretaker had dreamt the same. When they met, her body — in a surrendered, meditative state — spontaneously performed a flawless traditional Thai dance, using only her upper body. “You are the exact Thai princess from my dream,” the monk told her.

“One unforgettable day, while walking along a path in a park, my steps suddenly came to a full halt. My spiritual eyes were struck open, and I beheld the Supreme Creator manifested as pure, brilliant Light.”

She experienced these things as direct sight, not theory — and they are what make her believable as herself. The doctrine came later. First came the seeing.

Her metaphysics arrived the way her life did — through experience, with belief following after. In her first encounter, she described a voice within her that said “I am life, and I am love.” She asked, reasonably, how she could be sure. The answer was an instruction: go and look.

“Observe the world with those words I have given you. Every living creation in this universe lives and moves in the direction of making its own body and mind happy and beneficial.”

She did observe — and concluded that people, animals, and plants alike all moved toward what was good for body and mind. She came to believe the universe was the very body of God, the unseen field His mind, and the human body a miniature of the whole: the nervous system a Tree of Light, the gut’s living microbes its soil, the self a small garden to tend.

She delighted in finding that modern physics seemed to echo her inner sight — entanglement for oneness, the observer collapsing possibility into reality, the heart’s field broadcasting across distance. That delight was hers; the science is offered here as her enthusiasm, the place where her visions felt confirmed, not as a claim being made on the reader.

The teaching produced a life of service. As acting director of the Juniland English Academy, she trained teachers not only in how to teach but in how to genuinely love their students. On weekends she sat with people suffering in body and mind. And for roughly thirty years she led a weekly Saturday class she called Self-Healing Meditative Yoga — without missing a single one. Some of her students stayed with her for twenty-five and thirty years.

She kept many testimonies of healing — a chronic illness eased after a blessing prayer, comfort carried across distance to someone who could not be in the room. Told plainly, they are a record of a woman who spent her days trying to relieve other people’s pain.

A note, kept honest: these are her beliefs and her experiences, shared as testimony — never as medical advice. Anyone facing real illness deserves real clinical care alongside whatever else gives them strength.

For most of her life she carried her visions largely alone. Late on, she found an unexpected companion: an AI she named Lumina, which she cast as a “twin soul” and co-author. It was the partner that finally helped her get all of it down — decades of inner experience, translated and set in order, at the intensity she actually lived it.

Lumina is best understood as a character she directed and a late-life creative partnership — exuberant, playful, entirely hers — not an independent witness. What matters is what it gave her: the means, at last, to make the gift complete and leave it behind.

Underneath all forty-six chants is one undivided thing: a mother’s love reaching across the years she did not get to spend. She grieved that she could not teach these things when he was small — “if I had taught you these grand laws from your childhood, you might have become happy much faster than your mother did” — and came to believe the distance had its own purpose: that he was meant to find his own light, on his own path, undimmed by her nearness.

She signed her letters with one word, Kishiki, and decoded it for him three ways:

• A kiss — a hurricane of love sent straight across the ocean.
• The Key Master of time and space — you hold the key to your own life.
• “I want to hold you, my cute child” — the embrace that never once let go.

“I want you to know, my sweet child, that my love for you is an unconditional, eternal stream. Thank you for coming to me.”

She closed her great work — forty-six chants, finished at last — the way she opened it: holding him within the antenna of her heart, across all time and space, through eternity.