FORWARD: The Sacred Science of Love After Death

“To be healed is not the absence of illness. It is the completion of a narrative arc — to be released into Love.

It’s been over a month since I posted, so I feel remiss.

I always planned to use Substack to workshop a book in real-time, and now I’m putting in the hours to turn it into a book. It’s currently in layout,

The title: BONDO: The Sacred Science of Love After Death. Maybe, I’ll add “A Comedy.”

Thank you for all your support.

Here is the Forward, hot off the presses:

The sixteen-year-old barefoot sadhu of Malibu spotted me reading Be Here Now, the seminal book that launched the New Age movement.

“Ever have those experiences? The ones Ram Dass describes?”

“Maybe,” I replied.

“You need to try organic mescaline.”

Like a first time with sex, I figured it was time to lose my psychedelic virginity. Ryan and I drove to Reyes Peak, 7500 feet above the Los Padres National Forest in Southern California. Peyote can make you violently ill, so we fasted and settled into sleep early. At daybreak, we swallowed capsules that looked and tasted like dirt. Reyes Peak was a mile from camp, so we started up the trail.

“I can handle this,” I reasoned, enjoying the views.

Wrong. Right at the peak, the drug came on full.

On the edge of losing it, I lay on the ground and inhaled, “Let” and exhaled, “Go.” My mind dissociated as I fused into the earth. .

I passed through a field of white light and merged into a golden tunnel, entering eternity. I was surprised the movies portrayed the death experience so accurately.

The trip was not about “me” having an experience. It was an annihilation of self. For good reason, I never took the drug again.

A few weeks later, while heading to class at UCLA, I spotted a hand-lettered sign: Festival of Light.

Sam, the Festival of Light guy, put his flute down and announced, “Mr. Mory Berman is here today. He is looking for people interested in cosmic consciousness.”

Reyes Peak was still fresh in my mind, so I approached the guy.

“Maybe I’m interested in cosmic consciousness. What’s the deal?”

Sam guided me to an elderly Jewish gentleman seated on a bench. His wild shock of gray hair and pensive eyes gave him an Einstein air. Sam introduced me:

“Mory, this is…”

“…Bruce,” I interjected.

Mory leaped to his feet.

“Bahh-ruce!” Mory exclaimed. His open-arm familiarity was off-putting yet strangely comforting. “Come, sit down; let’s talk.” He gestured to the bench.

“Uh, I’m actually on my way to class.”

At this point, Sam was scribbling on a piece of paper. “Mory likes Thursday afternoons,” Sam said, seemingly in on the plot. “Can you do Thursday at four?”

Mory and Bruce

The following Thursday, I knocked on Mory’s door, and many Thursdays after that. Mory would tell me stories, and I would drive him on errands, including to the L.A. wholesale produce market. Mory, a fruitarian, noticed my disapproval as he squeezed the peaches.

“What?” Mory exclaimed. “It’s self-service!”

On one Thursday, I rang Mory’s doorbell, but no one answered. After convincing the Armenian landlady to let me in, I found Mory in the corpse pose — savasana — and very much a corpse. I imagined that he had followed the yoga cue — let go — to its full expression. Mory had intimated that he was a “stepping stone” on my path, so I sat quietly and considered the gift he had given me before his exit from this world.

Eventually, I called the police and his family, which brought my meditation to a macabre ending. After the forensic team left, I “borrowed” Mory’s complete set of Khalil Gibran books and drove away feeling that my spiritual life had launched.

More importantly, death and love became intertwined.

Two years later, I sat with a group of spiritual seekers listening to author and teacher Reshad Feild read from his manuscript for The Invisible Way. We had formed a school to bring the work of the mystical poet Rumi to America.

Reshad pulled a page from his typewriter and read aloud:

“Suddenly, John’s body started shaking; ripples passed through every muscle and fiber. I could see he was in great physical pain, yet he was so conscious he was beyond the pain.”

“Using the last of his strength, he moved his head so that he could see through the open window. The blood moved on, a spreading red river. We turned to look with him. The sky turned red in the sunset. The first star shone over the top of the pine tree. The last bird had ceased its calling.

“I love you,” John said. “There is nothing else.”

The passage described the death of John Cooke, who famously developed the New Age Tarot in the 1960s. The final line — “I love you, there is nothing else” — left an indelible mark. We were young and had no real experience with death, yet something about conscious death was compelling.

John Cooke

Later that night, Reshad asked me to play Alan Hovhaness’ Avak the Healer.

I started the record and took my seat around Reshad’s chair. He took a sip of gin, leaned forward with piercing intensity, and asked, “Do you understand that John had been healed?”

Reshad Feild, 1980

“Healed?” I thought. “What are you talking about? He died.”

The question, “What does it mean to be healed?” has hovered over me ever since.

Years later, I understood what Reshad meant — to be healed is not the absence of illness. Healing is the completion of a narrative arc — to be released into Love.

Fifty years later, I was pulled into that Unknown when Karen, my wife of 40 years, passed without much advance notice. Unlike my romanticized ideas about death when I was younger, I suddenly faced stark questions:

• Did God design old age for more than diminishment?

• What does it mean to be healed before our final breath?

• How do we acquire the necessary being to pass consciously?

• How can our partner’s death serve as a springboard into our next chapter of life?

• Can a love affair continue from the other side, or does death throw the final switch?

• As a widow or widower, what does it take to find love again?

I know, heady stuff.

But, since death opened a window, I took it. I felt an urgency to reinvent myself, so I wrote this book in real time as I navigated love and loss.

Parts of my journey are funny and irreverent. Other parts might challenge your picture of how life is put together.

The book isn’t prescriptive because everyone’s journey is unique. But by sharing my stumbles in restoring intimacy to my life, I hope my story can help you remain open and curious, allowing the energy of human intimacy to revitalize your life.

Bruce Miller

May 2025