“The Heartbeat: Unveiling a Guiding Light.”

My grandmother, when she worshipped, she worshipped Kwan Yin.

When I interviewed my father for a book report in 5th grade, I would later learn that this ivory statue of an Asian-looking goddess, complete with a flowing gown, fell into my grandmother’s luggage when she had all but given up faith that she could make it on the boat from Taiwan to emigrate to the United States of America.

My Puo Puo was not only terribly seasick — she was also bereft. A new widow whose husband had just passed away from a heart attack when he was barely 50 years old.

The youngest of her five children was an infant.

My grandmother could barely read Mandarin, much less comprehend an entirely new language. She hobbled on bound feet, toes curled to the side so that she would forever hobble when she walked in unnatural size 5 shoes. She probably wondered what she would do in this new world, and how she would manage rebuilding a family in her catatonic state of grief.

I did not know any of this.

Growing up, all I knew was that every day of my childhood, the smell of incense would greet my nose early in the morning as my grandmother placed a few thin red sticks in a ceramic bowl filled with the ash of previous memories and offerings — all in front of my grandfather’s black-and-white photo.

He stared straight ahead. Black round glasses. Not smiling. Always there. I watched her in the doorframe, saw her bowing to him in this earthly duty as a forever widow.

I knew nothing of who this goddess was.

At the time, I simply knew that my grandmother believed in her and I believed in my grandmother. I loved my grandmother as the only person in my entire life who was kind to me, so I believed in Kwan Yin, too. 

When my grandmother passed shortly after I graduated from college, I did not grieve her death. I couldn’t.

It meant coming to terms with the fact that suddenly, I was alone in the world and how could a 21-year-old woman going on what felt like 12 ever reconcile this abandonment?

So, I did not cry. Not for two years.

Not until I entered an eating disorder program back in California, after trying to run all the way to Shanghai, China on the other side of the world, only to find that I could not lose myself. My body had begun to fall apart, beginning to resemble the environment in which I had been raised: okay on the outside; breaking on the inside.

In my young adulthood, I had prided myself on never crying, on being able to overcome anything but suddenly one afternoon, while collaging on an art therapy project, I opened my mouth to share with the group and instead found myself weeping.

My mid-20s were a time of healing and finding new faith.

I learned that there was more to life than the body — there was a tripod of body, mind, and spirit. Up until then, I thought achieving straight-A perfection and a size negative 2 body would lead to safety.

Now, it was time for something different.

In a small bookstore filled with Tibetan, Buddhist, and Hindu artifacts, beneath the renowned power yoga studio I had begun to attend, I was uncharacteristically early for class one night, and I decided to stop in.

In a glass case, behind rows of other Asian-inspired gods and goddesses, I found her.

I found Kwan Yin again.

It felt like it had been decades since I had seen her, since I had seen the reassuring ritual of my grandmother offering devotion to this goddess and to a man who I never met.

I purchased a miniature version of the statue from my childhood, went to class, then went home and looked up what Kwan Yin meant.

Kwan Yin is the goddess of compassion. She is the goddess of lost children.

To this day, Kwan Yin — and my grandmother — continue to show up in my life to guide me on my path.

This week’s podcast episode is about how my grandmother has never left my side. How when I feel lost, overwhelmed by life, I close my eyes and remember her spirit.

I know she hears me. I dedicated my book, The Little Book of Tibetan Rites and Rituals: Simple Practices for Rejuvenating the Mind, Body, and Spirit to Ai-Nan Tsuei.

My Puo Puo.

If you’re seeking a bit of faith today to know that you’re also not alone, perhaps the latest episode of my podcast will be for you.