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In the palliative ward where my father spent the last three weeks of his life, he was allowed to visit even during the COVID19 disaster, and we were able to spend about an hour together almost every day in the hospital room where I dropped by after work. When we were still able to talk on a daily basis immediately after his transfer to the palliative ward, I asked him about specific wishes, such as arrangements for his grave and the disposal of his long-time cherished Shinto altar, as well as about his childhood memories, episodes in his life, and recent dreams he had. Perhaps due to the prescription of strong painkillers for the terminal stage of bile duct cancer, I gradually got the impression that he was in a half-dream world even when he was able to talk, and his somnolence and dazed state of consciousness increased. I still vividly recall the sensation of fluttering steps toward the parking lot at sunset after leaving my father's hospital room, enveloped by a strange energy. In process-oriented psychology, childhood dreams and memories are considered to be blueprints for a person's life. My earliest memory of my life is of waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of my parents quarreling and sitting quietly on my grandfather's lap at the age 1~2 years old. My parents had been at odds for as long as I can remember, and their divorce was finalized when I moved to Tokyo for college. Compared to my maternal grandparents, who were compassionate, service-oriented people, my father seemed extremely self-asserting and ego-centered, and it was hopeless for me to share his values. The distance between my father and me, which I had been keeping since adolescence in marked rebellion against him, did not change even after I returned to Japan with my husband and eldest son after living abroad for more than 12 years. When my father was diagnosed with stage 4 bile duct cancer at the same time I was taking care of my grandmother at home, I persuaded my mother so that my father would move to a separate wing of the house, offering specific conditions that would allow us to live at a reasonable distance from each other. After months of hospitalization and treatment, my father moved in and became unexpectedly healthy. Even during the three years that he spent at his own pace while undergoing outpatient treatment, our relationship did not improve significantly, as we clashed on several occasions over mutual non-negotiables. Shortly after his 81st birthday in September of the year of his death, he became ill while driving and was taken to the emergency room, where he stayed until November 20, except for a half day when he was allowed to go home temporarily. I am deeply grateful to the warm medical staff for not only relieving my father's physical pain, but also for warmly attending to his story and providing a place for him to stay for the last days of his life. When I met my father in the palliative ward in a different state of consciousness from his daily life, I found that behind his strong and self-centered attitude, I could see emotions that had been left behind in his childhood when the air raids on Tokyo during World War II completely changed the family life, and I saw that deep down in his heart, a prayer for abundance itself was still alive. There were several events that I witnessed. As he became more and more dazed, I continued to engage him through the basic skills of coma work, going down to where he was, speaking to him, and supporting him by picking up on his physical tendencies and subtle movements. This shared time of feeling deep empathy and connection with my father, accepting his entire "life," was one of the greatest gifts of my life and a new benchmark for understanding human nature, although I am not entirely free of sadness that I did not reach such a relationship with my father when he was still healthy. It became one of the greatest gifts of my life and a new indicator of my understanding of human nature. The human perspective of Process-Oriented Psychology, based on depth psychology, emphasizes the importance of consciously taking on the roles in which we function on a daily basis, while experientially awakening to our individuality and inherent power that "sleeps" in the vast ocean of depths (personal and collective unconscious) beneath the continent of consciousness, and through this, " We support the rediscovery of the meaning of life. When we are in a "special state of consciousness," we may say that we are open to the possibility of self-identifying with a deeper wholeness (the essence of our being) and a sense of self that we could not live with before, in our internal experiences (visual or auditory). The training I have received over the past four years of coma work has included a review of my own life, moving fluidly back and forth along this vertical axis of consciousness with the light of "awareness," which has enabled me to encounter the essence of my father in a way that was not easily possible in the relationship between "roles" within the fixed family system. I think this made it possible for me to encounter the essence of my father, which could not be easily accommodated in the fixed relationship between "roles" in the family system. The night before he passed away, when I visited him in his hospital room after finishing work, he seemed to be sleeping, but I felt that he had firmly received my words that "we are all together, connected like a mala or a string of prayer beads," which came to my mind as I spoke to him starting from the breathing together of the coma work. I vividly remember supporting his hands as if he was praying, his arms rose so light above his head and changed to a gesture of stretching toward the heavens, and when he seemed to untie the knot of his jacket and take it off, I told him, "You can take it (the body) off now. The next day, when I had no break at work giving psychological consultations whole day, just as the last session finished and my client stood up, his doctor called on my cell phone and told me that he was about to stop breathing. When we arrived at the hospital, a five-minute drive away, my father was still warm as he lay there, then I said to him, "I know you waited for me to finish work schedule of the day." and could express my gratitude and sympathy. After the family funeral, my father's love and compassion continued to reach me in the form of rainbows that suddenly appeared, the moon that continued to accompany him on his downpour journey home, sunlight that broke through the clouds, and words that appeared like inspiration among his left belongings. I believe that when we meet each other in deeper level as an extreme state of consciousness including coma, our daily level conflicts and wounded relationships are wrapped up and brought deep healing. My last hours with my father also healed my parent-child relationship conflicts and the resulting hurt from my childhood in a totally unexpected way. This has supported my desire to offer Process-Oriented Coma Work to help family and friends in the process of coma, dementia, and end-of-life care, to be close to their loved one's special state of consciousness, to connect with them on a deeper level than before, and to live with them in a transformation that transcends life and death. We support your desire to connect with your loved ones at a deeper level than before and help them to live a transformation beyond life and death together.