Exposed

“So, what’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You asked me to come and meet you at nearly midnight and you look awful.” He looks directly into her eyes intently, “So, what’s wrong?”

She flinches and sits back in the wooden chair in the back room of Soma Coffeehouse. “You really are intense aren’t you? No small talk, no how is work or anything, just ‘So, what’s wrong?’ She says mimicking him and what she thinks is austere facial and body expressions. “Fine. I am miserable, are you happy?”

“Why on earth would I be happy about you being miserable? OK, so what’s going on lately? Have you been practicing Reiki, Yoga, meditation? What have you been eating and drinking? Let’s start with the basics and we can go from there.”

She sighs heavily and Miho notices her hesitation and her face drooping with shame. He decides that they need to go another route, Natalie is not ready to jump right in. “Natalie, how about we take a moment to do some breathing and get connected to the Reiki lineage. Maybe that will get us both in a place where we can move forward without the ego and emotions in the way.”

“Thanks Miho. I am mess and really need some help. What should I do?”

“Let’s just take a few deep breathes, relax and let our brain rhythms slow down a bit.” They both close their eyes while sitting in a public coffee house and take some deep breathes, hers are deeper and heavier than his. His are gentle; hers are weighted and carry a lifetime of exhaustion in each breath. He notices her relaxing just enough to move forward, “Now. Ask to connect to the Usui Reiki lineage. Let the lineage strengthen you and get you aligned. Feel the lineage and its Presence fill you up. Allow Reiki to expand in you and become you. Ask the Higher Self to be present, in charge of you and this whole process. Just your Higher Self and mine connecting and working together. No more Miho or Natalie, just the Higher Selves doing their thing. When you feel it, slowly open your eyes enough to see but not enough to let the whole world in. Take your time, we do not want to force or manufacture anything. Reiki is about genuine experiences and no pretending or letting imaginations have a field day with us.” She barely opens her eyes enough to see out and make eye contact with Miho. They both share a gentle and unintended smile. “How are you doing?”

She smiles softly and barely moves her lips to speak, her voice is still, gentle and without any of the drama and attitude that was present just a few minutes ago. Her face has a nice blush tone to it and her eyes are clear. “I feel good. It is the first time I have really felt Reiki in a while, too long. Miho, I need to get back to where I was just a few months ago. I miss feeling this way, being this way and being of service to others. I have become very self-centered, selfish and fragmented. What happened?”

“It feels good to see you this way again. This other Natalie is not needed or helpful to you or anybody else. The real Natalie is calm, focused, committed and cares deeply for others and their well being. You are needed Natalie and we need you to do what your Higher Self signed up for you to do.” He slows down even more, “You can’t do this if you are all caught up in your personal dramas and letting the ego run your life. Why have you been so fragmented?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. There are no victims here and you have been trained in inner discernment through Reiki. Why are you so fragmented? Can you feel your body?”

“Yes, I can now. I have not felt my body in a while.” A small but visual hesitation before she continues allows her to slow down, “I have been doing some things I didn’t used to do when I felt connected and grounded. For one, I have started drinking coffee again in the morning and sometimes at night when out with friends. Of course, now I don’t sleep as well either. Which makes me want to drink coffee the next morning even more. Miho, my life is moving so fast these days, I never stop to slow down and barely do any Reiki or meditation in the mornings anymore. I have not been to the Yoga studio since May and my body is cramping and stiff a lot. There is very little energy flow and I feel it.”

“I am not surprised, caffeine pokes holes in the energy field and allows all kinds of stuff to latch onto us. I experience the same thing with sugar products, I get wired, anxiety, ungrounded and my field becomes like Swiss cheese. Who knows who and what I drag home with me after some ice cream and a cup of coffee?”

“OK, so I have been eating a lot of sugar too. And, when my friends and me go out, I drink a couple of glasses of wine. I rarely get drunk so I convince myself it is OK. What is the big deal right? If everybody else can, why can’t I? Of course, I know better. I have worked with enough folks to see just how dramatic alcohol in the bloodstream does to the energy field, digestion and mood. Then, the next morning, I need coffee to get started and some sweats to eat so I can get going. No wonder I don’t sleep anymore. That is another thing. Since adding all this stuff back into my life, my dreams have changed dramatically, they are darker too. I have gone from Reiki Teaching dreams to dreams filled with violent sex, fighting with everybody and I feel like the whole world is in bed with me now while sleeping. I can feel everybody’s thoughts and emotions, as if I am connected right to them.”

“Well you are! That is what happens when we let our field get open like that. And you are right, you do know better. I do too, but every now and then I convince myself like you that I can do it, somehow it will be different this time. And we actually buy this crap and ignore the Inner Voice that knows where it will lead us. I am so glad that I have been away form that stuff for a while now. Sleep is better and I don’t have that feeling like being spaghetti with all kinds of cords knotted and twisted inside of me from every person I come in contact with. The good news is that Reiki can help you get back to being Natalie again. But like everything else, it is not free. You will need to recommit yourself to doing your work. You are needed and matter. We have work to do and don’t have time to keep buying the crap that the ego sells us. We have to let the Higher Self be in charge and stop playing all these games.” He pauses long enough to make sure they have solid eye contact, “Are you ready to do your work, or do you still want to play around?”

Natalie’s eyes and focus are still and unwavering. She does not move anything in her body, as if she is sleeping while completely alert and aware of what is going on inside and outside of her. Her strength and courage are visible in her face, posture and tone, “Yes I am ready. I want to be of service again. I miss being me and the way I feel when connected up with Reiki. What do I have to do?” Natalie’s voice is steady and firm.

“You just did it. Remember, what we say and do matters. They are not just words and thoughts. They are real and hold an imprint. Everything we think and feel affects others. We are all connected and we all need to do out part, even though it may seem small or irrelevant, it natters. We matter.” Miho reaches across the Maple table and takes Natalie’s hands in his. His gaze does not budge, nor does hers. They stay locked in this moment for what seems like all of time but in linear time, just a moment. That is all it took, just that moment of connection and acknowledgement. What else is needed?

Bowing: An Energetic Transaction

On my first morning here in Korea, I entered a local “deli” to buy something quick to eat before starting work. I had arrived in my room around 1:00a.m. and did not go to sleep till nearly 3:30, with a wake up time of about 8:30a.m. The “deli” is not what I would typically call a deli but do not know the correct name for it. The woman prepares and sells different kinds of Kimchi and stews, hot and ready to go. I did not know what I was thinking when I walked in the door of her place, she bowed and said some kind of formal greeting that I know now as “Annyeong-haseyo”, good morning/afternoon/evening. But the bow is what caught me in my tracks. I had been given the information that many Koreans still bow before I left the states. I was a little excited but did not really grasp what bowing really is till that morning of little sleep after a twenty-four hour flight and a long ride from the airport to my new place in Cheonan. She bowed as casually as someone who has done so without thinking thousands of times. She did not know how strengthening and affirming that common gesture was for me. I knew I had reached my destination and was in the right place. My trip to Korea was where I supposed to be.

For the last two months I have reflected many times on what actually happens during the process of bowing that is so powerful. Is it the honoring of another person’s Self? The honoring of the Self? Is it the conscious decision that whatever we may be doing at that moment, the decision to be focused and present right now is all that matters, because there is a human being in front of me and that requires my complete attention. We are acknowledging each other, and I sense our ancestors and histories as well. Very few people do half-hearted bows here. They do half-hearted all kinds of other things, but bowing is different. Even entering the E-Mart or Lotte-Mart, the Korean equivalents of Wal-Mart and K-Mart, there is a person inside the door that bows to every single person that enters and leaves. I do not understand how, but they mean it and are genuine every time to every person, even to the foreigner who wears a backpack and has this stuff growing on his face all the time.

Where does the bow come from? I do not mean mean its history, although I will assume it is a Chinese tradition initially. I am referencing the actual energy of the bow itself. It is too powerful for each one of us regular people to muster up the kind of energetic exchange that a bow transmits hundreds of times a day. It is like a shot if Reiki, Qi Gong, Prayer and a loving hug from your best friend and grandmother all in one, without touching or saying a word- Taiqi in its purest form.

I get to share bows with all three of the women that serve lunch in the school cafeteria daily. All of the clerks, stockers and employees at the grocery store by my home almost daily. I enter the cell phone place on my way home just to share a bow with the guy who owns the shop where I purchased my cell phone, because his bows go right through me and fill my spine every time without exception. It is worth the two steps to his shop to receive his warm smile and bow. When walking the halls at school, most of the kids and all the teachers share a bow with me; it does not get old for them or me. Each time, the exchange is present and refreshing to me, the Real me. It is hard to be miserable, angry or resentful when bows are plentiful to ruin my negativity, like it or not. I have been aware of what a challenge it is to hold onto whatever self-centered or selfish thoughts and emotions I am clinging to while being immersed in bowing. Bowing is in my spiritual lineage and blood. I think if we were able to trace DNA to see who has the bowing gene, I would be profiled as such. It is who I am, it just took a long plane ride to find this out.

Two specific bows stand out to me at this moment. The first being my initial introduction and hello to a Reiki Teaching Master I met in Kyoto, Japan. He came up the steps of the subway station in his black monastic attire and bowed before saying hello. I felt him, the Reiki lineage and our Inner Connection at that moment. Our shared history finally had the opportunity to greet each other in physical form. The acknowledgment that this particular bow shared is still part of my dreams at night and Reiki sessions in the morning. In that bow, my connection to Mikao Usui, the man who rediscovered Reiki and the Reiki lineage was immediately strengthened and fortified. I am grateful for this bow and our meeting. I know we will share another bow someday.

My other favorite bow happens Monday through Friday. One of the women that shares office space with me and I, do a mini bow while she is sitting at her desk every day when I enter the space. Her smile and warmth tickle my core and remind me why I am a teacher and what being a teacher means. I find her attractive on many levels and since there are some language barriers, bowing is the time we connect and acknowledge each other. I wish bowing could be the method of getting to know women for me in all attractions; it is honest, pure, respectful and loving. The other stuff that trends to cloud my attractions to women dissipate in that brief second we share. I want to expand that statement to include all relations, male, female, friends or otherwise.

And I thought bowing was just for spiritual rituals and old folks.

Boobs, butts, bellies and thighs

The first time I walked through Ssang-yongdong on that Tuesday night while it was still light out, I was struck by the amount of thigh on display in conservative Korea. High-heeled silver sandals with straps around the ankles provide the platform for the exhibition. The exhibition includes the silky-soft skin that is natural to most Koreans. In fact, I have a friend in the states that the affectionate nickname that I use with her is Silky Pants, she calls me Jerk Face. As I try not to be obvious or rude, my gaze slowly follows her calves all the way up to the thighs and right to her butt, literally. Her shorts can’t be but an inch bigger than the skimpy bikini bottoms that American white girls wear to anywhere they can get away with. I get that funny tingle that only lust hormones can produce as I bashfully walk past her and her almost blue denim shorts, I say almost since they barely qualify as “shorts”. Images of hippie chicks in the sixties when I was growing up trying to piss off their parents come to mind. The next woman I am approaching down the hill on the sidewalk on this unbearable hot 92 degree humid evening, is wearing white sandals with the same four inch heals and straps around her ankles. Her silky smooth skin also is on display way up to her blue denim mini skirt that conjures up more images of sixties chicks pissing off their daddy’s. As I now have enough time to lift my head up after this startling visual treat, her t-shirt goes all the way up to her neck, down to the edges of the bottom of her blue denim mini-skirt and the shirt has semi-long sleeves on this hot day in Korea.

I reminisce about earlier this summer in several college towns on the east coast of the states and how much cleavage was bulging out of push-up bras and bikini tops. There are more breasts showing on the American female than the actual breasts of the Korean woman. They do not show boobs, shoulders or bellies here, like ever. The Korean female’s upper body is not on display in public but their legs and butts put the twenty dollar hookers outside Port Authority in NYC to shame, especially with the heals that bring me back to my younger years in bars with half and whole naked women with dollar bills tucked into their g-strings. The g-string is the predecessor to the thong for those of you too young to know there was once a world before thongs that underwear went over your butt instead of inside. With the exception of those who got paid to wear them or trying to spice up their personal life every now and then. Yes, Korean women like to show their legs and butts, but no upper body, and they will never leave their homes without a bra or undershirt on, nipples are outlawed here.

Besides the obvious reason of being a guy who really appreciates the female form, what has caught my attention about these social mores is that on late night TV, woman show their boos all the time and the TV stations blur out any butts or pubic hair. So in real life, boobs and bellies are a no-no, on TV, butts and pubic hair is a no-no. In both, Korean women rarely wear anything that fits snug, alters or lifts their boobs. It appears that Korean female celebrities are very comfortable with showing themselves topless in movies and TV, whereas American female celebrities have to be mindful of what they show and how it will effect future casting, while they walk around with their boobs on display to the legal limit whenever possible with underwear of any form a commodity.

Why is it that we have such curious contrasting and maybe even contradictory social programming about what and where it is OK and not OK to expose the naked body? There seems to be no rhyme or reason that I can see. I initially thought that it might be related to the fact that western women typically have larger breasts than Korean women. After seeing them topless on TV all the time but not bottomless, my theory gets thrown out the window. We certainly are an interesting species. The fact that we wear clothes at all is somewhat bizarre, but the peculiar patterns that determine how that justifies which and when we expose any or all parts of our bodies is absolutely a mystery to me. I doubt I will solve this mystery tonight, tomorrow, or the next night. In the meantime, I will keep my eyes on things that are not as stimulating to the those senses and focus on things that are stimulating some the other senses like trees, mountains, patterned sidewalks of green, red and yellow and all the incredible little places to eat that line every road I can find with sights, smells and tastes that thrill even an objectifying male like myself.

The football player florist

Sitting on a wooden bench on this beautiful fresh low-sixties degree night, I am full of hope and life. It rained several times today and the air, earth and its inhabitants have received the cleansing that soft cool rain brings with it. The nights are starting to cool off a bit and that makes walking, writing and sleeping all the more enjoyable. Tonight was exceptionally clean and crisp. I planned on a short walk and a stop at the grocery store and maybe the incredible plant shop near the park that I wanted to explore on my way home. Along the way, I fell in love with the night air and so much for groceries, plant shops and short walks.

After climbing up the hill of the park/school that I was curious about, I planted myself on a bench. I sat for less than a minute and acknowledged this was not the right time, space or bench for me to practice some Qi Gong. I stood up and noticed a man walking behind the school to an area with a lot of soft lush green grass and a slate path for walking. This was the way to go. He lost me quickly since I am a casual walker. I started walking down the hill and decided the dirt would be more fun then the rock and dirt steps. When I reached the bottom, I became aware that this is next to where I walk down the main street in this particular neighborhood but still secluded enough to sit and be still. Instead of sitting on one of the cement benches, I felt drawn to the actual octagon shaped mini wooden shelter. It was raised just high enough that sitting on its perimeter would give me the wood to sit on, the earth below my feet and the perfect height for my body and Qi Gong. So I plated myself there.

Five minutes into Qi Gong, the Qi started filling my body, specifically my belly. I could feel my whole being come alive with joy and softness. My face relaxed along with my shoulders and breath. I felt the flow of energy up and down my spine with its base in my root center; home. A few minutes more of expansion and gratitude, I moved towards a reflection on a topic that has been taking hold of me lately. This being the shift, or maybe expansion of my vision of how to deal with issues and obstacles, current or Karmic. I have predominantly come from the pro football school of spiritual development. Meaning that I have typically lowered my head and banged helmets like a ram with any and all spiritual or personal obstacles and issues. I have stood my ground and survived by sheer effort, will and Grace- it is rarely pretty. I have taken on my obstacles head on. This has gotten me to a certain level, and I have been at this level or near it for several years now. I have been confronted about my terminal stuckness by most of my close friends and supporters over the last couple of years. I did not get what they were talking about; I am beginning to get some clues. Or should I say, I am not resisting receiving the Teachings as much as I have in the past. That feels a little more honest and accurate.

The expansion is now including another gentler method of dealing with resistance and obstacles. The florist school of dealing with dead or wilting issues- strengthen what is alive and help it grow stronger and increase in vitality. Go figure. Instead of going to battle, I can just increase what is beautiful inside me as a means of growth. It has worked for me for years as a grower of vegetables, fruits, herbs and flowers- why not me? In fact, as a grower, I rarely weed. I work on the growth of the plant and let the plant deal with the weeds. Typically, the plant that I want (which we know is what makes a weed a weed and a plant a plant) to prosper does, and the weeds go about their life without disturbing the amazingly robust and strengthened veggies or melons. Go figure.

So my spiritual toolbox is now adding another drawer for me to experience. This drawer includes moving out of the way, stepping around or just standing where I am and staying grounded and alive- no battle, no head on collision, no football helmets full of opponents paint and blood. It is not that I am abandoning anything that I have learned along the way, just embracing another way. Of course this way, just like the original way are firmly rooted in Reiki, Prayer, Meditation and Qi Gong. No reason to drop my old and trusted friends. So the football helmet will be waiting me for when I choose to put it into action, but today I will sit quietly allowing life and all its beauty and force fill me up. The florist and the football player become one.

Exiting

Time to go
Escape leaving no footprint
That first step
No looking back
The decision
An opening
The Doorway
Passing the threshold
No more
Enough
Not enough
Too much
Too little
The Female Form
Entering
The joy and the ecstasy
Revived
Temptation
Retribution
The Amityville Horror
Tiptoe the Fuck out!
A clean get-away
No regret
No remorse
No visitors
No more hiding
Exposure
Extension
Exhalation
Existence
Exit

Bread and Walking

10:45p.m. I promised myself I would go for a walk tonight. I have not done so since I returned from Busan on Tuesday night, it is now Friday. I motivate myself through putting a practical spin on my walk; I will stop at KB Bank, take out some money and pay some bills with the ATM machine. Yes, pay bills with the ATM machine. They don't use checks in Korea. You either pay in person, online or by bank transfer, which can be done at any bank on any ATM instantaneously. It is fun and I like paying bills this way, at least while it is a sixty-five degree night in Cheonan. Winter may be another story.

After taking care of my financial transactions, I asked my Higher Self which way to walk. I crossed Ssang-yongdong gil 3 to the other side and walked along the three-lane road that goes through Cheonan to Asan and all points south. As I walked down the red, ochre and forest green sidewalk in my $4.00 soft brown plastic sandals I bought from the Walgreen’s in Williamsburg, VA, USA; I received a rush of gratitude for the gift of walking. It seems irrelevant how I feel, when I put on my sandals at night and walk these streets I feel better, alive. My connection to Self and the world around me increases almost immediately. Even though it is approaching 11:00p.m., families are still out walking and playing badminton in parks together. Young kids and mothers hit the birdie back and forth while dads play with older children. They do not have the same need for children having routines at night including bedtimes. It is nice out, so they go out and be a family together.

As I pass the wonderful plant shop were I picked up two little desk plants and a large floor plant of a variety I have not seen before a couple of weeks ago; I see the blue, white and red lights of the Paris Baguette on the left corner I was approaching. I love that bakeries are often open till midnight for street wanderers like me. I step up the ramp and inside the brightly lit shop. The owner says “Aneoyounghi-gaseo”, good-bye, to the customer leaving and warmly greets me in perfect English, “Hello”. I smile and return the greeting. I search through the sweet breads and almost submit to the cream filled sweet potato bread but remind myself I do not want sweet bread. I want a bread to eat with meals over the weekend, mainly, a killer vegetable and potato omelet, a Sunday morning ritual of mine. I see the corn bread with actual corn in it that I enjoyed last week but then glance to the right and see the Korean version of nine-grain bread. American nine-grain bread is brown and dense, which is something I miss dearly. Korean nine-grain bread is white bread with grains in it for flavor, not texture, substance or health. Yes, the nine-grain bread is tonight’s bread. I pay the 1,700 won, $1.70 for the half a loaf and refuse the bag when offered knowing I live only a few blocks away and really do not need it.

I cross during the red light after watching the young guy do it and slow down to take in the night. On my right are three long benches that are really comment blocks with wooden planks on top to sit for a moment. While looking up at the cement apartment buildings surrounding me, I feel moved to practice some sitting Qi Gong. I have been lax in my Qi Gong practice and gladly jumped at the opportunity. Three meditations later and a full belly of Qi, I decided that some walking Qi Gong would be a nice way to complete my evening walk. I find Body Breathing exercises revitalizing and rejuvenating. This was no exception. Feeling renewed as i came upon the elementary school I am an English teacher for amazingly cute, enthusiastic and frustrating young kids. I have noticed how much I enjoy walking through the property when not working, the sense of connection and community tend to produce warm and yummy feelings within the head, mind and belly. I pass the market I shop at and then the aromatherapy store next to my home where I purchased some lavender lotion and liquid soap last Friday night.

I cross the street and down the mini hill that has a green and white tiled sidewalk and road, and there is my building with two apartments with lights on in the front side of the building. I live on the side above the alley where the restaurant chops their vegetables and garlic. Up the two short sets of ceramic stairs and home. I put the key in the lock and the motion-sensored light turns on. I step in and let my light brown sandals slide off my feet and smile again in appreciation of my home, both the physical space I live in and this place called Korea.

We don't even Know We have It

Yesterday while drifting around Front St, Wilmington, NC, I stopped in a hippie-type store to peruse and continue my search for linen or hemp drawstring pants for men. I found amusement in the marketing of the Grateful Dead and Bon Marley paraphernalia. I have felt this way before in these kinds of stores. They have made them out to be demi-gods and forget how simple and humble they were. Bob would have hated being an icon for anything but revolution or uprising I think. In some ways, it is similar to what has happened with Brittany, Lindsay and Paris. I love that I can just write their first names and everybody knows whom I am referring to; it just further illustrates the point.

I was conversing with the young lady working in the shop about unisex pants and the differences in where we need comfort and more space to account for gender body types, curves and such. We have the “such” and women have the curves. Our conversation expanded as we continued to the icons of the Dead, Marley and her experiences touring with Widespread Panic. Of course, our personal experiences were much different due to generational cultural shifts. She was not old enough to experience the Dead as a living, cultural group of icons and the following they commanded. I would not know a Widespread Panic song if given only two choices.

As we got more personal, I shared about being on the road for the past three months and writing. She asked what I was writing and I explained that I a working on a project that may become a book someday. She inquired deeper and I expressed its content being how we try this and that, make all kinds of decisions and mistakes and in spite of ourselves, we come out of it OK for the most part. Reflections on Grace of you will.

She beamed and said she understood; her expression let me know she definitely understood. I asked her if she wanted to share an experience and she said she did. And she did.

She shared how she has a year and a half old girl that she did not plan for and how it is has been incredible for her. She continued on how this has effected her so positively and forced her to be grow up and be more responsible. She shared how surprised she was with the degree of strength she has in being a single mother and all that goes with it. Her affect and voice resonated with that strength, steadiness and maturity that parenthood has brought out in her. The young lady who just ten minutes before did not make eye contact and fidgeted constantly before, disappeared and now an adult woman and mother was standing before me. This is Motherhood to me- strong, courageous and maturity manifesting in front of my eyes on Mothers Day.

She told me her name was Leah and I shared that mine was Michael. Our connection was now constructed through the bridge of sharing our experiences of being human. Being human to me means walking into to enough walls long enough to accidentally find there wall is a door with an amazing sunset over the ocean on the other side. The Inner strength that she spoke about and oozed out of her quietly inspired me, made me stronger. Strength and courage are contagious. I feel fortunate to have “caught” some being in her presence.

This is another example of the exact thing we were sharing together; I walked in the store, amused with my arrogance with the marketing of the Grateful Dead and Bob Marley, whining about not finding the pants I want and then while “bouncing into a wall”, a door opens and the magic happens- Love, Courage, Strength, Birth and Parenting shine out for all to seen and feel. This is the Teaching for me these days; in spite of ourselves and all are efforts, the Divine Presence holds us and gently saves us from ourselves. Something beautiful takes place and we can do things we didn’t even know we could do/with for somebody else.
Wilmington, North Carolina: 5/2008

sarcasm enters stage left and right

Like the South Beach Diet for those who think “thin is in”, the low-casm diet, sarcasm that is, has stripped off pounds of negativity so quickly I forgot what I looked like with the extra weight. But like all fad diets, the low-casm diet imploded when faced with a free crème Berlet or Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream from Michael’s Frozen Custard in Wisconsin. In this case, the desert of choice was keeping company with those who value sarcasm above all other forms of communication- English-speaking white people.

This weekend I was visiting a friend in Busan, South Korea during the national holiday Chusak. It is the Korean version of Thanksgiving that includes visiting and honoring ancestors passed. This weekend, I certainly honored ghosts of sarcasm passed when giving the opportunity. I was amazed at just how effortlessly it flowed out of mouth like waffles and vanilla ice cream dripping out the corners on an eighty-degree night in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Yes, sarcasm is back.

I had no idea how foolish I was in believing the progress in letting go of the darkest form of humor had nothing to do with me or any miraculous leap in spiritual development. It was simply a case of not having accessible anyone who speaks enough English to understand sarcasm if I chose to express it. No growth, no step up in commitment, no crossing of the Threshold- just no vehicle to harness the hidden and suppressed hate, anger and resentment in disguise known as sarcasm. If you are trying to shed sarcasm from your daily diet; I can offer the quickest low-casm diet on the market- move to a country where no one speaks your language and it will fall away like The Atkins Diet with the same results until the source of the problem returns; then every inch of unnecessary cellulite regrows itself and looks less appealing than it did when it was part of your natural disposition. I now know what I look like without sarcasm; warm, soft, gentle, open; and putting on the same old tattered coat will never feel as comfortable or acceptable again.

It is time to let go of these extra pounds of weight that I no longer need to survive or navigate my way through the world. Goodbye sarcasm, I bid you farewell. I am sure when I am not paying attention, I will embrace you like an old friend who still owes me the six hundred dollars he borrowed from in 1989 when his father died and I helped pay his family’s mortgage so they would not have to find a new home.

Hello warmth and vulnerability. I want to introduce myself; my name is Michael and I have looked forward to meeting you for many years. I hope we become close friends.

Nineteen Years

Release, relief, retreat
Free, see, me
Clean, serene, nineteen
Today, pray, a way
Serve, nerve, deserve
Walk, talk, balk
Meditate, radiate, navigate
Reiki, Napki, a new key
Create, relate, retrait
Years, fears, dears
God, Yod, a rod
Now, wow, bow
One, fun and done

Immigration Man

Standing online amongst nearly one hundred people, mostly Korean but many from other nations squeezing between the writing tables and the three desks of the immigration officers I started hearing David Crosby and Graham Nash singing in my head, “Let me in, Immigration Man, I won’t toe your line today, Can I stay another day?” Yes, please let me in, or in my case, please let me stay another day, Mr. Immigration Man. I will definitely toe the line, I swear, really.

The feeling of someone that you will speak with for a matter of minutes having such control over your immediate future is un-nerving, even stressful for me. I am Ok with God in charge or me living with the illusion of being in charge but not a man I do not know who speaks broken English and whose job it is to make sure certain kinds of people are not allowed to stay in Korea. Will I make the grade? Do I look the part of the good American or the evil American? If you ask the three officers in Osaka last week that stopped me and threatened to take me to jail, I guess I do fit the image of the evil American. A terrorist. Me, a terrorist. In between hugging hundreds of young Korean boys and girls of every day and being the one that the whole school says “Hello” to down every hallway, toilet and cafeteria? The one who flew almost 8,000 miles to get here and made it through the scrutiny of many levels and layers of Korean government and Ministry of education? The one who felt guilty for only praying and meditating for about 55 minutes this morning before rushing to the Immigration Office to participate in the madness of folks scurrying in all directions to fill out forms, buy proof of payment stamps and look “safe” while feeling very unsafe? Terrorist?

When there was only three people ahead of me in line, it occurred to me that the first man I would be dealing with was the guy who gave me long and hard stares when I was accompanied by my Korean co-worker to get my visa extended till I went to Japan to get my E-2 work visa. Yes, he will remember me applying for my tourist visa and applying for an alien registration card now. I need to get everything in order to not raise any suspicion. I flatten my application form so it does not look messy. I open my passport to the page of the work visa, so he doesn’t look at the extension from the tourist visa. My two passport size and type pictures are in my hand ready to be attached, along with my proof of payment stamp. Everything is ready. “Please let me in, Immigration Man, I won't toe your line today. Let me in”.

My turn. I smile politely and hand him my paperwork. He shuffles through them and his face wrinkles. He did not do this for others. What did I do wrong? Does he remember me? “Are you here by yourself?” He asks.

I answer slowly and sheepishly, “Yes. Is that not OK?”

He looks down dejected, “Yes, that is OK.” A minute later after shuffling through them again, he looks up, “Do you have any other documents?”

“Yes, what do you need? I have them right here.” I point to my large tan envelope tattered from all the places it has traveled in the last two months.

“Do you have medical examination form?”

“Yes, I am sorry I forgot.” I quickly scrounge through my papers looking for the medical exam form from the hospital I picked up yesterday that I cannot read in HanGul. I do not know what it says I do or do not have. Phew! I found it! “Here it is.” I hand it to him.

He briefly inspects it and then asks, “Do you have a Guarantor of Employment?”

“What is that?”

“It lets us know you have been guaranteed a job here in South Korea.”

“Oh. I gave that to the officer in Japan when applying for me E-2 visa. Do I need it?”

“Yes.” He looks down and frowns again. I can feel the pit in my stomach swelling. “Let me in, Immigration Man, I won’t toe your line today. Let me in.”

“Can we call your employer?”

I freak for a second. I do not know the Principle’s phone number or name for that matter. “Can we call my manager?”

“Yes.” I hand him her business card from my wallet. He then reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. I lift my finger and say, “Please use mine” as I hand him my phone. He accepts it with a smile.


They talk and argue in Korean for almost twenty minutes with the stares from the long line behind creeping up and down my spine and back slicing me to pieces. What are they saying? It is my life and I have no clue what they are talking about. Helpless, hopeless and every other –less watching him become more and more frustrated with her on the phone. Hs voice and facial expression are becoming tenser by the minute. He then hangs up out of nowhere and hands me the phone. He gets up and speaks to another officer who then stares at me and looks me up and down. The piercing is now both back and front. I had less scorn and scrutiny as a homeless man sleeping in my van for the five months previous to Korea. He returns to his desk and asks for my phone again.

He calls her back and they speak a little more calmly this time. Three minutes later he is off the phone and hands it back to me. He says while looking directly at me, “Get delivery certification and bring it back to me.”

“Does it come in the mail?”

“No. You get it over there” and he points towards the window, or is it the last desk, or Seoul? The East Indian man behind me tells me, “You just go to the last desk and she will show you what you need.”

“Thank you Sir”, I say to him and leave the line to get this delivery thing that I have no idea what is, how long it takes or how much it costs. I was second on line there and a nice woman helped me fill the form out. “That is four thousand won sir”

Four thousand won. I do not think I have that much on me. I look through my wallet. Three one thousand won bills. I fumble around in my pocket to see how much in coins I have. Exactly one thousand! I hand her the four thousand won and lower my head in embarrassment. She rubber-stamps the form and hands it to me. “Please bring this back to the man at the other line.”

“Thank you.” And I walk back over there and stand on the side so he can see me. “Let me in, Immigration Man, I won’t toe your line today.” This song used to have such a different meaning to me before today.

He sees me and reaches out for me to hand him the form. He adds it to the others and places a clasp on them, folds them along with my passport and places them on the far end of his desk in a different place then everyone else’s paperwork. I stand there waiting for his cue on what to do next. His cell phone rings, he takes it out of his pocket and walks away. Ten minutes later he returns to his desk and starts back with the pregnant couple from India. Several minutes later I interrupt and ask, “Is there anything else I need to do? Or am I done?”

He smiles and laughs gently, “Oh. You are done. Thank you.”


I walk away towards the door not really knowing what happened and whether it was good or bad.

“Please let me in,
Immigration Man.
I won’t toe your line today,
I can’t see it anyway.
Won’t you let me in Mr. Immigration Man?
Can I cross the line and pray?
I can stay another day.”

Finding My Path

I have walked these streets of Cheonan for more than six weeks now. Originally through only Young Am dong, since that is where there are so many stores and restaurants in my section of the city. I ventured further towards the Lotte Mart in my second week, finding clothes to wear to work, mops, cleaning supplies, neat pillows to sleep and meditate on (www.jayeonsum.com) that smell like a mix of sandalwood and cardamom with an orange/ochre cover and finally the immense food section with guys on loud microphones yelling about specials in Korean that just echo through my brain while sifting through Kimchi, bean curd, seeded dark red grapes, mandarin oranges, frozen Mondu (steamed dumpling with either Kimchi or meat) and mini shrimp that cost less than the equivalent of $2.00 for one serving. Ironic for a guy who promotes the refusal to support major chain likes Wal-mart, k-mart or any other damn mart.

After my trip to Seoson, I returned committed to finding a real place to walk, a path with real live trees and grass and dirt. Living in an urban environment that is fully developed with concrete everywhere was beginning to take its toll on me. I ventured out into Ssang-yongdong and its massive white concrete apartment buildings with sidewalks of yellow, mauve and green with a middle row raised for those who cannot see to stay on the path forward.

My evening walks have been a Blessing for me in their sense of feeling part of a community amongst the families, couples and folks walking, talking and relaxing on these beautiful summer nights here in Korea. I found a really cool park with moms playing badminton with their kids. Teens shooting hoops on a Saturday night and laughing about something and nothing. The exercise equipment made for outdoor strengthening and stretching filled with families and kids playing and doing their thing. Folks walking slowly riverside enjoying life, love and the steady stream flowing through life and Cheonan. I enjoyed this walk so much I did it three nights in a row and one resulted in a fun conversation with a man who spoke good English and invited me to his home to hang out near midnight. We ate garlic potato chips and he asked me if I wanted to watch Korean XXX movies. It took a minute for my brain to filter through his Korean accent of English learned in Australia to realize he was talking about porn, when my face flushed and turned red before saying, “No thank you” shyly.

But still, no path of nature.

Until tonight. I ate a massively delicious meal at this local place that folks sit on the floor on little gold or olive green pads stacked under the table. I have eaten here twice before with my coworker and the lady promised she would remember what I liked so when I came in myself she could serve it to me. She did, along with five side dishes including excellent Kimchi, sweetened onions, mung beans, pickled green beans with sesame seeds and roasted eggplant; these were just the free side dishes. The meal itself was a stew with lots of black pepper, sesame leaves, chili paste and pork bones over white rice. Heaven for 5,000 won, or five bucks in the U.S. While eating my meal as were the three men across from me, the owner/cook/cashier/server turned into delivery driver on motorcycle and left the restaurant to deliver a meal with four customers comfortably enjoying their meals with no fear of theft or anything else. She returned moments later smiling and laughing like she always does.

I left and ran into one of my favorite kids that I teach English to with her younger brother and mom. She loves playing with me almost as much as I do with her. Her mom was nice, genuine and spoke good English. I left them and headed in another direction for further exploration of Ssang-yongdong. I weaved through the winding roads of one of the apartment complexes to find a nice walkway with a sign pointing towards something that I could read the letters and pronounce but was clueless of the meaning. I followed the arrows like a good little boy who eats his vegetables. And there it was, a dirt path- real dirt complete with dirt. I was so excited I almost trampled on an elderly man passing by as I entered the trail to somewhere. There were grass, trees, bushes and dirt- old friends I have dearly missed; maybe more than friends and family back home. I could smell the dirt and greenness of nature, smiling and smiling, maybe even giggling. It being after 10:00 at night, it was dark hiking up the hill on the dirt path in my four-dollar brown sandals from CVS. No problem, even for a guy like me with a light deficiency in both eyes. Koreans line these paths with lights that are triggered by motion. As I climbed the hill, every fifty feet or so another series of lights magically lead the way for me. More giggles, one leading me to thanking God for me finally finding a place to walk, hide, reflect, write and feel Real whenever I need it, day or night just a few blocks from my home. I walked for about a mile without reaching the apex. More smiling at the thought that tomorrow I can do this with camera in backpack when light and bright and see Cheonan from above.

I have found my path. I needed this. As usual, I found it while wandering through life and Ssang-yongdong aimlessly in spite of myself. Grace is a beautiful thing.

My Hollywood Nightmare

It was nearly eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit in the Namba District of Osaka, Japan. My black backpack was stuffed with my camera, MacBook, iPod, writing book and the book I am studying Korean lazily. It weighed a lot since I had been walking around to stall time before picking up my passport and accepted E-2 work visa from the Republic of Korea as an English teacher. I had waited for this day since the day I departed the Northwest Airlines airbus six weeks ago to become a legal resident for one year as a teacher.

Last night I had a nightmare that I would be walking down the street and for no reason, a band of Japanese police officers would grab me from all angles, question me in Japanese which I do not speak, detain and keep me like all those awful movies showed at 3:00a.m. on cable of American’s lives ripped to shreds in a foreign land for no reason except country of birth. The nightmare included being beaten, raped and starved to the point of malnutrition. Yes the nightmare pierced through my belly and kept me awake for at least half the night. No visa, no flight back to Korea at 5:00p.m. and no teaching English to incredibly loving and wonderful elementary school students at Cheonanyoungam Elementary School. Life over. Till I awoke in the morning and I was sleeping on a bed in a youth hostel in Kyoto with the sun shining through the plastic window. I was not in jail but safe and apprehensively preparing for my day of travel and finally attaining my E-2 working visa. I ate breakfast at the Zen Café; the German potato salad was not very German or really potato salad, just boiled potatoes. Everything else was a little better- mediocre. The train and subway rides back to Osaka were boring and uneventful. I then walked around Namba searching for a place to eat lunch after acquiring my visa from the Korean Embassy to make sure I had a decent meal before the train ride to Kansia Airport departing to Incheon, South Korea. The plan was perfect including one more meal of fresh Japanese Sushi, a perfect plan.

Perfect till a warm “Hello” to the two Japanese police officers stations outside the Korean Embassy where I will enter at 1:30 to pick up my E- visa. Perfect till the first young officer approached me at the corner about forty feet away out of breath with his right hand placed firmly on his black pistol and his mouth and nose covered with a white pollution mask. He asked me something in Japanese, I answered by asking him, “Do you speak any English?” Before he could answer, another officer approached with urgency and got directly in front of me and looked me in the eyes and asked in broken English, “Passport?”

That is when the nightmare began. See, my visa was sitting comfortably on the desk in the air-conditioned office of the visa officer on the second floor of the Korean Embassy forty feet away. He just stared, not having any idea what I just said to him. The stare is what produced my panic, any response would have signaled at least a hint of understanding. Nothing, Nada, Zilch. Just a blank stare that began to increase intensity when he again asked, “Passport?” This time it was less of a question and more of a directive. I took a deep breath and was extremely conscious of speaking slow, even and soft- my freedom was now in serious question. I reached to take my pack off my back and a third officer approached and stopped me with fear and intensity in his eyes that were open wide. I stopped without flinching or reacting suddenly. He asked again for my passport and I again tried to explain that it was at the Korean Embassy knowing what little they understood was being communicated by an American that keeps bringing up the Korean Embassy; a two for one of Japans two greatest targets of prejudice and hate.

They then demanded to see some identification. I reached slowly for my wallet and showed them my Wisconsin drivers license, which only added to their concern. I was giving them an American drivers license when I said I live in South Korea. “Open your bag!”

I slowly released my backpack off my shoulders onto the cement sidewalk full of pedestrians walking by. I was too scared to see if they were watching or not but I could feel their stares rolling off my back. I slid the zipper of the largest compartment open and took out my MacBook covered in a pillowcase that I purchased from an old Tibetan couple at a twelve-day Teaching with the Dalai Llama in August of 1999. Then my little purple, orange, black and red knit bag that I found on the sidewalk in Madison, WI a few years ago with my iPod, cords and my black cannon S5 IS camera that shot over 500 pictures in the previous three days in Japan. My yellow, brown and ochre writing pad that is almost full of pages written this summer. The book I am learning how to read and speak Korean. And finally, my soft, clear plastic Nalgene bottle that I have drank from every day since the spring of 1995 full of tap water from the youth hostel I stayed in the night before in Kyoto. Still no expression.

The medium pocket with my small pad I carry for notes and drawings for language barrier emergencies was of no help with Japanese police. Then I saw the e-ticket for my flights to and from Incheon-Seoul airport and Kansai, “Maybe this will help”. I showed it to them excitedly until they pointed out to each other that I came from Seoul. “You came from Korea? I thought you were an American! Where is your passport!”

The officer with the white mask covering his nose and mouth from pollution spoke to one of the other officers and then looked at me and said, “We take you to police station now!” I cold feel my freedom evaporating- no E-2 visa, no flight back to Incheon-Seoul and no life in Korea or elsewhere. I motioned with my fingers for them to walk with me to the Korean Embassy to get my passport. “We take you to police station now!”

I took a deep breathe, I remembered what has worked in most life situations since I was first trained and attuned in January of 1996 in my cherry wood paneled loft out in the country. Reiki! I took another deep breath and invited Reiki into the space for a few seconds, maybe ten. Then the strangest thing happened. They all just walked away. No internal conversation, no “I am sorry for bothering you”, no “OK, you can go now”. They just independently walked away in three different directions as if nothing happened.

I was standing there on the street corner with my black pack on the ground opened by myself. I picked up my pack, slipped it on my back and walked the forty feet to the Korean Embassy. I walked up the stairs to the right passed one of the officers who just violated me and my space to the automatic glass sliding doors to enter the Korean Embassy. Up the stairs to the visa issuing officer. It was now 1:28, I was two minutes early. I sat on one of the available seats and held back my tears on the outside but on the inside, I was drenched. I survived my Hollywood nightmare in Namba, Japan.

My number was called, “13” and I was issued my E-2 visa. I shared my experiences with the officer who appeared genuinely bothered. I returned down the steps out the door past the two officers guarding the Embassy and to the sushi bar around the corner I discovered earlier for my last opportunity for fresh sushi in Japan. It was an incredible meal! I paid my bill and headed towards Namba station to take the train to Kansai International Airport.

I never thought in my life that a Korean Embassy in Japan would be such a welcome sight to an American from North Jersey just outside of NYC. For me, it was the end of the nightmare and the beginning of my trip home safely to Cheonan.