Blindness

As the weather in South Korea starts to turn, so have the leaves. I have been looking forward to this more this year than past. I wanted to see what it looks like here in autumn. It has arrived. Red, burnt orange, orange, yellow, ochre, green and light green fill the streets of Cheonan. Today, being a sometimes-sunny sometimes-cloudy day, I wanted to get out on Tang San Mountain with camera and hiking shoes to enjoy the day. I did not leave my room till about 3:30, which was fine. It is getting dark near 6:00 so I would have plenty of time to explore and take pictures of the trees and whatever else caught my fancy. I got some great shots of the top of the white cement apartment buildings foreshadowing all the mountains in the background that surround the city of Cheonan. I had not seen this view before since it was the first time I made it to this trail. This one was more vigorous of an incline and had better unobstructed views of the city.

After about 45 minutes, I decided to take my first off the main path trail. I knew I had time before dark and know my way around this part of the city well enough that wherever I ended up, I would be OK. Along the way, I asked my Higher Self to be in charge and giude me where I needed to be, I trusted that and felt the support. I got lost and it took about a 1-½ hours to make it to the other main trail I typically hike on. No big deal.

I saw there was a set of steps with a sign marking to be only 0.2 km to the end. The steps seemed to go forever but I had been in the middle of the woods by myself in search of solitude long enough. I thought some time walking on the street would be nice. I started towards the top step and there was a woman by herself on the top step. She was wearing a green shirt with a lighter green shawl around her neck and shoulders. Her pants were black and she had semi-long black hair. Everybody in Korea has black hair. She was standing on the top stop in the exact middle twirling and rubbing her hands on a red leaf that looked similar but with less edges than an oak tree would produce. I paused for a second before entering, not wanting to disturb her intense experience with the leaf. She seemed so focused and single-minded. About a minute later, I decided to slowly walk around her without breaking her moment. I started down what looked like more than a hundred wood and dirt steps with a sharp incline slowly. I typically do not have good balance on steps for some reason. I focused my energy to my feet and my balance improved. As soon as I started walking, the woman in the green shirt started right behind me, like right behind me. I felt a little nervous, since I am not accustomed to folks walking right on my tail in the woods, especially down steps. I slowed to let her pass but she didn’t. I stopped, stood to the right side and motioned for her to pass gently; she stopped right behind me and wouldn’t look at me. I started again, walked about seven or eight steps and stopped again. She stopped directly behind me and I again motioned for her to pass. Again she did not, but this time she stomped her foot on the ground loudly. Still no eye contact or acknowledgement. I felt uncomfortable at this point. What social/cultural boundary have I broken? Is it not proper for women to pass man on steps? Is she afraid of walking in front of me? While finishing this third question, I approached a small bench inches off the trail on the right for folks to rest while trying to make it to the top due to the sharp incline. These trails have many older folks enjoying them and a bench is a good thing. For me, it was Blessing at this moment. I stopped, and sat on the bench’s left side with my backpack still on, since I planned on only staying there till the woman in the green sweater passed and created some distance for me. She stood right in front of me and stomped again. Her expression was blank but intense. I looked up and her eyes were closed. She looked like she was forcefully praying or something similar. I could feel her frustration and did not know what to do. I sat there still leaning back against my black pack. She started stomping more and did it several times, maybe eight or nine. She became more forceful and firm in her stomping each time. Her energy was strong and willful. She needed me to do something but could not tell me or was not willing to do so. I sat. A minute later she started walking. She walked slowly and I looked in another direction to not be rude. About ten steps later, she started stomping again on a large white rock at a curve in the step-path. She looked downright angry at this point. I was scared. I did not know what to do but sit. While she was stomping on the white rock, an elder couple with hats on passed her coming up the hill. Another couple, going down, passed her and then she started walking again. I felt a sigh of relief.

I waited about five minutes seated there on the bench to give her some space. I recalled she never let go of that red leaf in her right hand the whole time. I man and his son plopped down next to me, we exchanged pleasant glances. Then it hit me. It was not a social/cultural issue, the woman was blind. She could not see and would listen for the steps of those in front of her to find her way down the to the bottom safely. She was not standing at the top step to be with her red leaf; she needed a guide to make it down safely. She was not avoiding eye contact, she could not see me! My blindness was the problem, not hers. A sharp pain ran through my gut. What a jerk I am. I felt shame and embarrassment. I asked my Higher Self to send me where I needed to go and I was directed to lead her down Tang San Mountain safely. I failed and was somewhat rude along the way. I prayed for forgiveness, stared to cry on the bench next to the man and his son. They could not tell. I prayed for her. How could I do such a thing? What is wrong with me?

I got up to head down the trail. I walked down the steps faster than normal. I wanted to do something, anything but be alone with my shame. I am such a fool. When I made it to the bottom. There was a small park with a playground. A couple of moms and kids were playing. There was a woman sitting on a bench to the right. I looked and it was not her. I did a mental check to make sure I remembered what she was wearing correctly- green shirt with a light green shawl and black pants. No, she was not there. I walked towards the sidewalk I saw about fifty feet ahead. I looked both left and right, across the street and in every direction. She was nowhere to be found. I started in the direction that I thought would bring me home since I did not recognize the streets or area that was around me. About fifteen feet to my left and there she was. How did I not see her when I looked? She was stopped with the red leaf in her hand. She stood as if she was taking inventory of her situation, so was I. She paused then started walking in the direction towards me very slowly. She appeared cautious in her steps. As I passed her on her left, I softly said, “ I am sorry” knowing she would not understand the words but possibly the sentiment and energy behind the words. I sensed her focus was elsewhere and hearing some babble in another language by some guy was not high on her priority list at that moment. I started walking again; tears were again building up inside me. I am so blind. I know nothing. I think I do but I do not. Blindness, total blindness. I looked back and she was walking on the yellow grooved tiles that mark the center of Korean sidewalks for folks visually impaired. Her strain and focus was intense. I prayed for her. I prayed for me that I may learn how to see. I prayed and held back tears the entire hour or so it took me to get back my neighborhood. Along the way, a few different groups of young kids did the “Hello” routine with the foreigner. Typically I enjoy their enthusiasm and excitement. Today I was too full of shame but I played along because that it was the foreigner does with kids, play along. I stopped at ‘815’ grocery store to pick up some stuff for dinner. The bright lights and activity startled me. I brushed away my feelings and did what I needed to do. I left with my backpack stuffed with chicken, curry, eggplant and cucumbers. One block till home and still blind. “I was blind, but now I see” runs through my head with its soft, warm melody. Grace, that is what I need.

Mother Theresa was once asked, “Why you pray so much?”

“Because I need it. I don’t pray enough. I should pray more so I could be of greater service. I need it, that is why I pray.”

I need to pray more. I am blind and need to learn how to see.

Vacations

i have strange relationship with vacations and the word vacation. The word conjures up visions of white people all over the world having people of color serving them hand and foot like slaves. There is no greater example of white privilege than vacations and how they are constructed in my experience. Where women do what they would never do at home and almost always regret, and men get drunk and cheat on the women that love them. Somehow folks think the are Karmically exempt on vacations. Shopping in malls in every corner of the globe still is shopping and making rich white people richer. The Gap in milan is the same as the Gap in Seoul and in downtown madison, wi, usa. The excuse to spend wrecklesslly and treat the human body like a terrorist holding your child for ransom is obscene to me. So in that sense, i hate vacations. There are very few things in the world i hate- that definition of vacation is one of the select group.

OK, so what do i see as a vacation that is not despicable to me? Time off to meditate, walk, bike ride, camp, write, paint, sleep, sing, hike, snuggle, be with those i love, meet new people on adventures, push beyond my comfort zone, enter communities quietly and humbly, not as a tourist or vacationer. Help out a local organization while there. Drop by the local parks and visit with people who talk to you because you are a nice person, not because you paid them to be nice to you. Stay in a youth hostel, raizon, or a guest house. Be with real people with real lives. Walk gently and leave no foot print. Beaches are my favorite places for time away from home. Mountains are not far behind but it is still beaches when given the opportunity.

If never have tried it, traveling through Couch Surfing Project is my favorite way to travel. The CS project is an international community of over 600,000 folks who offer their homes and or time to help your stay in their community feel like home, a real home with real people who are nice because they are nice. There are no financial transactions made and i have made many great friends and companions that continue to be in my life.

Traveling by train is a ton of fun too. It is slow, calm, gentle and a continual sense of meditative peacefulness. Beats airports, airplanes, buses and cars by a long shot. And you get to see the sites without adding traffic or pollution to the communities that you pass through! They still get to live their lives while you can appreciate their environment.

I do not like having external commitments. That is the main function of vacations for me. I meditate when the Higher Self says it is time. I walk when the Higher Self says its time. Eating, sleeping, napping, playing and everything else follow that same blueprint. I enjoy meeting and watching new people in different places. I learn so much about me and us- our similarities and differences. We are such an interesting species. Visiting Temples Churches and Synagogues is my favorite part of most trips. I love learning how others relate to the Divine.

I rarely have the sense of "needing to get away". I like my life and what i do in it. In fact, vacations and weekends are almost identical, just vacations are in a different location without the comfort of sleeping and cooking in my space with my energy surrounding me. I usually miss home after a few days but enjoy the time experiencing different people, energies and environments.

Sirens

I am baffled, completely. I have been here in Cheonan, South Korea for three and half months and I have only heard three sirens during that period. I live about three hundred yards from the local police station. You would think I would hear them fancy sirens they have go off just to test them, like they do with fire trucks in the USA.

Siren #1: In August, no September, no it was August I was taking a bus to Incheon-Seoul Airport for a flight to Japan, while trying to fall asleep from boredom and exhaustion of going to bed after midnight and waking at 4:445a.m. to meditate, catch two buses and make it to the airport on time; I heard my first Korean siren. It caught me off guard due to my groggy state and the never before heard sound of a Korean ambulance. It passed us in a hurry on Highway 1 in a buzz and flash. I fell asleep a moment later.

Siren #2: A September evening walk through Ssang-yongdong on an atypically warm night but still cool enough to enjoy the occasional breeze and fresh air without sweat to get in the way. I crossed Ssang-yongdong 2 towards the park I have a thing for, especially at night. It is an open area with pretty red, green, yellow and burnt orange tiled floor and benches along the perimeter in two semi-circles and a circular bench-like place to rest and enjoy the trees, grass and seafood restaurant across the skinny street. I can see the stars and clouds anytime I go there. I have painted there on Sunday afternoons to enjoy sun, air and well, painting. This night I was still passing Highvill apartments across from the better Paris Baguette in my neighborhood when I heard my first Korean police siren. It startled me. The sound was foreign and piercing. Almost nightly I walk past the police station twice on my way out and in from a walk wondering what a police siren sounds like here. The first time caught me by surprise somehow. I must be the inner anticipation of sitting on the circular bench-like thing staring at stars and nothing. I stopped when I heard it moving closer, quickly and forcefully. And there it was, a police car with blue and red lights and a siren. I gawked at it like I do the first time I see a barely covered young woman in a bikini every spring like I have never seen a woman before. I forgot where I was going when I was done gawking and the police car was out of my visual proximity. Bikinis, yum!

Siren #3: I was walking home from school and had just passed the police station. The police car went less than a block before finding whatever it was looking for. I saw no urgency or criminals or anything. Just a siren and a cop car driving a half block and the two tall thin male officers dressed in tan uniforms leaving the vehicle and standing by the patrol car looking at something. Nothing happened that I can see but they stayed there for a at least the two minutes I watched from the corner where the silly looking blown up sign in front of the cell phone store is across the street. I hate those blow-up signs I see around here at cell phone places. Sometimes I feel like popping them when I walk by. A product of growing up as a boy in America, the deep need to destroy thing because I can. They don’t do that here for some reason. I left to get home and take my nightly 15-20 minute Reiki nap on the floor before dinner.

I am baffled. Why does a city with a half million people all living so close together not need police sirens for crimes or crisis situations? How are there no fires? Doesn’t anybody ever need to go to the hospital with an emergency? I do not get it. How is this possible? I live two blocks from the police station and work across the street from it with my classroom staring directly at its front door with my windows open every day. Where are the emergencies and crisis? Baffled, simply baffled.

Tang San Mountain Tonight

I put on my new waterproof windbreaker I received via a delivery guy last week for the first time. I had already de-factoried it last week with a nice wash and ten hours in the sun hanging out my window and the smell is fresh air not plastic and chemicals. This made me smile casually. I stepped outside my, door and my neighbor across the hall was returning to her place and said “HI. How are you?” She meant it. We met a few times previously. She can speak English and is an English teacher at a hag won (institute) here in Cheonan. “Good! I am going out for a nice walk.”

Her face looked puzzled. “But it is raining outside.”

“I know. I said I was going for a walk, I didn’t say it made sense.”

She smiled warmly, “It should be good. Bye-Bye.”

“Yes it should, thanks. Bye-Bye.” And down the marble brown and tan steps to the exit door and the stone and cement walkway in front of our building. It is barely raining, one of my favorite walking environments, especially with the temperature in the lower sixties and dark. This kind of weather seems to always facilitate reflection and sensory awareness that I typically do not have at my access. I walked up the little hill across the street with the green and white concrete tiles to the main drag in my neighborhood. My neighborhood. Wow, I really live here now. I am no longer rock star nor Martian. I have achieved both neighbor and alien residentship. I am an alien. Many of my family members and friends have wondered if I was an alien for as long as I can remember. They have proof now in the shape of an ID card in my black Eagle Creek wallet.

There are less folks out on the streets than usual. This makes me happy. Tonight I brought my iPod and headphones seeking private time in public; hiding in plain sight. I do not put on my headphones yet. I want to feel the rain and hear the water and smell the freshness before I go inside the tangled web called my brain. Maybe I should take a shot at walking up Tang San Mountain. How muddy and slippery could it be? I have now passed Young Am Chatam Hokyo (elementary school) where I am an English teacher. I like teaching at a public school. The sense of hominess that is present supports me being me and them being them. Yeah, I will take a short walk up Tang San tonight. How bad can it be? I have my cell phone if it gets too bad. Crossing Ssang-yangdong 2 and heading towards the back of Highvill apartments where the trailhead begins. I hesitate at the trailhead, fear is ugly and ruthless. I take my first cautious steps up the steps to the dirt trail. I see three young guys walking down talking casually. They are not alarmed or cautious; I will be safe. They are the last humans I see on the mountain tonight. A rare contrast to the fifty or so I typically see at ten at night on a weeknight. I am grateful I will get rain, mountain, dirt and space while listening to the bugs and insects make their chirping and buzzing sounds. They are different than what I know them to sound like back in the states, more buzzing than I can remember. The dirt is soft but not slippery, which makes for a nice gentle walk. I slow down to breath in the smell of green, wet. It is its own smell without name or identification but certainly fragrant and embracing all who care to give in to its loving sweetness. The drops on my head are small; I take my hood off. I want to miss nothing tonight. Wet, the smell of greenness wet, the wet soft soil and the sounds of those who live here on the mountain. Tonight is my night here since others chose to stay indoors tonight. I feel bad that folks run for cover at any sign of inclement weather, it is such a treat on nights like tonight. Then I again smile that hidden gesture of knowing a secret that you won’t share; the secret is life is good and I am on the mountain by myself. The motion-sensor lights on the path tickle me every time they go off and on, I feel like I am walking through a scene in some movie from a time in the future or on planet Q or something. Time to turn around; I have enjoyed the walk and the mountain, no reason to get greedy. Besides, I want to listen to Vas and it seems like sacrilege to put on my headphones and iPod at a moment and place like this. Maybe even blasphemy.

I reach the bottom and enter the sidewalk with ochre, green and burnt red tiles and start up the hill to the right. I walk while searching for Vas on my iPod. They rocked me last night on my bike ride and I want to relive that again tonight in slow-mo by foot. I pass a couple who gaze at me, I feel shame at now being one of the people I judge walking in public with headphones and shutting off the world. I am back on Sang-yongdong 2 and turn left towards home. The fresh air pulls my head to the right and I notice the signs for Boar English Academy and HanKook University for Foreign Studies with its green, yellow and white sign. I approach the first of two Paris Baguette bakeries on my short walk home. The have a new Korean wheat and buckwheat cornmeal bread I tried tonight for the first timer, it was good with my jinn Ramen and Curried chicken over a vegetable salad I had for dinner tonight. I am back at Young Am Chatam Hokyo. I look up at where my classroom is. There it is, third floor on the corner facing the police station across the street. I am not ready to go home yet. I want to sit somewhere dry and appreciate the night air and mist. I remember there is a small shelter near the soccer field across the door I enter and leave daily, since my slippers are in a cubbyhole there for me to wear every day at work. I love wearing slippers at work; it should be an international law that every school in the world bans shoes worn by anyone. I imagine a lot less violence and disrespect. I plop down under the shelter on the top step of the left hand side. It feels nice. Fresh, clean, alive. I relax for just a few minutes. I am pleased and satiated; I do not want to be greedy tonight. Take what I need and leave the rest for others. Life is good.

I leave school grounds through the gate and turn right. I pass the other Paris Baguette and Nong Hyup Bank where the Korean government sends my paychecks and takes out money to pay for the delicious lunches provided at school, and I wire money to the states to pay some old balances left from six months without pay. The American dollar’s crash has cost me about four hundred dollars on Friday due to exchange rates having dropped almost 30% in the three months I’ve been here. Should I go left up the hill by the park next to Mama’s Touch Chicken or the usual way? The usual way. It occurs to me stronger and louder than earlier tonight. This is my neighborhood. I live here. This is my home! I am a neighbor again. People know me. They cannot speak with me and do not know my name, but they know me. We have exchanged bows and smiles- connection. Warmth and respect do not need words.

Tonight I will write about tonight. I have written intentional lies my last three pieces. Time to return to me, the real me. Tonight is about me. Well, not really, it is about us. Our lives, our dreams and our moments together and separate. We breathe, we eat and we love and then we cry. This is who we are. This is my home. I live here. I am a neighbor again. I can offer my home to Couch Surfers again. I have a home. I see it, there it is right in front of me now. I think I will go inside, turn on my MacBook, continue to listen to Vas and type till I am done.

I am done.

My New Korean Bike

A silver frame with some cerulean blue mixed in. The seat is grey and the rack on the back is sliver with grey fenders underneath front and back. It is Korean made and new. It arrived today in a box at the school I work at by delivery. The bike cost an equivalent of about $55.00 dollars and the delivery fee about $6.00, it is the first brand-new bike I have owned since age ten when I had a Black Ghost sting-ray with a sissy bar in back, it was a five speed and I loved it till I crashed it going down a hill and landed in the hospital with five stitches in my right knee. The scar is still there. I have a new bike.

This is significant for many reasons; the one that moved me to start filling this blank page is that somewhere in the mid-late nineties, I made a personal commitment to stop buying new. This commitment has included everything in my life except food, plant seeds and underwear. I have been pretty vigil about this for the most part with a few alternative choices while traveling around in my van for five months this past year that added some new, simple tan leather shoes and a pair of Keen hiking shoes I found at a privately owned camping store for $30.00 at 80% off. I wore them bike riding tonight. My commitment was about recycling more than anything. Economy factored in since most of the last fifteen years has been one of part-time jobs or long-term retreats without income, to say money was not part of the equation would be misleading. I have found ways to wear clothes that were either purchased at thrift shops or dumpster diving to support my professional, spiritual and athletic lifestyle successfully. The few books that I felt the need to own a copy of came from half.com, garage sales and more dumpster diving. Furniture has only been found through sidewalk dumping and an occasional garage sale. That has ended now since residing in South Korea. Koreans do not do used, period.

There are no thrift shops, vintage clothing stores, e-bay equivalent and only two days a year are reserved for garage sales, yes two very specific days, otherwise it is illegal. Koreans do not believe in taking ownership of other peoples belongings. I have asked why and received peculiar looks as if I was asking to have sex in a public place with a stranger in the snow or something. They do not do used. I assume that they pass on items to each other among friends and family since Koreans typically are frugal, practical, simple and ecological by nature. My gut tells me they do not know why they do not buy used stuff really. My gut also tells me this is one of the many Buddhist traditional thinking concepts passed on so long folks do not know its origin or purpose, kind of like wearing underwear, which really have no purpose, nor do top sheets in bedding. The reason I think it is Buddhist is that I believe they do not want to take on somebody else's negative energy, imprint or Karma. This has always been a great challenge for me and my Teacher has several times questioned my choices on such matters. Used items, regardless of what they are or why we buy them, carry the imprint of those before us. A used bed carries all the sex, lust, dreams, nightmares, isolation and fears that have may have been part of the previous owners world. And the reverse is true as well; the love, joy, sharing, connection, fantasies and mutual-orgasms that may have taken place between the sheets carry an imprint too. What about a couch? Have there been arguing, fights, seduction, television, violence or desperation in its history? Furniture like homes and walls have histories, these histories can speak to us directly or not so directly but their voices will be heard. So the challenge has been to discern before purchasing if my energy and their history can be well matched or not. I have walked away from great and free items that rationally would be perfect for me but through inner discernment about possible contrasts in energetic tendencies. I have bought used clothes that I gave away after one wearing since they didn't feel right on my body or field.

Here in Korea that does not matter, the choice has been wiped from my range of possibilities. I am both grateful and disappointed in this process. I always feel better when I make the decision, not when the Universe does it for me, which is not a complete truth either but another tale for another day.

I enjoyed taking my bike for a test ride tonight. It is a small bike, really too small for my body. As someone who has used bicycles as his main source of transportation since 1995, comfort on a bike is important to me. But it is fine for the next nine months, if I feel guided to stay here longer; I will share this bike with someone else and get a better one that fits me. It felt good sweating enough to know about it and letting the wind flow across my face and cheeks. Seeing my neighborhood with new eyes that are moving faster than walking but slow enough to swallow my environment that buses cannot produce. I love bike riding, it is such a nice and peaceful way to move about through the world.

In 1996 in Bloomington, IN, USA, I was a guest at a meeting of The Simple Living Group. They were discussing how cyclists tend to be kinder and gentler than motorists on the road. My experiences echoed their theory on friendly bike riders. I shared a story that then made my nickname “Smile Michael” from that day forward among this group of folks that became friends of mine. There was this guy who owed a local rare and used bookstore on the square in the center of town. He had great books at semi-fair prices but he is a miserable, unhappy, elitist who made the energy and the experience of shopping in his store downright awful. I stopped going there but used to pass him every morning while riding my bike to work while he walked to his store with that same “I'm an intellectual, arrogant book worm who knows more about literature than you do you stupid un-cultured fool look”. I said “Hello” to him and smiled every morning without even an acknowledgement for almost two years five times a week. One day he nodded back to me. A few months later, he said, “Hi” and almost smiled; the closest he came to an actual smile in my six years in Bloomington. My work was done. Another town, another bike ride.

I have a brand new shiny silver and blue bike, I cannot wait to see what new adventures it will bring me!

Hope is in The Eyes

Eyes. Eyes are where I see hope and inspiration. Words often feel like a bridge but not the actual thing itself. Eyes tell the true story for me.

Lately I have had the opportunity to stare into the eyes of many young and beautiful children that can't communicate beyond "Hello" and "Goodbye" with me due to language barriers. It is such a powerful experience to share love, gratitude and connection through eye contact, bowing and holding hands or hugging. It really shreds away all the other stuff that often gets in the way.

Soft eyes that are not filled with propaganda and the illusion of needing more and better also have inspired me lately. The bulk of the youth here in South Korea are wholesome, even innocent in many ways. It is not as much that they are naive; it is more actual wholesome instincts that are cultivated through their families, communities, schools and culture as a whole. They would rather be hugged, smile and laugh than be cool, tough and walk around pouting to get their way. They genuinely want to be happy and share it with others. If I was a better author, I would be able to describe it more accurately. They are trusted and respected, and honor that respect with respecting others and trusting others.

An example would be that in a city of half million that I live in, all the florists in the neighborhood leave their most expensive plants out at night without locks and security. Kids are out till 10:00, 11:00 at night without supervision and nobody stares at them like they are bad and ready to do something wrong, and they don't. Young children below ten years old are out at night walking around, playing and running errands for their parents. Teenage girls walk home from their English, science and math academies after ten at night by themselves without fear and paranoia in their eyes. I have eaten in restaurants that the owner and only employee leave while you are eating to make a delivery without fear of being robbed or anything, they just smile on their way out and do their thing. You are respected regardless of who you are.

This all gives me hope. There is another way besides fear, power, sex and personal ambition. This gives me hope.

As a side note, not necessarily for his stance on issues or the fact that he is Black, but Obama gives me hope as well.

Peace and Hope,
michael

Returning to Well

After about a week of feeling stuffed, exhausted and drained from taking an anti-biotic for the first time since the mid-nineties, it was time to get well again. My co-worker insisted I get an injection before I get worse. Out of lack of energy to argue, I agreed. We called our manager and she said my insurance can be used anywhere and that I should definitely get an injection. My inner resistance to THAT kind of treatment was suppressed due to not knowing how or what to do otherwise here in Cheonan. I don’t speak the language and nobody I really know is involved in the kinds of treatment I would naturally choose. I would go before work the next morning; I was about to enter the world of western medicine that I left behind more than fifteen years ago in the middle of South Korea.

I went to bed late, my typical method of resistance that extends the day to avoid tomorrow. I slept later than was helpful, which reduced morning meditation and Reiki. Certainly more evidence of inner resistance when I need to support my system greater. It was beautiful outside and I started heading in the direction my co-worker who lives across the street from me said I could find a hospital for my injection. When I arrived at the corner I was directed to, I looked for the hospital and only saw a children’s hospital. I searched the area around the corner and saw a sign written in both HanGul and English: Oriental Medical Clinic. I smirked and walked in the building trying to figure out which floor to go to since I could not read the information on the elevator. I walked back outside and looked up at the green and white sign and counted the floors- one, two, three. It is on the third floor. I made a point of memorizing the name in HanGul to find it once I made it to the second floor. I can read HanGul; I just don’t know what anything means yet. I entered the elevator with a handful of other people. There were two young schoolgirls dressed in uniforms that giggled and put their hands over their mouth at seeing a foreigner on the elevator. How do they think we made it to the top floor of the World Trade Center without elevators?

The elevator doors opened, I turned left, no, I turned right and there was the same kind of white and green sign with the same words and an arrow. I followed the arrow and when I turned the corner, I could smell the sweet and pungent fragrance of ginseng, schizandra and a host of other Asian herbal remedies filling my clogged nostrils with an aroma that woke up my whole system. This I understand.

I opened the two glass doors with a twisted wooden branch as door handle and made note that like homes, restaurants and schools: medical clinic are also shoeless. A pleasing sight to add to the aroma that welcomed me to the clinic. I approached the desk cautiously knowing the hard part was about to arise, speaking to the receptionists who probably speak no English. I was correct, they both froze when I spoke and looked away as if they were hoping I would magically disappear or become fluent in HanGul when they turned their heads back. I didn’t. I pointed, my latest skill, to my throat and made a coughing sound, they acknowledged somewhat and pointed for me to sit down in the waiting area. A few nurses walked by and covered their mouths while they giggled at the foreigner trying to receive treatment without communication. I immediately felt shame and compassion for all the Latinos I dismissed as customers due to language in the mid-eighties when working for Radio Shack as a Retail Sales Manager. Karma has a good memory; it lasts from lifetime to lifetime and certainly remembers 1985.

About fifteen minutes later I was guided by a nurse dressed in pink by my shirt sleeve towards the back area to a gold curtain which the nurse pointed for me to get up on the small carpeted table and lie down, I did. When I wasn’t doing it properly, instead of returning to the pointing method, she just moved me to where she wanted me the way that nurses do. A few minutes later, a woman, I assumed the clinician of whatever form of treatment they do, entered the little curtained off area and said, “Hello”.

English!

She asked me several question about my symptoms including typical Asian treatment concerns like, “How are your bowel movements?” “Are you sleeping OK?” “Have you had an diarrhea?” Have you been eating well?” This conversation was taking place while she was pressing her hands into various points around my digestive system. Each time I made a face or sound, she pressed again deeper and asked, “Which hurts more this or this?” She then asked, “Have you ever had acupuncture before?

“Yes. Chinese acupuncture in America.”

“Have you ever taken any herbal (with the “h” pronounced) remedies?”

“Yes, many including ginseng.”

“Do you like ginseng? Does it make your stronger?”

“I do like ginseng. It gives me more energy but sometimes I get shaky from it.”

“Are you allergic to anything” She pointed to her arms and makes motion to illustrate hives, “Hives?”

“I cannot take alcohol, and my mother, father and brother are allergic to penicillin.” It did not seem necessary to say they were allergic to penicillin since they are not alive anymore. “I have never had any, since they told me I would be allergic too.”

“Korean acupuncture is more painful than Chinese. This point on the bottom of your foot will hurt, please take a deep breathe.” I did but it still sent a sharp pain through my right foot and ankle, which lasted only five seconds. “I give you three day supply of herbs for you to take, come back at 6:00p.m. since it takes three hours to make. You come back Thursday see me. OK?”

“Yes, I get off work at 6:00. I can do that.”

“OK. Twenty minute, needles. Just rest. OK?”

“Yes.” And she was gone. It was only a matter of minutes before I could feel the little twitches and pulsing of the energy shifting and moving throughout my system. It felt good to be placing my well being in the hands of someone like her doing something like this. After a week of anti-biotic (anti-life) and cough medicine, it felt good to be treated in a familiar manner again.

That was Tuesday morning, it is now Friday night and I feel the best I have since the day I stepped off the plane in Incheon-Seoul Airport on July 15th. My body feels healthy again and my cough and sinus congestion are almost completely gone. It took sickness for me to notice my body was not operating optimally. As usual, when looking for the hospital to take an injection I did not want, I wandered blindly till I found what I really needed, as usual, in spite of myself. The Universe sure is efficient!

Oscar the Janitor

I started working for the Urban League of Greater Madison in October of 2003. The first project I worked on and the whole four plus years I worker there, was at a middle school here in Madison, Wisconsin.

After being at the school for a little while, I noticed one of the janitors. His name is Oscar and he is a beautiful man from Costa Rico. He has a dark complexion for a Costa Rican with a graying beard and sideburns and short wavy balding hair. He typically wears t-shirts with bright colors. His brown eyes are full and deep. He moved to the states many years ago as an adult. He is friendly in such a warm and genuine manner that it is hard not to want to be around him. To be honest, his smile beams greater than almost anyone I have ever seen. It radiates out to fill up the whole hallway while having casual conversation. He always has a minute to engage in brief interactions; every one of them is filled with all his presence and sweetness.

One day, some of the boys were making fun of Oscar but he paid no mind while they laughed and teased him about “being just a janitor”. One of my co-workers pulled the boys into our room and shut the door. I was new to the scene, but knew what that meant. Arthur and Barry, the two guys I share space with, shut the door when they want to say things that would get them fired with the door open. He explained to the boys how disrespectful and rude it was to speak to a janitor like that. One of the boys made a comment like "Yeah, but he is just a janitor!" Then Arthur shared with the boys (and me) about Oscar:

Oscar had been a high level corporate executive, a real mover and shaker. He owns several expensive cars and retired early after accumulating more wealth than needed. After retiring, he wanted to be around kids but did not want to have the responsibility for them. So, he chose to be a school janitor.

My mentor has an expression that I hold close to me. She talks about "hiding in plain site". By this, she means being out in the world but drawing no special attention to yourself- being present without being noticed. Oscar is a master at hiding in plain site. He cleans the classrooms and bathrooms with such ease and grace. He moves his boom box with him down the halls after-school, while listening to the local Spanish station, La Movida. He never stresses or looks bothered by the mess the kids make. You would never even know he can read or write by how simply he carries himself, forget about being a high powered corporate executive.

I hope sometime in my life I smile once as brightly and beautifully, as he does daily while cleaning school hallways, classrooms and bathrooms. My mentor has recommended to me many times over the last 15+ years that being a night janitor would be an excellent job for me- working with my hands, simple, focused, no drama and do something for people who never know you do it for them. I am still too attached to being important to make that leap yet. It is not that I do not see the benefit for me, I do. It is just the ego is still firmly in control of this man.

The Truth is that his smile has its source in him, not in his moisturizer, shower gel or "age defying cream". Peace, Joy and Love are the original beauty secrets (and much cheaper too). For those who want another more practical resource Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps. Their quote is " Enjoy only 2 cosmetics, enough sleep & Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap to clean body-mind-soul-spirit instantly uniting ONE! All-One!" They are the only the only products I use on a regular basis. It is Oscar's Inner smile that brightens the hallways. It is his willingness to give without need for thanks or recognition that shines for us to see if we look. I have run into Oscar several times out while he is walking his two really cool, unusual dogs, and that same presence and peace is still there.

Happiness and the willingness to share it with others is the secret to staying, feeling and looking young. I am grateful I have had a janitor like Oscar in my life to remind me of how this all works.

My friend Oscar The Janitor.

The Janitor

It was the second time I had visited the Tibetan Buddhist Learning Center, Labsum Shedrup Ling. Leanne and I decided we would spend New Year's together on a retreat at the center. The retreat had a focus on The Buddhist Lineage, neither this, nor the fact that I became infatuated with a twenty-year-old girl at the retreat is important to this particular reflection. Before I dive in, I would like mention that I knew very little about Buddhism when we signed up to participate. Leanne did. I just knew that there was some kind of Inner Connection with Buddhism and me.

The first time I noticed him was during the initial shared meal. He was sitting somewhat distanced from most of the folks there, but I could tell he lived there. He was wearing very plain grey pants and shirt; the kind that most janitors wear. He seemed almost disinterested in the events and happenings around him. It appeared as if he was enjoying his meal, content and grateful just to be there. The first thought that went through my mind while watching him was something like this, "WOW! If this is what their janitors are like, I can't wait to see the monks! I am definitely going to become a Buddhist." He helped clean up as if he does it every day and what he does there. He showed people where to find things and whatever they needed like a typical worker would do at any place else. But there was something very different about this janitor. He was so simple and radiant in his way of being. He smiled simply but beautifully with a sincerity that was rare. I noticed myself staring and observing him beyond what is socially acceptable but I couldn't stop myself. He was special in a way that I had not known previously. I was in awe of the way he carried himself, and the Inner contentment that was his being. I remember thinking to myself, "Where do they find janitors like this in Tibet?" Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, he was an older Tibetan man, possibly in his sixties. He had those facial features that only men and women that have walked this earth for a while and have learned more than the rest of us. The lines on their face seem deeper and richer, as if each one tells a story.

I was talking with someone during another meal the following day and asked about the janitor. The person I was speaking with smiled and informed me, “He is not the janitor.” I immediately felt embarrassed. Then he shared with me, “He is actually one of the men that helped lead The Dalai Llama on his exile from Tibet to India.” I froze and thought, "What an idiot I am!' When I regained my composure, I asked the guy I was conversing with, “Is he a monk?” He smiled again and said something to the effect of, "Yes, he is definitely a monk. He decided after successfully leading the Dalai Llama safely to India; he could now stop wearing his robe and dress like the rest of us."

I did get to meet and have a few conversations with him over the next year or so. He is a very kind and gentle man. To me, he is Buddhism. I say this because he exudes the virtues that I think of when I am thinking about what it is to be a Buddhist practitioner. He is simple, kind and warm. He has no interest in drawing any special attention to himself or his accomplishments. He has genuine Humility but is not self-defeating or a door mat. Honesty and Truth just ooze out of every part of his being and it is all genuine. He is not "acting" like this to show us what these traits are like, he is these traits.

In America, Buddhists often are very intellectual and full of book knowledge on Buddhism and all its Teachings and philosophy. They are ready to engage in intellectual debate, armed with all their book knowledge. To me, this is far from what being a true Buddhist is. Buddhists do not try to show off their knowledge or meditation skills. If for no other reason than the Humility of knowing that we all truly know very little, and what we know today as "Truth" may shift as we develop and evolve. Being able to quote Koans is different than being able to live Koans. Being able to sit for long periods is different than being able to learn for long periods.

For me, I want to evolve enough to be as dull as dishwater. I am far from there and rarely am willing to let go of my desire for attention and recognition. These attachments hold me back, and in turn, hold back those I try to help. A Teacher can only take a student as far as they have gone themselves. I realize that this is not true in academia, but my experience interprets this to be true in spiritual development. Genuine Humility seems to be a lost virtue in our culture these days. It often gets confused as putting yourself down in a self-deprecating manner. Humility is being right size, not big or small, weak nor strong, aggressive nor passive, best nor worst, etc. We are Humble when we allow our True Self to shine through. The moments I experience this kind of Humility are typically in either Genuine Prayer or Genuine service. I heard somebody once say "We should do something good for somebody else every day and not get caught." To me, this is the essence of the janitor. He was a very special somebody but was a total nobody.

Can you imagine what the world would be like if each one of us did one thing every day for somebody else without getting caught? Are you up for the challenge?