Communal Bathing

Community Bathing

Naked
Bathing
Scrubbing
Shredding
Being
Seeing
Shedding
Cleansing
Together
Community
Peace
Respect
Safety
Knowing
History
Hands
Holding
Suds
Green
Hot
Tubs
Sweat
Dripping
Feet
Bare
All
Prone
Moan
Ground
Found
Dissolve
Dissipate
Remove
Renew
Re-you
Water
Salt
Pine
Wood
Steam
Breathe
Release
Men
One

When is it Enough?

When is it Enough?

When is it enough?
5000 years and counting
Deaths too many to count
But still counting.

How many tears have been counted?
Do they have stats on that?
Blood on the streets
And in the homes.

Children left,
No parents, no homes
Is being right worth it?
Do we count nights that they cry in bed?

We blame God,
The president,
The Terrorists. The Jews.
We can count on blaming.

Merton said we were,
“Guilty Bystanders”
Does that include me?
But I voted against the war!

How am I guilty?
Is it the sports machine I oogle at?
Maybe it is what I am not doing,
When was the last time I did anything to stop war.

Every war has its cause, right?
Isn’t that what they say?
Is money a reason? God? Oil? Mount Sinai?
What about a woman, is she worth the cost?

I want it to end.
I do not know how.
Or even if it can,
Now or tomorrow.

Is lost hope the crime,
That I am guilty of?
Is silent acceptance my B-52?
Is my special ops training called comfort?

Is it enough yet? 60 million plus in WWII.
Each day more families ceased,
Than The War on Terror in its entirety.
Who are the terrorists now?

Do terrorists own mirrors?
Can they sleep at night?
Do generals tuck their kids in cold winter nights?
Are Green Berets counting the blood left on our greens?

When did hard choices,
Translate into hearts hardened?
Security and safety,
Defined stealing it from others?

Is it enough yet?
When calculators can’t total
The causalities, the Souls, the tears.
If not, when is it enough?

Jimjilbang

Jimjilbang

Lying on my back I feel the salt crystal rocks settle below me. It is like being on the beach, the way sand will embrace your body no matter what your body is like. I feel the bottom of my back scream with elation at the support that it desperately desires being answered. My hand are sweating, I pick up a crystal or two and roll them around between my thumb and fingers slowly. It brings me back to the beach again. And why not? It I shot in here, real hot. Maybe hooter than any beach I ever laid my body on. Dry heat. The kind that forces all unwanted or unneeded thoughts and toxins out of the body. I can feel every body open, free to breath. I breath, deeply. I ask for Reiki to flow through my body and wait for it to begin its flow, or maybe it was already flowing and I was just now acknowledging it. Breath, slowly and full. I allow the salt air to fill my lungs and belly. Cleaning. I feel the cleansing inside and I and people like me need plenty of cleansing. It could be a full time job. In fact, there was a time it was my full-time job. But these days I have an external full-time job so the need for cleanser is greater, much greater. I enjoy the sensation of the sweat dripping down the sides of my face and it is proof of the cleansing. Evidence. I tend to make thing up in my head so evidence it always helpful. The cleansing continues. There is a handful of other sin the slat crystal room, all enjoying their own version of the same process. We are together but doing it singularly, but I am conscious of their presence, of community. Salt, heat and sweat go way back, back before we had words like salt, heat and sweat. I like experiencing this kind of community in silence.

Once when participating in a retreat at the Abbey Gethsemane where Thomas Merton lived and wrote, I remember reading a little folded white standing card:
“silence is spoken here”. Is there a greater way to experience community than in silence?

Time is bending and I get up after about twenty minutes or maybe three or fifty, and make my way out. My face is red; I can feel its redness. It is clean; I can feel its cleanness. My body is soft, I can feel its comfort as my arms dangle as I open the door and leave. I am brought back to the fact that I am in a public place with hundreds of people at the local Jimjilbang, a Korean bathhouse. I love these places! Jimjilbang and bowing are my two favorite aspects of Korean life. I have been to a couple of Jimjilbang and each time my experience has risen above the previous. I feel at home here dripping with sweat amongst people I do not know and cannot orally communicate with. There are families, couples and friends resting, talking, reading and sleeping in the large main room. It is warm in here but not like the Korean versions of a sauna. The salt crystal rock rooms are one of my favorites. They are always my first stop. If for no other reason, I stop there first to seat ad to mold my body to the crystals and rest till I separate myself from the me that is not me that I walk around pretending to be all day, every day. I am simple here, very simple. Heat, sweat, silence, breath and water.

While walking around the main area to allow my body to regulate a little, I decide it is time to venture to my other favorite room. I do not actually know what it is called. It is a room shaped like a dome with part of the walls pine, which I live the smell of, and part id bamboo think. We lie on the floor or lean against wooden plank to prop yourself against the wall. If lying down, we lie on a sack made of canvas or burlap or something like that. It is comfortable but not as much as the crystals nestled in the back in butt. I start on my back for a short period. This room is always significantly hotter, much like the heat of a cranked up sweat lodge in the middle of summer. A specific one comes to mind near Charlottesville, Virginia, USA this past summer where I had an incredibly forceful experience with a bunch of recent college graduates I just met and camped, ate, sweat and did Reiki together. Sweat lodges are typically naked, Jimjilbang every body is given cotton shorts and t-shorts that are strong and comfortable. Five minutes later I sit up, legs crossed and do some basic meditation leaning against the wooden plank. I notice others are seated differently but I continue being different because I an doing what I need to be doing for right now. I breathe heavy an deep. I pray for those in the room with me and thank them for being here. I feel our connection with my eyes closed and glasses hanging for the collar of my shirt. I sweat more and more. Peace. Love. Sharing. Two young ladies enter together. There is only one wooden plank to lean against which is directly to my left. They sit, one on the plan and one in front of her sitting crossed legged. It tales a minute for me to respond but I motion for her to take my spot and I slide over slowly to an open space against the wall. I am again reminded of that sweat in Virginia. I decide in need to write stefin and graham and tell them I miss them, love them and am grateful our paths crossed for a short but profound four days. Love can do that to us, at least me. More softness while totally grounded and present. I soak it in and feel my breathing start tot strain from the heat. No reason to stay to stroke my ego. I exit through the door that looks just like and oven door from the outside. The water fountain is right next to the door outside in the main room again. I allow a woman with her head wrapped in a towel go ahead of me, she is sweating profusely and looks as if she needs it more than me. She does not smile. I drink my water and walk towards door number three, no numbers do not label them. They have writing outside in Hangeul, which I cannot understand, yet.

It is the room that I think is referred to as the “kiln”. It is not as hot as the other but I have been to another Jimjilbang that has three:”kilns” with varying degrees of heat. I do not remember much about the room except it is a semi-dome with little sacks full of herbs hanging above your head. The strength of the herbs that enters my nose and throat make me a tad dizzy but still grounded. I stay just a few minutes, done with heat for tonight. I leave and reflect on what to do next; stay and reads in the main room, spend a few minutes in the ice room, shower, leave for home, take a nap or head to the gender-segregated Korean communal hot bathtubs. I decide to brave it and go to the ice room. I enter the double sliding glass door and see this one is not like some of the others that have more than a foot of ice on the walls and ceiling. It is just cold, real cold for bare feet and shorts. It feels like such a relief and balance from the heat. A little girl comes in to sit next to “the foreigner”. She smiles sweetly and somehow lets me know she likes me being there. I try to do the same for her. Our exchange is complete in two minutes and she leaves to join her little brother outside to watch “the foreigner”. When cooled enough, I leave and head down towards the men’s area still not sure what is next of the list above.

I go for it and join the naked Korean men and boys in the baths. They are all smooth-skinned and bare of nay body hair except their head and pubic. I am a bear. I have more hair the city of Cheonan. I slide into the mini pool and observe a young boy startled as he looks at me. I am self-conscious for a brief moment but choose to stay present on my experience. It is nice but not thrilling for me right now. I get out and enter the room that is similar to a steam room with little cement mounted “stools” to sit on. There is one man in there already completely absorbed in his experience. I do the same. A few minutes and done. Ready for a shower and to walk home. This all costed the equivalent of $8.00. I walk home totally satisfied, renewed and breathing in the winter night air. It is near midnight on Saturday night and I am happy. I feel alive and part of the world. I exist and I count. This is why I go to the Jimjilbang. Maybe I will sleep there next time. And there will be a next time, and another after that.

Like a Korean Virgin

Like a Korean Virgin

I am sitting at my MacBook listening to the Buddhist Television Network in the background with volume at #1 about to dive into an area that baffles. Being baffled is not a new or unexpected state for me, just one that well, baffles me.

As I have begun to form friendships and relationships here in Korea, an added benefit is direct sources of information that I would not be able to access otherwise. This reflection comes from one of those opportunities. My ‘informant’, who will remain nameless for obvious reasons, has no reason to lie or distort the truth. She is trying to help me understand her culture as best she can. I am grateful for her trust, respect and willingness to aid me in my continual process of learning. These days, the ‘textbook’ I am studying is about male-female relationships, sex, gender roles, norms and expectations. I say ‘these days’ to make myself feel like it will someday be something different.

Today I had the pleasure of penetrating the topic of virginity and sexual activity in Korea. I was flat out bowled over by what seemed obvious to my informant but oblivious to me. I appreciate her patience in this department since it took several restating of questions and answers to make certain I heard, understood and swallowed the information correctly. I also need to add that any conversation that includes sex, virginity and prostitution as its main focal points will both maintain and distract me continuously.

“So, I have been thinking about what you said yesterday about the whole women leaving the door open or not be allowed in a man’s room or apartment thing. It really has caught my attention since it is so far removed from American culture and norms. My question is; if men and women are not allowed to be in a room together alone before marriage then do they not have sex?”

“No, they don’t.”

“They’re virgins till marriage?”

“Yes. Most Koreans do not have sex before marriage.”

“Both men and women?”

“Yes. But more women are virgins than men.”

“How is that possible? Don’t the men have sex with women to not be virgins?”

“You know how in Korea all men have to serve in the military?” I nod my head. “Their senior and junior officers take them to get sex for pay. It is a regular part of what happens when boys go to the military. Many say they have not done it but we all know they have.”

“So prostitution is how most boys lose the virginity?”

“Yes. It is very normal in Korea. Most girls do not have sex before marriage. If they get married and the girl has already had sex with a man, they will get separated immediately.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Most men will not marry a women who is not a virgin.”

“Really?” For a guy who talks as much as I do, my vocabulary as an English teacher was becoming very limited to just one word; Really? “It is like Muslim culture?”

“Michael, it is Korean culture.” I am beginning to find out that the answer to anything that Koreans feel insecure or embarrassed about is; “It is Korean culture”.

I was about to say ‘Really?’ one more time but thought about it and tried some new words. “So you are telling me that women that are between 25-35 years old and not married are virgins?”

“Yes. It is very normal in Korea.”

“And boys that do not have sex with a prostitute in the military are also virgins till marriage?”

“Yes but many of them lie about it.”

“What percentage of high school students has sex before college?”

“High school students having sex?” She is now the one who is sounding like I was speaking a foreign language(OK, so I am, but you know what I mean!) . It was like she did not understand the question or it was a quantum physics equation.

“Yes. In America, it is very common for high school students to have sex before they graduate high school. In fact, most of them have more sexual partners in high school than I have had in my whole life.”

“Really?” See what a good English teacher I am? In a matter of minutes I have Koreans mimicking my phrases like natives.

“Yes. It is one of the reasons me and some of my friends that work with youth for a living do not want to work in high schools any more. The girls are too aggressive and we get accused of things that didn’t even happen.”

“Do you lose your jobs if that happens? If a teacher or counselor has sex with a high school girl, who gets fired?”

“The man! He loses his job, never can work with youth again and usually goes to jail for many years, sometimes even twenty-five years.”

“Really?”

“Yes. In 1997 I was accused of trying to have sex with a high school girl that was in a program I used to coordinate and I almost was arrested and prosecuted and I never even touched her beyond the way I would touch any boy or girl.”

“Really? So you can’t be a counselor any more in America?”

“I can. There was a lot of support for me and things were sort-of resolved without any legal or professional consequences but I resigned from my job because all the girls thought I was some kind of a sexual molester and I knew I could not do my job effectively any more. It was more about rumors and gossip than legal or professional. Girls were afraid to be alone with me after that.”

“Did you ever talk with her about it?”

“Yes. She said she did it because she didn’t want to be on the camping trip any more and thought by accusing me of trying to have sex with her, we would go home. Unfortunately for her, that did not happen and I almost lost my freedom and went to jail. I asked her about three years later when hired by the University of Cincinnati to conduct research on the effectiveness of the program. She said she didn’t even remember the situation. It meant that little to her.”

“You are lucky michael.”

“It didn’t feel that way at the time though. So this doesn't happen here in Korea?”

“No.”

“Out of 100 kids in high school, how many have had sex?”

“They don’t.”

“Less than ten percent”

“Yes, maybe.”

“And of adult women, how many do you think are still virgins before marriage? More then fifty percent?”

“Yes.”

“More than seventy percent?”

“I do not know exactly but more are virgins than not.”

“So a couple together for several years not married would never have been alone with a door closed or had sex?”

“Yes it is very normal in Korea.”

“Is this true for Japan and China too?” I asked this as a way to validate her statements and just in case what I had heard was completely untrue.

“No, just Korea.” She laughs for the first time. I am not sure if it was because she thought it was funny or she felt uncomfortable.

“I didn’t think so but figured I would ask.”

At this point, we both had to go. I was experiencing many different emotions including confusion, bewilderment, surprise, disappointment, erotic thoughts about having sex with a gorgeous thirty year old Korean virgin and a pinch of anger. I was bothered by all this- what it says about Korean culture, American culture, men, women, social norms and programming, and just plain old judgmental thoughts in my head.

It is now past midnight and this has taken up a large chunk of my mental process the rest of the day today. I was looking forward for the opportunity to write about this to get it out and have a chance to process it. I do not think it has achieved what I had hoped for. I still feel confused, disturbed and turned on by the fantasies in my head of these hot, adult Korean women in high heels, very short skirts that are virgins, real virgins. It is not necessarily a healthy set of emotions but the ones that I am experiencing at the moment. Tomorrow that may change, maybe not.

I can’t help but wonder who is the oppressed culture; Korean or American? At first glance through American lens, it appears that the Koreans, especially women are the oppressed people in these cultural, sexual norms. But I am flinching to say that I am sold on that to be true. The idea of not having any sexual pressure or expectations seems somehow very liberating and freeing for both men and women. If you already know you are not going to have sex with someone before marriage, it really clears so many things up right then and there. What freedom we would experience to be able to love and learn about each other with sex not even a concern now or the immediate future. Not even a discussion topic, nothing, nada, zilch. A complete non-factor in a relationship. Friendship and companion really are why you are together, not just what we say to cover up what we may be truly experiencing inside but playing the waiting game to appear evolved.

Who are the oppressed and who are the free? The virgins or the double-digit sex partners?

Either way, my Korean education continues. As a side note, I am starting to learn some basic Hangeul and it feels good!

Malaysian Street Women or How Michael Again Proves his Cluelessness

Malaysian Street Women or How Michael Again Proves his Cluelessness

I was out walking through downtown Georgetown on Penang Island in Malaysia. I had spent part of the afternoon in Batu Ferringhi on the beach. I was ready for some dinner after a semi-clean shower that at least was successful in cooling me off from the almost ninety degree day on December 29th. I left Night and Day Guesthouse an turned right towards Penang Avenue where I could find something interesting to eat. What with so many choices of Indian, Thai, Malay, Chinese and combination of all of the above, how could I go wrong right?

Well, I am Michael and there is always the distinct possibility of me taking a simple task and finding away to turn it into something, clears throat, ‘interesting’. This night was not except to that rule that I seem to live by.

I turned right at the street just before Penang Avenue and started towards the huge Malaysian version if a food court. In Malaysia, they have these large sometimes covered, sometimes not areas with table and chairs outdoors where you just roam around the squared off section and choose different foods from around the world prepared fresh and VERY CHEAPLY of anything from satay chicken on a stick to nasi (rice) with anything you want on it to Mee (yellow noodles in a bowl with chicken broth) covered with your favorite sauces, gravy, meats or vegetables. All the vendors are privately owned and operated by real people who eat what they cook for you too. Yo can eat three main courses from equal the amount of cultures all for about $5.00. I was just about to reach the entrance to this particular food court taking in the combination of curry, garlic and fish when an attractive and normally dressed young woman walks over and says “Hi” to me. She seemed friendly so I stopped and said, “hello” back to her. She had brown hair, about 5’ 5” tall average weight and a pretty but not extremely noticeable face. I believe she was Malay. She would look normal on line at the bank, grocery store or the food court. She had no heavy make-up or jewelry, no tight pants or deep cleavage. Just a regular girl in her twenties who while we were exchanging “hellos” she casually reached over and gently started rubbing my penis! Just like that! It took my about a minute to collect myself and reel in my now ecstatic hormones to excuse myself and start walking away while she was following me. I escaped by walking through the cemetery across the street without her following me. It is amazing how the potential threat of a ghost haunting a person can be a source of safety in certain situations.

I ate a nice dinner at an inside Indian restaurant and found myself very attracted to everything that did not come into this world with a penis. My senses were on high alert. The Tandoori Chicken and garlic Naan were delicious. I left feeling satiated at least food-wise. Time for a nice walk around downtown at night before I meet up with my friend Happy.

As I walked with increased sensitivity, I noticed there were certain women ‘stationed’ along the way. Growing up outside NYC I do have that kind of perception, if not slowed by distance and lack of interaction with that world. There was this very interesting and attractive in a late night B mo vie kind of way dark skinned Indian woman who had dyed part of her hair with crimson streaks. I’d by lying if I did not admit to more than passing acknowledgment. She was wearing simple clothes but her eyes were wild, very wild. Like cover of a romance novel type wild. Then there was the Malay woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties wearing a nice red and yellow traditional Malay blouse with jeans. She was soft and gentle looking. She does not have any of that rough, beaten-down and beaten-up, used and abused look of NYC street women. I could see her passing the ‘mom test’ if I wanted to take her home for approval. She had these nice warm, caring eyes and her voice was equally as soft. The clue was her saying “Hi” to me three times and looking me up and down the third time. I flinched and scampered away.

I met up with my friend Happy later on and it turned out his car was parked directly in front of the dark-skinned Indian woman with the crimson striped hair. She approached us and then actually just opened the back door to the car and started to sit down, as if invited and welcome! Happy spoke to her in Malay and hew got out slowly. He turned the car on while telling me, “She is on drugs.” Little does he know how easily that part was for me to identify. She then opened the back door again and this time sat with confidence while he was forcefully telling her to get out. At this point she started shutting the door like she was here to stay. He became more forceful and louder; she hesitated but eventually stood half in and half out. I told him to pull away and he did and she got out without closing the door. Happy and I talked along the way about her, and street women.

I still have the impression that these women and their lack of outwardly distinctive presentation of self are so different than their American counterparts. I have to say; it made me cautious when interacting with women the rest of the trip. Not to the point where I felt inhibited, just mindful. This is such a stark contrast to living in Korea where I do not believe I have seen one prostitute in my about to be half year here.

In case I had somehow convinced myself that I have reached any level of higher knowledge or wisdom, my experiences observing and unintentionally interacting with these women has cleared up any false sense of spiritual development or enlightenment. The Teachings come in all shapes and forms. I am fortunate for the education in spite of myself.

Covered: A letter to two spiritual companions

January 3, 2009

Dear B. and M.M.;

It came to me in meditation this morning to share with you some reflections and experiences I had on a trip I just returned from Malaysia on Friday. It may be quite long, so I invite you to read it when you have the time and a cup of hot tea.

When I was making arrangements to go to Kuala Lumpur and Penang, I was struggling with eh idea that I was going on a vacation to a tropical country. As you both know, we do not do vacations. But I had this strong sense I needed to do this. I told myself that it was to get healthy since I have been struggling with three separate colds since the weather has changed here in Korea. I needed something to justify my journey.

Upon arrival in KL, I was immediately struck by the Islamic influence everywhere. Women covered in robes with hoods and men often wearing caps. They looked so clear and focused. When I looked into their eyes respectfully, they were clear, focused and present. When passing women on the street, they avoided eye contact with all men and me. A statement of which surprised and humbled me. I veer my eyes towards too many women lustfully and pay a price for doing=g so.

The first time I was passing a Mosque, it was right after the call for Prayer. There were many Muslim men and women focused onto entering the Mosque on time and in the state of mind. It reminded me of the Cabbalistic Chassidim I have observed with the same intensity and focus. Their clothes were distinctly different from what they wear during the rest of their daily life. The men wore robes or clean white cotton pants with either white or a soft tan top. Everything looked so clean and cared for; sacred. The women wore dresses or robes and their colors were a little more diverse but still simple. The simplicity and focus left me feeling somehow out of place in my shorts and t-shirt as a not so casual observer. Knowing that they were sweeping floors, cleaning dishes, nursing children, cooking food, selling products and laughing with friends and family minutes before in their street clothes reached a part of me I do not let touched often. They are doing it, really doing it. The balance between sacred and mundane was evident in every movement and step. I wanted to watch them in prayer but felt like that was not Ok although their were others doing so, and the sign said it was permitted. Not for me though. I was however given inner permission to walk around the grounds and sit on another occasion on a white cement bench about fifty feet away. I experienced a need to wear robes, and head coverings like they do. I am aware this can be done energetically but the physical covering seems to help hold the energy and intention. I am sense we can do this through Reiki as well.

My limited real life exposure to Islamic culture and living had previously been from friends, acquaintances, Muslim literature class and the Teachers that have been given to me like Rumi, Attar, Jami, El-Ghaazzali and Hadrat Ali. They visit me in my dreams and in meditation. I have never walked with them in their lives and communities to witness sacred community like I did in Malaysia. There were Mosques separated by culture- Malay and Indian, and those were common and shared by all. I was fortunate to be walking in between two of them on New Years Eve during Call to Prayer. It was powerful I=t of feel the Call in my bones and belly so deeply. I did not know what they were saying but definitely felt what they were offering.

My experiences amongst these Muslim peoples were humbling. I remember having a somewhat similar commitment and dedication just a few years ago. I have swerved sometimes far and not so far from this place to stand ad miss it. Seeing it so commonly and without fanfare or ego was embarrassing and inspiring. I have received Teachings for the Sufis but had never really felt the Presence in the lineage of the Islamic Teachers till now. I am now connected tot hem in a way that was foreign or ignored. It is not that I will now become Muslim or start following Islamic practices. It is more about the intention, commitment and dedication that are what is with me at hoe in Korea. I need to be doing this stuff the way that I made the commitments to do when I came in tot his life. This just getting by business needs to end. Time to step up and stand the way I have been trained and allow the Higher Self to be in charge again. My sense is that the forgiveness will come through renewed commitment and focus. The attention to detail that these focus practiced was also humbling and created a pinch of shame inside me. I know better than to be so involved I the world as I have been and will continue to be until I give up the need to stroke and stimulate the ego. That is my part. That is what I am responsible for.

On a personal note, the people and food in Malaysia was excellent. I was treated kindly, respectfully by the Malay, Chinese and Indian people alike. The food was incredible and very inexpensive. I am grateful to be home but already miss being there. I hope this message was not too long but felt moved to write it and share it with the two if you, and maybe others as well.

Peace and love,
michael

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

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.

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.

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

Please Leave your Shoes at the Door

I enter the door of Cheonanyoungam elementary school for the first time after sleeping just a few hours from my journey that lasted more than twenty-four hours. I am exhausted and anxious about the new opportunity that awaits me on the other side of the double glass doors to this large brick building an entire block long. Just three steps in and my new manager stops me and points to my shoes. Then directs me to the cubbyholes where the slippers for guests are kept and instructs me to take mine off and replace them with the slippers that have Korean writing along the top. I internally smirk at the idea that I brought with me a good pair of shoes just to be professional at work and I will never where them in the building during my one year commitment here as an esl teacher.

For many years, I have practiced the Buddhist tradition of taking off footwear before entering the home. The physical and mental decision to leave the outside world outside has been valuable and supportive to me in my spiritual development. During my two weeks of notice before coming to Korea, I had forgotten that detail and was not aware that in Korea, public schools are treated like homes and no shoes are worn in the building.

As cumbersome as it can be when leaving for lunch or something to switch back and forth between shoes and slippers, I enjoy working in slippers. I like teaching in slippers and the feeling of warmth and family that it creates. Besides, they are much more comfortable and relaxing to stand all day teaching. I bought my own pair to keep at the school and the vice-principal who is very worried how a man who is single will survive alone in Korea has given me my very own cubbyhole near the middle entrance to keep my slippers in.

When parents or even construction-type workers enter the building, they either bring their own slippers or wear the guest pairs available to anyone. It brings me great joy to see men gutting and putting together the two new computer rooms and the new English teachers office in a form of slippers. Quite different than the heavy work boots that men wear when working in the USA. It reminds me of a piece on 60 Minutes I watched five years ago after a football game about mowing the lawn and gender. The reporter explained how men wear heavy work boots when mowing the lawn with clothes built for protection from something dangerous. He then showed brief videos of women mowing the lawn in pretty sundresses and sandals with summer hats and fashionable sunglasses. His point was that men see any kind if outdoor work as an expression of their manhood and women try to find a way to enjoy experiences when possible (and get a “tan”) and see no reason to put on their “battle fatigues” to mow the lawn. This is the image I maintain in my head about the contrast of intention and mentality of men that are Korean and American. One is proving the size of his penis while the other is proving that being a man includes caring about children and the sense of home.

This is one of the ways that Koreans make schools feel like an extension of home to children. There is no feeling if sterility, austerity or power from the teachers to the students. The kids offer too much respect for that to happen, even if a teacher thought that it might be helpful. Kids do not give teachers the finger, curse at them, sit in the back of the class with hands folded sulking or storm out of the room dramatically. A child would not do this because it is not what you do to teachers AND it would be embarrassing to act that way in front of your friends. It would demonstrate traits that children do not appreciate, so to act that way would cause them to be friendless and lose respect from their teacher and parents. Here, losing respect is a big deal and something that children work very hard to avoid. They want to be thought of as smart, hard working and caring, anything less is a reason for a child to cry out of internal shame.

I enjoy living and working in a land where slippers are worn in homes and schools, and a sense of home is more important than a sense of self-importance among principals, teachers, parents and kids.