Soggy

Soggy

It has rained much lately. Korea has a rainy season during the summer and we are in the middle of it. This weekend has been wet, very wet. I feel soggy inside although I have only left my room once this weekend.

Soggy but not wet from water. Soggy with laziness. I feel fat but not from food. I feel tired but not from activity.

I am an active person who also enjoys being still. I have not been active or still this weekend. I have been sitting but not still. The only thing that is active is my mind’s need to avoid feeling, being. I am not present while sitting heavy for hours. I had a long deep nap from the exhaustion of non-activity. Non-activity. There must be a name for activity that isn’t, inactivity does not quite cover this state.

Many years ago while living in an intentional community of hard core activists except me; one of the community members used to laugh warmly and appreciatively at my desire to sit and be still and do meditation while they were out doing their thing to change the world full of anger, rage and self-righteousness. I would sit. I was not soggy then the way I am soggy now. Then I was full of presence, focus and depth with a mind willing to be with itself, at least sometimes. One night sitting up late listening him play guitar and trying to sing folk songs, we were laughing at where I fit into the community. Then with his brown eyes below his long reddish auburn hair and fare skin bursting with excitement, he yelled out in the middle of a Woody Guthrie song, “You are a Passivist! Not a pacifist, you are the opposite of an activist. A Passivist!” He was so ecstatic he found a way to identify my spiritual and personal way of dealing with change at that point in my life. That became how I was identified back then. Who knew I would less than ten years later become a slothful man in South Korea hiding from rain and himself after existing as a man who used every season and natural experience as an opportunity to get know myself and our world better? When did I become slothful? Lazy? Gluttonous? How does this happen? Why is resistance to greatness so seductive and powerful? Is this why so few can find and then hold on to answers; the real answers that the rest all sit around filled with alcohol or caffeine intellectually pondering over without any real experience or personal knowledge with words like existentialism and Darwinism rolling off their tongues like the granola they ate for breakfast?

How did a mystic become a mystery to himself?

And more importantly, what does it take to return to such a state of being but with the added knowledge and experiences to integrate, creating maybe one or two steps further along the staircase of life? Can we ever return to the Garden of Eden once we have eaten the apple and still be true to each other and ourselves? Is there a way to go back AND go forward?

Two Words & A Hyphen

Two Words & A Hyphen

It aches
Down right unbearable
Two words
Seven letters and a hyphen

I have said them
Thousands, if not millions of times
Often a hundred times a day

I’ll see you later I miss you Say Hello to Steve for me will ya’? No, I wont No, thank you Of course I will Yes, Tuesday night will be fine Until Saturday night Thank you for being my Mother and bringing me into this world Thank you for loving me Thank you for being you Thank you for last night I’ll wait for your call No, I will not change my mind again Where did we go wrong? I’m sorry, so sorry I did not mean to hurt you I will wait for you Yes it was incredible, I’ll bring the guacamole and chips tonight I promise Please don’t let me down now I loved you and will miss you I wish we had more time I love you Please tell him I miss him too I’ll only be gone for three of four months I love you too Can we talk about this later tonight? I can’t wait to see you again Yes, I do mean it this time I trust our paths will cross again I still can’t believe we did that Yes, it was amazing No, I don’t think I can forgive you God Bless Namaste Peace Out Peace be with you God Willing No, you hang up first Just say it one more time If it is meant to be, it will I wish the best I will never forget anything


Two words
Seven letters and a hyphen

Michael = Dog?

Anna is one of my favorite students. She is in second grade and just adorable and beats up most of the boys in our class as a bonus. She has black hair like everyone else here, brown eyes like everyone else here but hers are deeper, darker and rounder than most. Her full cheeks with that soft, silky Korean skin is just unavoidable for a quick, gentle caress every time I see her when she is done walking with me with her little hand inside mine. Anna is very affectionate and loves to be loved. Fortunately, I love loving her, so we get along well.

Today while waiting for her classmates to get to class, she was holding my hand, well actually my wrist and looking up at me with those wondrous eyes and dimpled smile. I was lost in her world when I noticed there was someone petting me, yes petting my forearm and I came back to earth and my classroom. It was Anna stroking and petting the hair on my arms. She again looked back up at me this time with wonder in her eyes and said in her best English, “Michael, dog?” and she pointed to my arm hair and then to my chest. Translation for the non-EFL teachers of the world: “Michael you have hair on your arms, are you a dog?”

I laughed half-heartedly and smiled at my precious little angel who somehow made calling me a dog sound sweet. Second graders can get away with stuff like that but adults get the Jersey/NYC stare when they venture into making comments of that sort.

I still get startled at the fact that most Koreans, both children and adults have never touched a human being with body hair or facial hair. It startles me. I grew up in an Italian family and amongst Italians, chest hair and facial hair are signs of virility. In fact, you are not really considered a man until you have chest hair. I faired well in that department. The other symbol of Italian manhood is not as easy to see, but we will leave that one alone for now. The idea that men can be men and not have hair on their chests, face and arms is beyond my mental capacity to understand. When I am lazy and do not shave, the next day almost every young one will come and rub my stubble. It occurs to me that they may have never felt a man’s facial hair as stiff as mine, another fact that baffles me and my social programming.

While on a roll about my social programming, bodies and cultural differences, I might as well dive into the women. Wait, that did not come out right. What I meant to say was I would like to explore the different bodies of Korean and Western women. OK, that didn’t work either but I think you get the point! I was here almost a month before I realized that the majority of females in Korea are not teenagers! Korean women have very slight frames and bones. It is of the highest importance for a woman in Korea to be skinny. I mean skinny, not thin or athletic. Typically, their bodies remind me of the standard American eighth grade girl in girth, bone structure, weight and size of butt and breasts. Even when pregnant, Korean women are less voluptuous then the American college girl on a diet. And I am speaking of American White girls, not Blacks or Latinas. Their butts are smaller then most pre-pubescent American girls, often with even skinnier legs. If thin is in, then Korean women are it but if curves are what shake your nerves, head east in a hurry! Again, I grew up around Italian women and the physical features that define her as a woman are her curves coming and going.

It has taken me a while to adjust my personal definitions of what is considered attractive, sexy and mature here in Korea. I am not sure I would ever adapt completely from the social and familial programming that is seated deep in this curious mind. But I am curious about what the skin feels like, I cannot lie. Koreans have the smoothest, silkiest skin on this planet. It almost doesn’t feel real. I have a friend in the states who is half Korean and I call her Silky Pants (she calls me Jerk Face for the record) and she warned about how the whole country has skin like hers. I did not believe her, I am a believer now. At times, I reflect on wanting to have a one-night stand or something similar just to touch, caress and lay next to such soft smooth skin. My Inner-Slut has a field day with these kinds of thoughts. But generally, return to my prudish ways and go about my business while trying not to gawk at an occasional woman that I cannot tell if she is twelve or twenty-eight- their bodies, faces, skin and clothes are almost identical. I blush when I realize they are a child and lower my head in shame.

The lessons and education continue for me here in Korea. I am starting to pay attention again to my surroundings knowing that my time here is limited. So the young ones will have to find another man to pet and call dog, and I will have to hold the hands of somebody else’s children with skin more course and a lot less bowing. In the mean time, Michael Dog will try to not smirk at the idea of being a man without chest and facial hairs and being a woman without curves. The programming is deep, like the center of an old Oak Tree. And like an Oak Tree, they don’t die easily.

There is a Door

There is a Door

There is a door. I can see it. I have felt it many times. It is strong and heavy but really only feels heavy. It feels tall like a redwood or solid like an oak. Dark heavy wood, at least it feels heavy.

I have seen it open. It is beautiful inside. Home. No, better than home. It is home for the Homed. I belong there. I know this.

Inside there is strength. I can feel it even from the outside. Inside there is courage. I can feel it. It has fortified me the times that I have had a foot in standing at the threshold. Inside there is me- tall, solid, unwavering and alive, really alive. I have seen what I look like in there. It embarrasses me to see what I look like out here.

I have stood at this door for many moons and suns and birthdays and Holydays and deaths and births and loves and lusts and mountains and valleys and oceans and deserts. More deserts than oceans though.

I count. And I have been counted.

There are many zeroes after my history- not days but years and centuries and millenniums. Many zeroes. I am not a newbie. I have been at this game longer than even I can imagine. I have cried and begged to get in. My wrist gets slapped like a child chewing gum in Sunday school by Mother Mary Margaret or Rabbi Chaim Weiss. The scars still remain on these tattered limbs. I see them when my eyes are closed. Only when there is nowhere to hide like when the eyes are open. Darkness shines on the Atlantic at midnight. All looks so inviting but I cannot get in the door that way. Not me. Other’s maybe, but my agreement is different.

I’ve tried the book door too. It is lighter; almost see through. Transparent without really letting us see in beyond a glimpse of the porch. The red, yellow, purple and blue flowers sure do look pretty on that back porch. Sometimes at night I dream of their fragrance; its sweetness overwhelms me. I can’t sleep those nights.

I matter. And I have mattered. I still do.

There is no side door. Just the illusion of the back and the willful front. To touch the front door is to remember where we came from but have forgotten how to get back there. I wonder how many times we are given the grace to place our hands on the door and not enter? Is there a statute of limitations on grace or forgiveness? Can the Sacred Trust be permanently broken or can we get by with all these little fractured threads?

Is running in place any different than running backwards?

I have been here before. I know the ripe smells of the Honeysuckle, the clear Voice that echoes through time and space, the grip of the solid door, the sweet taste of fresh mango, the vision of purpose and the waiting hand from The Beginning.

I have been here before. What will it take to enter with both feet in the door and to not run and hide back in the familiar comfort of distraction and stimulation?

There is a door. When will I be ready and truly willing to enter?

Waka 1

I am alone here Alone need not be lonely Trees stand tall rooted Compost takes hold of Earth’s breath The force of love is relentless A vision with eyes Staring like the owl at dusk Full moon sighs tides rise Reflections of love and desire Nothing quells The Golden Mind The sand bleeds parched soles Emptying clamshells at midnight The shoreline is full Hermit crabs at home anywhere Moments wash away forever Camel humps desert The cactus knows no limit Needles poke through flesh The answer is not questioned The question is not answered The night sleeps again Sunrise lifts human blindness Hands stretch across time Seeing is not believing Rumi speaks sunset arrives River almost still A heart beating quickly Mind needs to slow down A breeze tickles the tall grass The grass returns to its post I breathe a half breath Confusion breeds illusion Dry tears shake my grip The river does snot know lies Cool tranquil waters refresh What is the next step? I can’t wait and do nothing Tadpoles scurry about The frog sits home unmoving Speed takes much time and effort

Deserted

Deserted

Alone,
But not left alone.
Dry,
But not without water.

Learning,
Slowly to accept
My
Lack of acceptance.

Truth,
Here at this moment.
Gone,
Before I see its face.

Suppression,
Stifles and chokes.
Release,
Frees and Fires.

Tears,
Proof of life.
Loneliness,
The mirror of unliving.

Time,
Distorts the past.
Today,
Clouds the future.

Willingness,
The Key.
Commitment,
The door.

Sand,
Between my toes.
Sun,
Beating and cleansing.

Forgiveness,
The Healer and The Healing.
Fear,
The motivation and the prison.

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

Adam and Eve in the Garden of Weedin'

Adam and Eve in the Garden of Weedin

WOW! What are these things sticking out of Her chest?
What do they do?
Why are they there?
Are they for me to pull Her around with me?

Her body is so different, soft and strong!
Why does She to not have a pointing thing?
That shoots out yellow warm water?
Where does it come out?

Why does She have sideways lips
And lips like mine on her face?
What do you put inside those lips?
I wonder what kind of food She eats in there?

Humm. She is eating an apple!
God told me not to eat it!
Is She going to put it in Her other mouth?
No, She is eating it like everything else!

But God said not to!
Maybe since She is so amazing,
She does not have to follow God’s rules.
Maybe She is God in flesh.

Her eyes say so much.
I wonder if She can speak?
Maybe She just eats, walks and dances.
What is She and why did She come out of my rib?


She must be proof,
That what God says it true.
That God exists,
And God’s Voice is not just in my head.

She is evidence of God.
She is what I want to be.
She is here to show me,
How to be a man.




But, She is not a Man.
She is WOW!
That’s it,
She is WowMan!

I wonder if I am supposed
To ride Her like the elephant?
Or pet Her,
Like the tiger?

What do I do with Her?
Is She here for me?
Or am I here for Her?
Or maybe for each other.

That is why God
Had Her come out of my rib.
To let me know,
We are connected for Eternity.

Is She like the other animals?
For me to take care of?
Or She is special?
Yes, She is special.

I will protect Her,
From the other animals.
I will show Her,
All the good foods.

What if She is here,
To protect me?
What do I,
Need to be protected from?

God said to not eat,
From That tree.
She did,
And She is still perfect.

Should I eat from That tree?
Am I not Her equal?
No, I am to protect Her.
What if I cease?


If I am not,
To protect Her,
Is She here to protect me?
From What?

The tree,
Is She protecting me from the Tree?
No, I get it,
She is here to protect me from me!

I wonder if I can,
Touch Her.
Ooh, what is happening,
To my Thing?

It is turning red,
And growing,
And twitching.
What has She done to me?

Now I really, Want to touch Her.
What are those things?
And what do,
They feel like?

Do They bite?
Is That where
She shoots Her warm yellow water?
I hope not, it will hit me.

I wonder what,
Her Voice sounds like,
If She speaks.
Will it be like mine?

Does God talk to Her like me?
No, God probably does not need,
To Teach Her anything.
She already Knows.