I am karma's Bitch

Tonight I was dropping down in class and I convinced myself that watching My Name is Earl was a good and positive idea. I have seen parts of the show before and although somewhat funny, it is annoyingly offensive in so many ways. So, I watched it while enjoying some tofu, potatoes, cabbage and carrots with cumin and Cajun spices followed by an ice fresh vegetable salad like my mom used to make. It all tasted good.

The show was kind of entertaining but there was a line that that stood out to me and felt, well, incredibly accurate and insightful for my life.

“Just because I met a pretty girl doesn’t mean I deserve her yet. I’m Karma’s bitch right now.”

I wish I could take credit for that line but totally feel Ok with making it the foundation of what I want to write about tonight.

I have always had trouble explaining to others why I am not married and why 'a guy like me’ is single, whatever a guy like me means. I meet attractive interesting and intelligent women. I assume some of them are interested in me; at least that is what others tell me. I have never been good at that sort of thing. I must have been snapping some girl’s bra in science class when the lecture on how to know when someone is attracted to you was been given. Like Earl, I am a guy with an extensive past to clean up. Most of the bigger stuff I have dealt with directly. It is the indirect stuff that still lingers and kicks me around as ‘Karma’s Bitch’. I do not question Karma anymore. Those of us who have been pick up on the side of the road like the other dregs of the earth know that Both Karma is real and stings deeply without concern of pain or suffering. We also know that when we do cross something or somebody off our list it feels better than whatever else I am chasing that I think is more important. Karma is also an incredible Teacher of truth, since there is nowhere to hide for our own karma. Trust me on this one, I have tried, hard.

I remember when I first started dating again after my first steps of beginning life as a human being in the early 90’s. I went on a mediocre date with what appeared to be a nice and normal woman, but my barometer on nice and normal, were skewed at best. At the end of the our date that consisted of some nice Mexican food and a long and slow drive through about six inched of snow; I brought her back to her car. While sitting in mine through the awkward what is going to happen next moments, she leaned over, touched my right arm gently but firmly and without hesitation looked me in the yes and said, “Thank you for not raping me”.

To say that is not what expected would be a colossal understatement. I was floored and stared blankly without knowing what to say or do. Tongue I would have known what to do with, a soft kiss I could hang with, even a peck on the lips and a “can we do this again sometime” would have been fine, disappointing but fine. But, “Thank you for not raping me” I was not prepared for. I must have missed that lecture in high school as well. We said good night and that was that. And no, I didn’t get any!

What I did get was my first practical insight into life as a woman who has been raped. Till then it was all knowledge firm books and sharing of stories but not once did I have to deal face-to-face with the ripples that sexual assault leaves behind. I have never even come close to acting in such a matter since. Karma made me her bitch that night and has never lost her grip to this day.

An interesting chain of events followed that date and her comment. I started volunteering as a public speaker on date and acquaintance rape at schools, colleges, community centers and corporations. That lead me to an amazing man named Jeff Fleischer who inspired me into the social work field and counseling, which changed my life as I knew it. Karma?

Last year I was staying at the hoe of a female couchsurfer who invited me to spend of few nights at her place on the couch, a bold move as you will see. I was grateful after being in the road for a bit at that point and she was nice. The second night I was there we were up late drinking tea and talking about this and that- our sharing our life experiences on many levels. At a little past midnight she casually with her voice cracking barely said, “Last year during Christmas break I was raped by a guy I barely knew in Europe.” Without dragging this story our forever, we both needed each other at that minute to heal our pasts in reverse/parallel fashion. Over the next few days we continued this process and many tears, hugs and walks around her college campus allowed the healing process to take shape. Karma gave me front and center what I had been avoiding from ‘my list’ since I made one, but instead of an uncomfortable interaction in the front seat of my sports car in the snow, it was soft, gentle and forceful. But most importantly, Karma had her bitch right where she needed him again and the gifts have poured in from that moment in both our lives.

Being karma’s bitch is not such a bad thing really. It just sounds bad to those of us who think we are in control of our lives and can get away with what we don’t talk about or admit to ourselves. But when I stop and think about it, what could be better than knowing that doing good is good for me ad those around me. Even if that means I am not ready for the pretty girl who is the professor at a college yet. When I am ready, she and any other treats that life has in store for me will come my way when I am can properly accept and respect them for t=what they are. Again, what could be better than that?

So, I will semi-willingly continue on as Karma’s bitch for now, not that I have a choice. Maybe I will actually learn something for a change, stranger things have happened. I once thought that Reiki Training was so I could get things that I wanted for myself. The possibilities are endless, as are the consequences for not doing what I need to. Karma’s bitch and gift.

Lust is not a Sin

Dear Leandra;
The high-speed train that will take me back home is less than 10 minutes from departure, which is more than twenty minutes since we said goodbye. I am leaning forward in my green seat to stay awake and write you. To tell you what I wanted to say and was not a strong enough man as we parted at the station in separate directions.

You are amazing!

If not for lust that word I abhor and haunts me, the last twenty-four hours with you would not have happened. The magic, love and joy we shared and exchanged would still be bottled up in this vault I keep my heart in struggling for release. Lust for the Girl in The White Bikini is how the Divine Presence brought us together. Love and willingness are what squeezed it open.

While walking away trembling, I started to cry but fiercely held back the tears, not of sadness for believing I will not see you again, I will. Tears of letting a moment pass without grasping for it like it is my last breath.

You see; you are perfect in my eyes. If I were willing to allow myself to fall in love at this time, I would leap at you while desperately clinging to my last shreds of self-control and protection. I am not gong to fall in love with you even thought you are ‘her’ for me; my blueprint of a woman- strong, courageous, sensitive, vulnerable although hidden well, loving, incredibly smart and fun and disturbingly gorgeous and sexy. I want to be your friend and companion, to share more moments of French Toast and nights ending at 6:00a.m. that shake my illusion of control and imprisonment free to be wild. I want to be the one you hunt down at 3:00.am. when you can’t sleep and need to wake someone to know that you are worth being woken for. That you matter and matter to me. That you are loved, lovable and love me more than I deserve and expect or knew I needed.

Last night you told me, “Lust is not a sin”. Lust got me in a room with you and let me look in your eyes to see and feel who you are, in spite of that face, smile, cheeks and body that make me squirm in my pants. Lust forced me to reach out to you but you showed me why lust is not only exempt from the sin list but you transformed it into something beautiful and treasured in one quick flash of your smile.

Thanks for being you and choosing to let me inside both your door and your so-called walls.

Love,
Michael the Trophy Holder
PS- I will keep my word and not cross that Sacred line, your worth it.

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?

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.

steppin'

Steppin’

The rhythm it always starts with the rhythm. I can feel it all through me, like blood, or water or air but juicier. My ears are the gateway, but it is all of me. I feel that tingle in my belly that reaches down to my groin. I like it. It thrills me. My eyes light up, I can feel their brightness and flicker. Breath- alive and kicking’. Tongue with a little bit of wag to it. And the body, the tension and the tease of release but it is really just one building on another building on another, crescendo on top of crescendo. The waves pour in and topple upon each other. At some point, my feet get engaged, but it is really my hips and butt that kick start the feet, they are just the part that I can see and follow but it is the butt and hips. I wish mine could move the way I want them to but they do OK. Ahhh, the spine! Straight erect and firm with just enough relaxation for the beat to move up and down bringing its heat with it. The Dance. It is The Dance.

It doesn’t matter to me what the dance or the music is, because it is about the dance. There is no art form of any kind that can move me or effect me like talented dancers who know how to use their body and are not afraid of what it can do. I have basic talents in most “still” art forms like painting, drawing, calligraphy, been messing with a camera lately and oh yeah, I like to write too. But none of them touch me and set my system on fire like a group of dancers.

What is it that moves me so much? An old friend who was a dancer among other performing arts suggested it might be the fact that it is where I have the least raw talent and why I have such appreciation for it. At the time, I bought that explanation since it made sense then. Since then I have done some West African, Sufi, Dances for Universal Peace and modern dance. As I learned to move my body a little bit more fluidly, freer and passionately, my appreciation grew even more. Every time I see a live dance performance I leave with tears in my eyes. I am amazed the human body can be so flexible, fluid, strong and just absolutely sensual, or is it sexual, maybe some combination of both. To a lesser degree, I experience something similar when I watch a movie about dance and dancing, tonight was one of those nights. I again watched a movie called Step Up. The story line is not something new or innovative- young talented, gorgeous sexy dancers face great challenges to perform at their highest level and fall in love along the way. Knowing this ten minutes in does not spoil the movie because that story is one I can afford to experience again and again. To me it is one of the only stories that matter: artists struggling and working through their obstacles to be free from their inner and outer resistance. It is the great triumph that gets even juiced up more because of the dancing and its unmistakable passion and fire. If you missed it, check for body temperature.

Great dancing is incredibly sexy to me. It is clean and sensual and filled with the desire and connection that makes for great lovemaking. It stimulates the desire in me to dance, to move, to love and to make love. It is body, connection and ecstasy blended together in harmonic choreography. Choreography, there is a talent I would love to have. I have experienced some great performances in recent years and so many have made lasting impressions on me and have altered my association with the songs they moved to. Every time I see Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater it is weeks before the world has any resemblance to the way it was before that night. Flowers look like they are moving and choreographed by some crazy country choreographer. Telephone poles appear as poses held longer than any human could possibly sustain. Couples holding hands and smiling together seem to be so much more in sync. My love and appreciation for everyone around me grows and deepens so that I feel our bodies connect, move and capture its lift and dip together. I see the dance we are all doing together. Our dance. I feel a sense of freedom, as if we can fly for the first time like Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

As I write this, I notice how straight, erect and firm my spine is naturally sitting. My eyes are clear and without strain. My typing is almost well, typing. I am excited and my heart is beating fast, strong and ready for action. I am alive. I am dancing while sitting here in front of my white MacBook with my little green frog humidifier named Troy and blueish grey waterfall on my left, my favorite new plant that the vice principle gave me as a gift on my right and my butt perched just on the edge of my seat to be as close to this as possible. I am here!

Thanks dancers, dancing and The Dance!

Not with the Door Open Young Man

I was having a conversation with a female Korean friend over lunch the yesterday. We shared some brown rice that I over steamed, Kuk (light soup) and several Panchan (side dishes). I thought this an excellent opportunity to dig into some social questions I had in my ‘whenever I get a chance’ section of the brain waiting for a willing informant on Korean culture. I was ready to seize the moment like the shark I can be at times.

But first we had some business to discuss. I was meeting a mutual person few know for language exchange later on that evening and needed to work out the details since she does translating via phone for us sometimes. Like most folks learning a foreign language, my exchange partner does better in person with understanding me where she can utilize facial expressions, energy, hand signals and lip reading to aid her comprehension of words and phrases. My friend asked, “Where do you want to meet her tonight, that same coffee shop you went to before you went to Malaysia again? You both liked it there.” We did, but caffeine at night is not something that is supportive of positive circadian rhythms for folks like me. So, with ignorance and naiveté as my guides I asked what I thought to be a reasonable question, “What about my apartment? I do not have a good table for us to work on but the floor would be fine.”

“No michael, she cannot do that.”

Wanting more information and an explanation, Curious George became my next guide into ignorance, “Why not?” Simple, direct and to the point.

“Michael, in Korean culture, a woman cannot be in a man’s apartment or room unless they are married or there is another woman present.”

Stunned and a little embarrassed, I proceeded with clarification to make certain I didn’t get things lost in translation, “You mean that you or her can never come to my place for dinner, to watch TV or drink tea without the other one present?” I was hopeful there was a communication problem.

“No. The only way is if we leave the door completely open so that your neighbors can see in.”

“You are kidding right?” Still hopeful but starting to fade.

“No, I am not kidding Michael! Korean women cannot go to a man’s room or he cannot come into ours until we are married.”

“So your boyfriend has never been to your room?” Reaching now, knowing they have been best friends for seven years and a couple for the last year.

“No.” I gulp and try not to let the Kimchi in my mouth choke me. I succeeded at that endeavor but am struggling to swallow with the deeper one.

“Really?” I had nothing else.

“Michael. We can’t be seen with a man on the floor of his room or on the couch without another woman present unless we leave the door open. People will think something is happening. And it is also for the girl’s safety too. Bad things happen to girls when they are left alone with guys with the door shut.” She hesitates reflectively, “Do women do this in America?”

I am able to answer without laughing at her, Koreans or American values and boundaries or the lack of them. I silently reflect on how many different women’s couches and assorted other sleeping arrangements I have been offered and accepted through The CouchSurfing Project in the last year. “Yes, all the time. It is very common now for men and women to even share apartments together as friends. We hang out together at each other’s places all the time and it is not a big thing for a guy or girl to just crash at the friend’s home if they are too tired to go home or something. It is very normal in America. I know that some married women will not be alone with a man that is not their husband down South but I think that is even becoming rare these days.”

“Really?” Her face looked like she just saw a ghost, maybe two.

“Is this about rumors and gossip?”

“Yes, a lot if it is about rumors and gossip. If people say the wrong things about a girl she may not be able to get married.” My turn to wear the ‘I just saw a ghost or two look’.

We finished lunch with more digestible topics like children, English, Hangeul and Kimchi. But is stuck with me all day! At night, after our language exchange session at the coffee shop, I asked my language partner who does not command the English language as well at this point about this conversation. It took nearly five tries to communicate the content enough for her to understand. Her reply put this whole thing to bed for me, errr, maybe not a good choice of words. “No Michael. A woman cannot do that Michael. I do not know why but it is never allowed.”

“So you or her will never be able to come to my place across the street from both of you and eat dinner or watch a movie with me and talk? Ever?”

“No Michael. I am sorry but we cannot do that. It is Korean culture. I do not know why but it is this way Michael.”

I shared with her the part of my earlier discussion about safety and gossip. “Yes, that must be why Michael.”

“This makes me sad.” I stopped there.

I am still sad a day later. Partially since I cannot hang out with my friends individually and I for the most part, do not like crowds larger than two people. That is the self-centered sadness. The greater ache is that of social norms that prevent love, friendship and relationships based on gossip and perceived or potential safety hazards. Have we not gotten past some of this yet? How can a college professor still not be able to keep male friendships and maintain her social and professional status? AAAHHHHHHH!

I am sad, very sad. I was happier standing in my cultural bliss of ignorance less than thirty-six hours ago.

The football player florist

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

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

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

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

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

Nineteen Years

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

My Hollywood Nightmare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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