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?

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.

Friday Night in Danyang Valley

Friday Night at Danyang Valley

My tent is pitched between two retaining walls and next to a rock to sit on. It is a full moon on this Friday night with a hint of clouds in the sky to add to the feeling of Truth I sense here in Danyang Valley. Although not really Truth since the campground is pretty well tended to and has that air of resort. I am twenty feet from a man-made waterfall with a wooden wheel turning and spilling into a lively and vocal brook that flows down from Mt. Seobeksan. This is where I will sleep tonight.

The solitude is both comforting and disconcerting. My life in the cemented city of Cheonan does not provide this kind of solitude; even my mountain. The quiet is loud as the water cascades in all directions like my mind.

It is cool enough for me to put on a long-sleeved shirt at thirty past midnight but the night air in the mountains is nourishing my skin and pores. My first yawn of the night. A good one that inserts its message loud and clear. I will obey.

Tomorrow is the Second Annual South Korea Couchsurfing Gathering. There should be between 40-50 people coming from all over the country to attend and participate in hiking, climbing, paragliding, eating and enjoying our weekend together. I wanted to camp the night before to get my whole Self present. And I love camping this time of year.

It is working; water, mountains, green and fresh air what can rarely be achieved in city life, even for a recluse-wannabee like me.

The bookends of my Life

The Bookends of my Life


Sitting is good,
I like to sit.
Here on the mountain,
With lush green trees and plants.

I am at Home,
More so than my home.
They are my friends,
The Ones I know.

The beaten-up dirt path,
That winds it way from,
The Temple to The Church,
The bookends of my life.

The stairs i do not climb.
The graves i do not observe.
The women in their visors and long sleeves,
That pass without notice.

I have fallen in love,
Here on this mountain.
We share a vision of,
What was and what can be.

The dead bark covered in green moss,
Layers of my skin shed.
Both nourish the soil,
And connects us in a physical way.

I know it will end,
My time with this mountain,
The green trees and plants,
And the mountain itself.

Time cleanses and re-cleanses,
We are just food for the future.
The fallen pine needles cushion my steps,
I will someday serve this Earth as well.

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.

Go Ask The Mountain

Go Ask the Mountain

It’s just a simple three-kilometer hike, nothing of great proportions. I do it almost daily, well, really nightly. It is a mountain, like but not like every other mountain in Korea, with one bug except. It is the mountain I will miss when I leave here. Tang San is my best friend in Korea.

Tonight while climbing up the side by the Golden Buddha of the Temple I sit at on occasion, it occurred to me I would leave this mountain, soon. I was sad for a moment and then felt my heart twitch with joy. I have lived and learned on this mountain. I meditate every morning in my room but Tang San is where I ask the questions that I need and often do not want the answers. Tonight the question was simple while slowly stepping on the bed of fallen pine needles with the refl3tio of the almost full moon shining a light for me over the branches and stumps. “What do I need to learn to tonight about myself, us or how I can be of better service or become of better man?” A simple question.

What struck me as I came to one of the side paths which I took a left around the family trying to coax their little dog with a red light blinking around its neck is this; why do I always ask to be a better man? Why not a better person?

I passed the dog and headed toward the bench I spent Saturday afternoon in the slight drizzle on Buddha’s Birthday sitting and reflecting. It one of my favorite spots on the mountain. Yesterday late afternoon I had an energizing experience of standing Qi Gong in front of the bench while sensing the curious Koreans passing by looking at the strange Foreigner. Strange indeed but not because I was standing and meditating. Tonight I kept walking. I wanted to stay focused and present. There is something here I need to learn.

Then another question slid into my consciousness. Why do I get irritated when women speak of themselves as something separate and, therefore, special and seem totally fine with making that distinction myself? Hummm good question. Maybe someday I will have the answer. I was not able to let go of a nagging feeling in my belly. It was initially stirred yesterday afternoon during a Skype session with a friend discussing our departures from Korea. What have I done here? How is it that a mountain in a city of a half million people is my best friend? Maybe my only close friend? How did I spend this much time here and really only make a few semi-strong relationships and they were predominantly with Koreans? Why have I avoided non-Koreans with such commitment?

Well, I have done some things! I have done the rough drafts of a novel, a book of essays and memoirs and the foundation of a cultural and social book about Korea and Koreans. That is something. And I learned about non-verbal communication, especially energetic exchanges between people. I leaned that sex is not a given. Good friendships can be formed with folks I have never seen or heard online. That writing is important to me, no, essential at this point in my life. That I could fly 8,000 miles but still miss my dead family members. I still don’t have a clue about much, not a surprise. That going months between ANY physical contact with humans above grade six is challenging, very challenging. Koreans do not share physical affection with other that are not family except for women who walk with their hands or arms wrapped around each other as a matter of course. Hugging matters, even to a semi-cold distant man like myself.

Tang San is my friend. It is hard for me to visualize my experience here in Korea without my time on this mountain. Like all good friends, Tang San lets me come to my own conclusions but rarely leaves me without something new to chew on. Tonight, while reaching the base of the mountain and walking down the staircase in front of the Church with large red cross in the sky and the larger painting of Jesus n front of the building I realized where I am headed next has many mountains. They are larger and dry with little else but rock. Deserts are like that. This particular desert is without sand, just rocks, mountains and space. I will try to make friends with those mountains like I have been fortunate enough to with this one. And hopefully that will not give me the answers without forcing me to search and claw a bit first too. Tonight I was thinking of Gurdjieff while walking- a Teacher, a model and haunting face with intense expressions of locked eyes, forceful cheeks and a forehead that tells stories of many miles. I will walk some of those same miles soon enough.

In case i thought i Knew Something

I have noticed more lately than usual how often The Universe takes care of things while I am busy thinking I know how this works.

I just keep making plans and watching them recreated into something more beautiful and inspiring than I could possibly do on my own. This is comforting to a guy like me. I tend to over-think and over-analyze stuff in my head. And then bang! I walk directly into a red brick wall and find myself lost and bruised momentarily. Then without notice or warning, the whole situation shifts and the miracle of life happens, just like compost but a heck of a lot faster and smells better too.

This past weekend I was excited to participate in The Lotus Lantern Festival in Seoul. It is a festival that begins the weeklong celebration of The Buddha’s Birthday, this year being May 2nd. I made some searches on my favorite online community, The Couch Surfing Project, which I have been a member for about two years for a great host home for the weekend so I would not have to travel in and out of the city and enjoy more of the festival. In the process of this search, I met some really interesting folks who then got excited about the festival themselves. I could feel the energy building with each ‘couch’ request and response but still no ‘couch’ available. Then I received two separate offers from interesting people who seemed to be nice places to spend the weekend and share some conversation, meals and experiences together. The one that more obviously fit my mode and personality had photos of a large Golden Buddha as her picture, the other less revealing of her spiritual interests but more revealing about some other treasures in her photo. The former has been a member of the CS community for a long time, the latter just a month. All roads pointed to the former, I ended up at the latter. Thank God for this!

We had an incredible weekend together and stayed up till almost 6:00a.m. on Saturday night talking and sharing our lives, loves, struggles, gifts and gratitude for life. It was nothing short of amazing and riveting. I am certain we will be friends for life or at least a significant part of it. She reminded me that life, love and connection are so worth the risk. I was able to share with her that we survive and grow from whatever life has in store for us. Together we shared one of those opportunities that come around every now and then if we are fortunate enough that opens our eyes to why we are here and that life is so worth it.

Sitting at her simple table and somewhat swept wood floor, we dove into ourselves and each other without flinch or regret. Although I did have to pull back a few times when overly lost in her physical beauty but that is not new or surprising for me.

We enjoyed the festival together the next day with a group of her friends. We really both made a sincere effort to engage with the group but our interactions and connection from the night before were too deep and meaningful to separate yet. We needed to be still just be ‘us’ for a little longer. I appreciate that she too was able to discern this and we became a group of two within a group of eight or nine, and eventually just became a group of two before enjoying some Mexican food in Itaewon. I have not had Mexican food since the day I stepped on that plane headed west towards South Korea. I typically make Mexican food at least weekly if not several meals a week. They do not have the proper ingredients available here, so I have waited till the right opportunity while in downtown Seoul to hit one of these places. It was such a treat. I ate my Baja Burrito and her Bean Enchilada after she wore out halfway through. The fresh salsa and guacamole were not so subtle reminders of home, but not this one.

The first real flinch either of us demonstrated was when we were parting. Words often have no place in tender moments like this. Eye contact, holding of hands, kisses, hugs, slightly red eyes and gazing while trying to stay composed take care of what words are not able to do.

All because I wanted to participate in a celebration of the upcoming Buddha’s Birthday. I am grateful I do not know as much as I think I do about how this all works and that something else does. Something that must have such enjoyment in witnessing me thinking I know something. Well, I still have more brick walls to walk into, so better get my backpack on so I can follow The Trail Leader on this expedition we call life. Happy Trails and watch out for those brick walls, they can be tricky.

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.

Seven Years Ago

Seven Years Ago

It was a Saturday morning. We had my mom’s special Italian eggs with peepers and onions with some steak fries on the side for brunch, delicious as usual. We were going to visit a new place my mom had heard about named Peddlers Village in New Hope Pennsylvania. I was ten years old at the time and like on most of our road trips, I was asked to take out the map and navigate our way there. Mind you I do not think I had been to Pennsylvania yet in my life but my mom always treated me as a person, not a little helpless child that needed to be coddled and bundled up in the winter and frozen solid with air conditioning in the summer. This day was perfect- sunny 70 something degrees and the sky was clear; no need to bundle up or crank the air conditioner in the car. We drove her old Chevy Impala with the windows open, which made map reading a challenge but there were enough traffic lights to work it out.

We spent the afternoon walking around and munching on fresh-made kettle Peanut Brittle. The little shops and snack bars were fun, we felt like we were in a different time and place. This was before New Hope became a tourist trap for New Agers and Peddlers Village turned into pseudo-Amish Village. We had a great day. We ate some dinner there before heading back. I think we had some kind of special meat sandwich on fresh marble rye. On the way home, I bailed on my navigators duties and fell asleep for most of Route 206 but woke up by the time she needed an update. We stopped at the locally owned Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream down the street from our home and I got Jamoca my favorite. These are the kinds of days that I think about when I think of my mom. There were many that were nothing like this but these carry most the most strength for me.

It was seven years ago today that her body had had enough. It was a Monday around noontime. I had been back in jersey and trying to support my mom during her final half year. I worked and lived at 300 hundred year old former Inn that was a renovated restaurant that a buddy was the chef and manager. He started chemo and radiation for throat cancer while my mom was eroding away from the cancer that started when I was just a little older than that day at Peddlers Village. She had fought that thing for about thirty years! Enough was enough. I was helping this attractive wealthy woman when the call came: it was my Cousin Jackie. She didn’t have to say a word; her tears and energy told the story that I already knew the ending six months earlier. The doctors said she had several years, “She is a fighter!” her oncologist said. I knew in my belly it was time to stop fighting; the fight was over.

During those last few months, the memory of my mom was hard to bring to focus. She had lost most of her memory and faculties due to the large quantities of morphine being dripped into her system. When I was sitting next to her, she would say, “You know my son Michael is on the phone. He moved all the way to New Jersey just to stay with me. He is such a great kid. They all say he is selfish and doesn’t care about his family but he walks five to ten miles every time he comes to see me. That’s my son Michael, never the easy way but he stands for what he believes.” She would dose off. The next day I would be on the phone with her, “You know my son Michael walked all day in the rain and wind to come see me today? He is such a good-looking guy. I feel so bad he has never gotten married but we always knew, even when he was a kid that he would never marry. He was always so determined to do what he needed to do. Nobody ever could tell him what to do. Not my Michael. I wish he had married a nice girl though, somebody to take care of him. Such a shame. He works so hard with those messed up kids in Wisconsin or wherever he lives. He is so good with them but he still needs a woman to help him out. He gets lonely even though he says he doesn't. I am his mother and I know. Ok, I better get off the phone, I do not want to keep him waiting after walking all that way.”

About a month before she passed, I brought my two nephews and their mother, my brother’s widow, to see her. They had not seen her much since she had regressed so much. She did not know who they were. She raised them and didn’t know who they were. They cried. I did worse. To see these boys witness my mom, their Gramma like that was devastating to me. Still is. They did not see her again after that night.

Tonight I lit a candle for her. I prayed for her and thanked her. Most of what is good about me came from her. It took many years to come to the surface but it clearly has her stamp on it. She was the fighter that showed me how to fight. She was the cook that demonstrated food as love to be shared and cherished. She was the one who let me know I am worth it so I can do that with for others. She was the one who loved me during the Hell years and the aftermath that followed, giving me hope that I would again be lovable some day. I am.

I miss her. More than I let myself know or feel. Too painful. I pretend I am Ok because it is the only thing I know how to do. I miss her. I miss her.

Mom. I miss you. They do too. You are not forgotten. Never will be. Thank you for being my mom. I love you.

Your son Michael

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

One Year: 2.14.2009

One Year: 2.14.09

It was a snowy day in the mountains of southwest North Carolina. I had worked there as caretaker for only two months. I lasted longer than I thought. I had not been so abused and disrespected in my life as during those two months. I had finally had enough. I told the owner of the Glen Choga Lodge I was leaving. I packed up my van in the snow. He said, “Why don’t you stay the night since it is snowing so badly, and leave in the morning.”

I was tired and miserable but my gut said, in the infamous words of Eddie Murphy, “Tiptoe the fuck out!” But I felt bad for the old man; he was sick and I knew I was leaving him in a bad way. To show respect to the old jerk I decided to stay the night, “OK, I’ll leave in the morning.” I stayed the night, slept a little late in the morning and when I made it to the kitchen to heat up a cup of tea on the wood-burning stove, I saw the envelope with my name on it “Michael”. I opened it and read the check he made out to me, five hundred bucks short! I waited till he came out and before I could day a word, “I reckon you should make yourself scarce and get on out of here. You are not welcome here any more.”

“But what about my pay? This is off by $500!”

“I’ll get it to you at the end of the month, now get on out of here!”

“I want my money! I will not leave without my money!”

He made a call to the closest police department, Andrews Township about twenty-five minutes away. I heard him say to the officer on the phone, “Persona non grata”. My Spanish is weak but I knew what that meant. They arrived about thirty minutes later and we both told our sides of the story. I was escorted off the property minus $500 by the two officers. It was a Tuesday late afternoon when my van winded around the mountains toward Asheville. Everybody I met since the day I arrived in North Carolina told me, “You should go to Asheville, you will love it there. Lots of people just like you.” I had no plan, so Asheville would work for the next few days until I start heading north towards New Jersey, my default setting.

I spent a week in Asheville and felt insulted when I left that everybody thought I was just like them; they were a bunch of pseudo-hippies playing spiritual New Age gurus. I ran for cover and headed towards Boone, another place I was supposed to love. I did. When I left Boone, a few days later, I directed the van east towards the ocean thinking I would head north from there. Little did I know that the next five months were going to spent living and traveling out of my van, up and down the east coast of the USA. I learned a lot and experienced all kinds of stuff; some of which I would prefer to leave behind and did. Along the way, I met and became friends with some incredible people. Some of them have become Reiki students and I had the opportunity to share Reiki with many folks. I guess Virginia and North Carolina are not Reiki hot spots.

In those five months, I was fortunate to receive teachings from several great teachers. Two of them being Grandmaster T.K. Shih in Danbury, Connecticut and Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche in Charlottesville, Virginia. I slept in more than twenty-five different homes during this period, mostly arranged through The Couchsurfing Project. I happened to spend a great deal of time around university campuses and the students. The adolescent slut in me seemed to attract many sweet young things into my life to confuse and bewilder me; it worked. I managed to somehow not have sex with any of them. There is one that I regret that decision but that is another story that I won’t tell.

I was applying for jobs at Princeton and other universities along the east coast with varied responses and interest. I am not sure how, but I ended up on some kind of recruiters list for international work since I applied for a project in Liberia. I didn’t get the project in Liberia but was offered a position teaching English in South Korea. I said yes without much thought, maybe an hour or so. They called me a couple of days later, “Michael, if we paid you an extra 600,000 won per month, paid for your plane fare here and sent you to Japan to complete your work visa, would you come in two weeks instead of two months from now?” I thought about this for nearly two minutes, “Sure, I think I can do that.” Twelve days later with all my stuff stored and legal stuff rushed through, I was on a flight to Seoul-Incheon International Airport. I made it to my new room after 1:00am and unpacked most of my stuff, shaved and showered with cold water since I could not figure out how to turn on the hot water and went to bed after 3:300am to rest before starting work in the morning. That was July 16th, more than six months ago.

I get to bow many times every day now. I get to spend at least one chunk of time weekly at the local Jimjilbang, my other favorite thing about Korea next to bowing. I got involved in NaNoWriMo and wrote the bulk of a novel in one-month totaling over 55,000 words in November, and another 20,000 in December. And no, I had never written a novel or fiction before. I still have trouble identifying myself as a writer but besides teaching, sleeping, Reiki and meditation; I invest more of my time and creative energy into writing than anything else. I guess that makes me a writer? Or lacking in diverse activities.

I remember crying on my cell phone driving the mountains of western North Carolina talking to a friend with both joy and sadness about my episode at the lodge earlier that day. It was Valentines Day and I was a mess. In spite of myself, things have worked out better than I possibly could have dreamt up in a fantasy novel about a mysterious man traveler who ends up teaching English to Korean elementary kids while facilitating Reiki trainings on Skype with folks from three continents. I am glad that the powers that control the Universe have a more fruitful plan for my life than I do. If left to me, I am fairly certain I would still be sleeping in the homes of American college girls half-naked for the rest of my life, or till arrested for some awful act of disrespect on the soul and body of one of my hosts.

One year, twelve months and a pile of days, memories and miles. And who was it that said there is no God?

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?

Assignment: Through the Microscope- the first real kiss

Assignment: Looking through the Microscope- the first real kiss

I was sitting on the edge of Ellen’s bed with my heart beating, fast. Her bedspread was white, she had some pink things in her room but not as many as most girls I was friends with in seventh grade. It had more white, stronger looking stuff with heavier wood. I do not recall what was heavy or what it looked like, I just remember heavy wood and white. Nothing frilly or dainty for Ellen. She was a strong girl both physically, I am sure she could beat me up, and mentally; no one would mess with her, especially after she pinched Steven in the noise when he tried to grab her ass waiting for the bus one day. Her slanted brown eyes at times made her look at least part Asian but she was not; Ellen was a Jewish girl but not like the other Jewish girls in town. She did not wear make up, go shopping, whine or ever say with that New York accent in suburban Jersey, “Oh my God, you wouldn’t believe what…”. No, Ellen was a beautiful girl with a thin body and still part of the itty-bitty-titty-committee but tough as nails. I never could figure out why we were together about to make out. I was not her type. She usually picked the studs in training, not the weirdoes like me. But Ellen was a revolutionary before she even knew what that meant. She could have been a famous feminist if she had enough respect for most women, but without ever saying it, Ellen frowned upon girls who get all dressed and changed the way they looked just so boys would like them. You cold smell her disdain for their low opinion of themselves and their actions. Especially the little Jewish American Princess types. But here we were in her bedroom on Saturday late afternoon while her mother was not home. I do not know if she had a father, she said when we ere walking up to her huge white house with three humongous white pillars in front with her friend Lisa, “My mother is not home and the housekeeper doesn’t care what I do or who I bring home.” We entered her house, and her and Lisa started walking towards her bedroom as if I knew where it was. I tagged along not to seem immature or inexperienced in making out with girls like I did the first time we tried behind the middle staircase with Bryan and Monica after third period last Tuesday. I got scared and only gave he a peck on the cheek and then a kiss on the lips. I did not know she wanted to really make out, make out.

She opened the door to her room firmly with Lisa still in between us. When Ellen saw me standing in the door not knowing what to do with shoulders hunched up and licking my lips, she took charge. She looks at Lisa, “He licks his lips” they both laughed. I turned red and almost cried. “Lisa, go play with my brother”, in retrospect, I wish she had used a different phrase. She pointed for Lisa to leave the room and go to his room across the hall to the right. Lisa obeyed; every body obeys Ellen. “Squirrel, sit on the bed” she pointed to the bed near the middle but with room for her to sit closest to her pillows and teddy bear, brown and used. I wished she had called me by my name instead if my nickname but was glad she knew what to do. She closed her bedroom door; we were now alone. She put on her Sylvania stereo and “Billy Don’t Be a Hero” by Bo Donaldson and The Heywoods was playing. She leaned over enough to get close but to still make me do some of the work. She took her right hand into mine and lifted it and placed it slowly but assuredly on her shoulder and then let go to put hers on mine. I trembled and knew that she knew I was trembling. She laughed a little but held it back. She showed some compassion and I think she was actually touched by my innocence and adoration of her. I looked for as long as I could at her light brown eyes that seemed to have green and hazel and maybe even blue in them. Maybe I was just dreaming when I looked at her before our lips touched. Maybe I just was so present and excited I did not even know what color her eyes are but I know they were light brown. Her cheeks were soft, like, real soft. Her lips were thin, soft and wide. I kissed her! Or maybe she kissed me. We kissed.

We took a breath. She was smiling. I think I forgot to smile I was so elated. My heart was racing. My penis was tingling like it would when I woke in the night during a dream and it was slightly hard and ready to do that strange thing it does without me knowing when or why it does it. We kissed again and again. Finally, we held the kiss and I was making out with a girl, and not just any girl. I was making out with Ellen, the one girl that no boy could control or tame. The wild one who held the whole deck of cards. We giggled together. It was the first time we connected and did a together. Until then, it had been her and me doing something but that moment, we did a together. It was better than the movies or the stories my older brother used to tell. They never talked about the together moment. I wondered how I had lived till then without a moment like that. We were holding each other tightly now and I could feel her thin body next to mine. Her shoulders were pressed against mine and her small but wonderful breasts massaged my chest like nothing had before. This was my moment, our moment really.

The door opened right then and her little brother walked in with his pants unbuttoned, blue jeans. He looked about eight or nine years old. Head down, shoulders sticking straight up and hands holding up his jeans. His face had three long tears streaming down his soft little cheeks. He whispered in Ellen’s ears but I could hear it, “Ellen, she touched my pee-pee and it hurts”. Our moment was done, never to return.

I have assumed since, he may not have ever had such a moment of innocence that we shared that Saturday afternoon in autumn of 1973.

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.

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!

Blindness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vacations

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

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

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

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

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

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