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.

It Will Not Happen

It will not happen

It will not happen
I will not hate you
You are too precious for that
I might not be your friend.

It will not happen
I will not be seduced by your body
You are not just flesh and blood
I might not look away.

It will not happen
I will not buy your sex
You are still my Sister
I might not let my hands touch you.

It will not happen
It will not be a slave
You are not my Master.
I might not be ready for freedom yet.

It will not happen
I will not disgrace you family
You are real with tears and toes
I might not accept the offer.

It will not happen
I will not ignore your Truth
You are not so simple
I might not know how to love.

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.

Waka 1

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

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

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!

Eyes Open

Eyes Open

I had the opportunity earlier this month to participate in a Reiki Meet Up in Seoul, South Korea. Since Reiki is not very popular here in Korea, I was excited at the opportunity to share and receive some Reiki, and meet some good people. I was not disappointed. The group had lots of positive energy and everybody was respectful of each other. I felt welcomed from the minute I arrived and as usual, as a male, I was in the minority. I was grateful there was another male present, the group facilitator. In all, the group was made up of nine people; a few had never experienced Reiki previously and seemed to have very positive experiences. As is typically the case, I find the “proof” of Reiki success is in the change in the color and brightness of the eyes, cheeks and skin of each person as they slowly eased off the table. Our face and energy say what we are not always able to communicate verbally.

It was during the actual “table time” itself that has caught my attention and reflection since then. I have been fortunate to receive training from a very dedicated and focused Reiki Teaching Master who I think would prefer to stay anonymous, so I will honor that intention. She has instilled in me the wisdom of utilizing all our resources to support someone’s process. I am speaking specifically about using the eyes as a means of transmitting Reiki. I leave my eyes open when working with someone else. I know this has become rare these days in the Reiki community but I have had enough experience to convince me of its merits. In fact, I consciously ask for Reiki to flow through the eyes, belly, root, feet,and the hands, and of course the heart center. Why place limits on Reiki? I find using all three eyes increases the intensity of the energy. My experience is that the eyes are more powerful than the hands, almost without except. The energy tends to be cleaner and tighter. I know others access their eyes during Reiki counseling, I do not understand why it is not consciously included during hands-on work. That is none of my business. I do what I do because it has been effective for me, and those I have been fortunate to pass on Reiki Teachings.

Another added benefit besides the increased energy is increased focus. My experience has been that I am more present and focused when I look at whom and where the energy is directed. My whole Self is present. I do not drift and space out as much as I used to with my eyes closed. I do not get lost in my own stuff, or get caught up in things that I do not need to be getting involved in when working with someone else. Like most Reiki Practitioners, I take our responsibility serious and try my best to honor and respect those who have been sent our way. I feel if I can stay present even a pinch more, it is worth my effort.

A third reason I appreciate working with my eyes open is the added opportunity to “see” the physical effects of the session. Seeing their breathing slow, the body relax, eyes stop twitching, belly rising and lowering naturally and all the other physical signs that I missed with my eyes closed. Since I first received Reiki Attunements and training, I have sensed what other's process and systems functioning. This is an inner process and supports the core of Reiki for me. I am grateful I have been guided to not stop there and include visual evidence of what is happening as well. Again, why limit the possibilities? I do not say this from the perspective that I do not have enough faith in Reiki to do what it needs to do, like most of us; I have experienced and witnessed shifts, changes and transitions that cannot be accurately described due to their at times miraculous nature. Reiki has changed my life and I have significantly more Faith in Reiki than myself. That is why I want to give myself every opportunity to stay focused, present, engaged and aligned with the Reiki lineage as much as possible. Reiki is an honor and I want to embrace that honor to whatever lengths I can. I know there has been questions and conversations about how much intention matters in Reiki but my experiences to date strongly support the power of intention and its effectiveness. If my intention is to include my whole body and being in the process, how can it not increase the effectiveness of the process for all involved? If folks ask for Reiki to pass through their hands, why stop there?

This is not to judge or disrespect any other method that we practice as Reiki Practitioners; I am just sharing my experiences. This reflection came about from this Reiki Meet Up I participated in when folks were sharing about their process and how they didn’t know where their hands were, or where other's hands were, etc. Keeping our eyes open and still maintaining our connection to the Source of Reiki seems a positive way to support our work. I hope for those who give it a try find the same positive effects that I have experienced.

Peace and love,
michael

Like a Korean Virgin

Like a Korean Virgin

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

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

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

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

“No, they don’t.”

“They’re virgins till marriage?”

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

“Both men and women?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes. It is very normal in Korea.”

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

“Yes but many of them lie about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

“Did you ever talk with her about it?”

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

“You are lucky michael.”

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

“No.”

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

“They don’t.”

“Less than ten percent”

“Yes, maybe.”

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

“Yes.”

“More than seventy percent?”

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

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

“Yes it is very normal in Korea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tang San Mountain Tonight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am done.

Hope is in The Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace and Hope,
michael

Oscar the Janitor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My friend Oscar The Janitor.

Bowing: An Energetic Transaction

On my first morning here in Korea, I entered a local “deli” to buy something quick to eat before starting work. I had arrived in my room around 1:00a.m. and did not go to sleep till nearly 3:30, with a wake up time of about 8:30a.m. The “deli” is not what I would typically call a deli but do not know the correct name for it. The woman prepares and sells different kinds of Kimchi and stews, hot and ready to go. I did not know what I was thinking when I walked in the door of her place, she bowed and said some kind of formal greeting that I know now as “Annyeong-haseyo”, good morning/afternoon/evening. But the bow is what caught me in my tracks. I had been given the information that many Koreans still bow before I left the states. I was a little excited but did not really grasp what bowing really is till that morning of little sleep after a twenty-four hour flight and a long ride from the airport to my new place in Cheonan. She bowed as casually as someone who has done so without thinking thousands of times. She did not know how strengthening and affirming that common gesture was for me. I knew I had reached my destination and was in the right place. My trip to Korea was where I supposed to be.

For the last two months I have reflected many times on what actually happens during the process of bowing that is so powerful. Is it the honoring of another person’s Self? The honoring of the Self? Is it the conscious decision that whatever we may be doing at that moment, the decision to be focused and present right now is all that matters, because there is a human being in front of me and that requires my complete attention. We are acknowledging each other, and I sense our ancestors and histories as well. Very few people do half-hearted bows here. They do half-hearted all kinds of other things, but bowing is different. Even entering the E-Mart or Lotte-Mart, the Korean equivalents of Wal-Mart and K-Mart, there is a person inside the door that bows to every single person that enters and leaves. I do not understand how, but they mean it and are genuine every time to every person, even to the foreigner who wears a backpack and has this stuff growing on his face all the time.

Where does the bow come from? I do not mean mean its history, although I will assume it is a Chinese tradition initially. I am referencing the actual energy of the bow itself. It is too powerful for each one of us regular people to muster up the kind of energetic exchange that a bow transmits hundreds of times a day. It is like a shot if Reiki, Qi Gong, Prayer and a loving hug from your best friend and grandmother all in one, without touching or saying a word- Taiqi in its purest form.

I get to share bows with all three of the women that serve lunch in the school cafeteria daily. All of the clerks, stockers and employees at the grocery store by my home almost daily. I enter the cell phone place on my way home just to share a bow with the guy who owns the shop where I purchased my cell phone, because his bows go right through me and fill my spine every time without exception. It is worth the two steps to his shop to receive his warm smile and bow. When walking the halls at school, most of the kids and all the teachers share a bow with me; it does not get old for them or me. Each time, the exchange is present and refreshing to me, the Real me. It is hard to be miserable, angry or resentful when bows are plentiful to ruin my negativity, like it or not. I have been aware of what a challenge it is to hold onto whatever self-centered or selfish thoughts and emotions I am clinging to while being immersed in bowing. Bowing is in my spiritual lineage and blood. I think if we were able to trace DNA to see who has the bowing gene, I would be profiled as such. It is who I am, it just took a long plane ride to find this out.

Two specific bows stand out to me at this moment. The first being my initial introduction and hello to a Reiki Teaching Master I met in Kyoto, Japan. He came up the steps of the subway station in his black monastic attire and bowed before saying hello. I felt him, the Reiki lineage and our Inner Connection at that moment. Our shared history finally had the opportunity to greet each other in physical form. The acknowledgment that this particular bow shared is still part of my dreams at night and Reiki sessions in the morning. In that bow, my connection to Mikao Usui, the man who rediscovered Reiki and the Reiki lineage was immediately strengthened and fortified. I am grateful for this bow and our meeting. I know we will share another bow someday.

My other favorite bow happens Monday through Friday. One of the women that shares office space with me and I, do a mini bow while she is sitting at her desk every day when I enter the space. Her smile and warmth tickle my core and remind me why I am a teacher and what being a teacher means. I find her attractive on many levels and since there are some language barriers, bowing is the time we connect and acknowledge each other. I wish bowing could be the method of getting to know women for me in all attractions; it is honest, pure, respectful and loving. The other stuff that trends to cloud my attractions to women dissipate in that brief second we share. I want to expand that statement to include all relations, male, female, friends or otherwise.

And I thought bowing was just for spiritual rituals and old folks.

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.

We don't even Know We have It

Yesterday while drifting around Front St, Wilmington, NC, I stopped in a hippie-type store to peruse and continue my search for linen or hemp drawstring pants for men. I found amusement in the marketing of the Grateful Dead and Bon Marley paraphernalia. I have felt this way before in these kinds of stores. They have made them out to be demi-gods and forget how simple and humble they were. Bob would have hated being an icon for anything but revolution or uprising I think. In some ways, it is similar to what has happened with Brittany, Lindsay and Paris. I love that I can just write their first names and everybody knows whom I am referring to; it just further illustrates the point.

I was conversing with the young lady working in the shop about unisex pants and the differences in where we need comfort and more space to account for gender body types, curves and such. We have the “such” and women have the curves. Our conversation expanded as we continued to the icons of the Dead, Marley and her experiences touring with Widespread Panic. Of course, our personal experiences were much different due to generational cultural shifts. She was not old enough to experience the Dead as a living, cultural group of icons and the following they commanded. I would not know a Widespread Panic song if given only two choices.

As we got more personal, I shared about being on the road for the past three months and writing. She asked what I was writing and I explained that I a working on a project that may become a book someday. She inquired deeper and I expressed its content being how we try this and that, make all kinds of decisions and mistakes and in spite of ourselves, we come out of it OK for the most part. Reflections on Grace of you will.

She beamed and said she understood; her expression let me know she definitely understood. I asked her if she wanted to share an experience and she said she did. And she did.

She shared how she has a year and a half old girl that she did not plan for and how it is has been incredible for her. She continued on how this has effected her so positively and forced her to be grow up and be more responsible. She shared how surprised she was with the degree of strength she has in being a single mother and all that goes with it. Her affect and voice resonated with that strength, steadiness and maturity that parenthood has brought out in her. The young lady who just ten minutes before did not make eye contact and fidgeted constantly before, disappeared and now an adult woman and mother was standing before me. This is Motherhood to me- strong, courageous and maturity manifesting in front of my eyes on Mothers Day.

She told me her name was Leah and I shared that mine was Michael. Our connection was now constructed through the bridge of sharing our experiences of being human. Being human to me means walking into to enough walls long enough to accidentally find there wall is a door with an amazing sunset over the ocean on the other side. The Inner strength that she spoke about and oozed out of her quietly inspired me, made me stronger. Strength and courage are contagious. I feel fortunate to have “caught” some being in her presence.

This is another example of the exact thing we were sharing together; I walked in the store, amused with my arrogance with the marketing of the Grateful Dead and Bob Marley, whining about not finding the pants I want and then while “bouncing into a wall”, a door opens and the magic happens- Love, Courage, Strength, Birth and Parenting shine out for all to seen and feel. This is the Teaching for me these days; in spite of ourselves and all are efforts, the Divine Presence holds us and gently saves us from ourselves. Something beautiful takes place and we can do things we didn’t even know we could do/with for somebody else.
Wilmington, North Carolina: 5/2008