Finding My Path

I have walked these streets of Cheonan for more than six weeks now. Originally through only Young Am dong, since that is where there are so many stores and restaurants in my section of the city. I ventured further towards the Lotte Mart in my second week, finding clothes to wear to work, mops, cleaning supplies, neat pillows to sleep and meditate on (www.jayeonsum.com) that smell like a mix of sandalwood and cardamom with an orange/ochre cover and finally the immense food section with guys on loud microphones yelling about specials in Korean that just echo through my brain while sifting through Kimchi, bean curd, seeded dark red grapes, mandarin oranges, frozen Mondu (steamed dumpling with either Kimchi or meat) and mini shrimp that cost less than the equivalent of $2.00 for one serving. Ironic for a guy who promotes the refusal to support major chain likes Wal-mart, k-mart or any other damn mart.

After my trip to Seoson, I returned committed to finding a real place to walk, a path with real live trees and grass and dirt. Living in an urban environment that is fully developed with concrete everywhere was beginning to take its toll on me. I ventured out into Ssang-yongdong and its massive white concrete apartment buildings with sidewalks of yellow, mauve and green with a middle row raised for those who cannot see to stay on the path forward.

My evening walks have been a Blessing for me in their sense of feeling part of a community amongst the families, couples and folks walking, talking and relaxing on these beautiful summer nights here in Korea. I found a really cool park with moms playing badminton with their kids. Teens shooting hoops on a Saturday night and laughing about something and nothing. The exercise equipment made for outdoor strengthening and stretching filled with families and kids playing and doing their thing. Folks walking slowly riverside enjoying life, love and the steady stream flowing through life and Cheonan. I enjoyed this walk so much I did it three nights in a row and one resulted in a fun conversation with a man who spoke good English and invited me to his home to hang out near midnight. We ate garlic potato chips and he asked me if I wanted to watch Korean XXX movies. It took a minute for my brain to filter through his Korean accent of English learned in Australia to realize he was talking about porn, when my face flushed and turned red before saying, “No thank you” shyly.

But still, no path of nature.

Until tonight. I ate a massively delicious meal at this local place that folks sit on the floor on little gold or olive green pads stacked under the table. I have eaten here twice before with my coworker and the lady promised she would remember what I liked so when I came in myself she could serve it to me. She did, along with five side dishes including excellent Kimchi, sweetened onions, mung beans, pickled green beans with sesame seeds and roasted eggplant; these were just the free side dishes. The meal itself was a stew with lots of black pepper, sesame leaves, chili paste and pork bones over white rice. Heaven for 5,000 won, or five bucks in the U.S. While eating my meal as were the three men across from me, the owner/cook/cashier/server turned into delivery driver on motorcycle and left the restaurant to deliver a meal with four customers comfortably enjoying their meals with no fear of theft or anything else. She returned moments later smiling and laughing like she always does.

I left and ran into one of my favorite kids that I teach English to with her younger brother and mom. She loves playing with me almost as much as I do with her. Her mom was nice, genuine and spoke good English. I left them and headed in another direction for further exploration of Ssang-yongdong. I weaved through the winding roads of one of the apartment complexes to find a nice walkway with a sign pointing towards something that I could read the letters and pronounce but was clueless of the meaning. I followed the arrows like a good little boy who eats his vegetables. And there it was, a dirt path- real dirt complete with dirt. I was so excited I almost trampled on an elderly man passing by as I entered the trail to somewhere. There were grass, trees, bushes and dirt- old friends I have dearly missed; maybe more than friends and family back home. I could smell the dirt and greenness of nature, smiling and smiling, maybe even giggling. It being after 10:00 at night, it was dark hiking up the hill on the dirt path in my four-dollar brown sandals from CVS. No problem, even for a guy like me with a light deficiency in both eyes. Koreans line these paths with lights that are triggered by motion. As I climbed the hill, every fifty feet or so another series of lights magically lead the way for me. More giggles, one leading me to thanking God for me finally finding a place to walk, hide, reflect, write and feel Real whenever I need it, day or night just a few blocks from my home. I walked for about a mile without reaching the apex. More smiling at the thought that tomorrow I can do this with camera in backpack when light and bright and see Cheonan from above.

I have found my path. I needed this. As usual, I found it while wandering through life and Ssang-yongdong aimlessly in spite of myself. Grace is a beautiful thing.

My Hollywood Nightmare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please Leave your Shoes at the Door

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friendship

Connection
Love
Welcoming
Laughter
Fun
Hands
Hugs
Respect
Sharing
Listening
Gazing
Napping
Honesty
Risk
Trust
Mirrors
Tremble
Jump
Acknowledgement
Leap
Treat
Surprise
Delight
Right
Relief
Reflection
Reason
Being
Unity
One
Complete
Whole
The Goal

Curves

That Own me
That Throw me
That Sow me
That Hoe me
That Know me
That Flow me
That Blow me
That Grow me
That Show me
That Tow me
That Go me
That Mow me
That Bow me
That Row me
That Stow me
That Wuw me
That Slow me
That Owe me
That Bone me
That Hone me
That Hormone me
That Testosterone me
That Condone me
That Throne me
That Stone me
That Moan me
That Shun me
That Sun me
That Stun me
That Fun me
That Done me
That Hun me
That Nun me
That Run me
That Ton me
That Won me
That Spun me
That Swerve me
That Nerve me
That Perve me
That Serve me
That Curve me
That Bend me
That Send me
That Tend me
That Verve me
That Lend me
That Trend me
That Fend me
That Mend me
That Spend me
That Spoon me
That Noon me
That Moon me
That Goon me
That June me
That Loon me
That Soon me
That Tune me
That Buffoon me
That Balloon me
That Kaboom me
That Ruin me
That Root me
That Toot me
That Boot me
That Mute me
That Hoot me
That Lute me
That Nuet me
That Cute me
That Befuddle me
That Cuddle me
That Muddle me
That Subtle me
That Huddle me
That Puddle me
That Found me
That Bound me
That Confound me
That Surround me
That Hound me
That Mound me
That Drowned me
That Nouned me
That Clowned me
That Pound me
That Round me
That Wound me
That Astound me
That Ascend me
That Unend me
That Suspend me
That Upend me
That Transcend me

The Man in The Lighthouse

The Man in The Lighthouse

He sits quietly
Thoughtful
Alive
Reflective
They learn from him
Life
Connection
Tradition
He creates worlds other cannot see
Vision
Conception
Redemption
They bow in awe
Respect
Direct
Insightful
He listens to words not yet said
Open
Sensitive
Intuitive
They think he knows something, everything
Silent
Proud
Alone

Rediscovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

Discovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

I spent part of my afternoon at Deoksugung Palace and the Korean National Museum of Art after escaping Itaewon and all the American tourists buying Puma or Nike sneakers, Gap shorts and Levis jeans in Seoul, South Korea. I have never understood why Americans fly all over the world to go shopping for things they can purchase at their local mall. It is not like America doesn’t have enough malls, although I am not a very good American tourist, I must have missed the class on how to be a quality American tourist no matter where you go.

The Palace was elegant, homey, fun and stirred some old memories from different times and places from before I was michael. I have been here before; not as who I am today in this body. It’s nice to visit home away from home every now and then. My heart felt full of times when I lived more focused and committed than I do today. There was no remorse for the steps I have taken backwards, it was more about remembering who I am, and what and where I have come from as a human and as a Presence.

As invigorating as the Palace experience was for me, the art museum reached deeper. It never occurred to me while riding the yellow, orange, brown and blues lines downtown that I would end up at a Korean art museum exhibiting Latin American art in downtown Seoul. I giggled internally when walking up the steps and could feel the smirk on my face.

The exhibit rocked. Each viewing room and its theme touched a different part of me. The first room full of work expressing The Revolution connected with The Revolutionary in me that is never too far from the surface. Diego Rivera’s work got me the most fired-up with his passion and use of colors and texture that soothe and stir simultaneously.

The exhibit on mixing of cultures and races with black, brown and every shade of woman in between with their varied bodies, fashion, joy and pain reminded me of how long women have struggled for recognition and respect.

The final two rooms exhibited work focused on cultural and individual identity. Of course, this is when I felt most connected with the artists and the brushstrokes and heart strokes of their lives as people. Folks seemed to be moved by Frida Cahlo’s pieces the most, me, it was the force of Wilfredo Lam, Alexandro Xul Solar and Roberto Matta Echaurren.

Apparently I needed a dose of Latin American culture while visiting Seoul. I am grateful to have experienced such beauty and passion here next to City Hall in Seoul.