Dryer

When I first walked through Ssang-yongdong in mid-July, I noticed clothing racks in windows from the apartments of the higher levels of these large white cement buildings. I recall thinking; “I think that is so cool that folks don’t use their dryers during the summer to save electricity. What a great conservationist lifestyle.” That was until I made my way into a few different apartments and observed that they do not have dryers. Hummm. Interesting how some of the buildings actually support the environment like this. My small building is one of them. We have a washer on each floor that is used by about six or seven tenants each.

By late summer, I was getting the feeling that it was not just a building specific thing to not have dryers. So, being Curious George, the next time I went to E-Mart and Lotte Mart; I looked briefly at the major appliances to see if they actually sold dryers. They do. BUT, there are about ten washers to one dryer available for purchase.

See, in Korea, apartments are made with this little area of whatever width the apartment is as an extension of the living room or studio that is closest to the window for placing your clothes on a dryer rack to dry. They do not use clothes dryers. Really. They do not use clothes dryers. They wash their clothes in these really cool efficient washers that look more like a huge bucket than a washer. It has small agitators, and no, I am not talking about George Bush or his friends, I mean the little fins that protrude from the base of the washer to help shake things up. Everything about the technology and design is simple, very simple. In fact, there is a button that you can push and the washer will shake for about ten seconds to determine which water level is necessary and what cycle it will run at. It then displays how long it will take on a red LED and begins it’s filling of the machine with water. One does not have to figure anything out, the machine does it all for you. If you are one of those controlling types that need to fuss and be in charge of everything in your life, there are buttons for you to set the cycles and water level yourself. Otherwise, push the red button and come back in 50 minutes to empty your clothes out of the washer to bring your damp clothes to your little ‘balcony’ to dry. Done. Minimal natural resources are used and simple, real simple. Korean technology is aimed at simplicity. American technology is aimed at lack of simplicity, the more you spend, the more buttons and gadgets there are to operate and repair when they break. Simplicity.

My space does not have one of those little ‘balconies’. I have had to get a little more creative. I hang a clothesline across my space when I need to dry clothes and hang shorts and pants on little hooks that are stuck to the ceiling for other stuff. Big things I hang outside my large south-facing window to dry quicker. I love it! It so much fun each time figuring how to find a way to get everything dry without interfering with my life. I have not bought a drying rack yet; I don't like them or the way the look. So, being an American, I have found a way to take technology that simplifies and complicate it. Thank God shoelaces do not have any electrical appliances for me to complicate. More importantly, I have found a way to leave the world of “I need my clothes dry now!” to “My clothes will be dry when they dry” and get added moisture in my room during winter nights as a bonus. I started not using dryers for the most part about a decade ago. I am glad that the option has been taken from me completely.

What would your life look like without a dryer?

My First Korean Language Lesson

I was a little nervous meeting with my co-teacher’s sister for the first time. Actually, I was nervous about her meeting with me for the first time. My co-teacher, Miji, in English, Ashley, has told me that her sister is “scary” (scared) about meeting me since she is shy about speaking in English to foreigners. I was conscious of bringing out my gentle self, not the bulldog that typically steps, rolls and tramples over everything in its path.

“Hello Michael, This is my sister Christina.” Looks at sister with excitement, “This is Michael.”

“Hi Christina, what a nice name!”

“Oh, uh, Hi.”

That was out beginning. I did not expect much more based on the foreshadowing by said sister. We hemmed and hawed about where to sit and talk and ended up at the KTX high-speed train station about two kilometers away for reasons I am not sure I could find a way to make sense of in written word. We sat down in the Dunkin Donuts in the far left corner away from all other humans. I let her choose the table and seating arrangements to support her lack of comfort. I sipped on my mocha latte and she sipped on whatever hot coffee beverage she ordered plus the green tea rice cake that was brought to the table about three minutes of anxious non-conversation later. I think to myself, OK if this is going to happen, I need to take the leap and just start asking her questions. I wanted to offer her the opportunity to demonstrate to herself she can do the language sharing that her sister set up for us. Her sister was sitting at a nearby table with one of our professional co-workers Sam to provide adult supervision to the scared little children, Michael and Christina.. Where to start, Oh! I can use help with pronunciation of HanGul. This will give her some footing and me a chance to correct my bad use of the language before I create habits.

We went through the Korean alphabet and she was very patient and firm in her attempt to provide me with quality Korean accents, a good thing since Koreans are not used to foreigners speaking their language and have not developed skills in deciphering incorrect pronunciation the way native English speakers have needed to. Often when I pronounce a word with my American accent in HanGul, I receive a blank stare with no response to provide me with a drip of confidence to move forward and try again. They just do not have enough opportunities to discern the difference in speech to make up for my mistakes. It is my problem not theirs and grateful my language exchange partner is motivated to support me learning the correct way and not just a close facsimile. Often language is drastically different than horseshoes and hand grenades, close has no value. The difference between rust and lust are drastic but sound the same to an Asian native.

Example: ‘I am feeling lust’, to be mistaken as ‘I am feeling rust’ on a first date would make things go much differently. Or, ‘Look at the horse’ is much different than ‘Look at the whores’.

So we went through the alphabet and then tackled some basic words like hello and goodbye, which I already knew but did not want to break her rhythm. Then we moved to phrases like “I am leaving” and “I am sorry”, and the ever important for a teacher in an elementary school, “Please leave”.

Without her noticing, we slid into some English basics even though she has a large English vocabulary but cannot speak much. She is a college professor and reads English textbooks but has no one to speak it with but her sister. Her being the older sister, she is not going to learn English from Miji. She warmed and we had fun. I showed her how to let an English native know you don’t understand what they are saying in both casual and formal conversation. Things I never thought about previously.

Example: In conversation with an Englishman on a train in Seoul she could say, “I do not understand what you said.” But, speaking to the CEO of Marriot Hotels, she is a hotel management professor, she may say something like, “I am sorry, can you please repeat that slowly. I didn’t understand everything you said.”

We shared our cell phone numbers and made some arrangements for next Thursday night. She even leaned forward a few times and without realizing, she was getting comfortable with me and our exchange. She is a kind, intelligent and patient woman- the perfect person to teach me HanGul and to share what I can to help her in her dealings with native English speakers confidently. I am excited to meet with her again, learn a little more HanGul and make a new friend. As has been my experience previously, most exchanges and transactions happen on many levels, I see the possibilities of continuing that trend with my new language partner Christina.

ka yo. (I am leaving now.)

A Local Korean Hospital

It was a Saturday afternoon, the weather in Korea is definitely cooling but it was bright and sunny. I hated it. I felt miserable and wanted to go out and play. I have feet, a bike, mountains and sidewalks waiting for me but not today. I have the common cold. I had it last month as well, two colds in one year a record of sorts for me. I am in a new land and my body is reacting to changes. Last month I chose acupuncture and herbal medicine prepared by the herbalist at the Oriental Medical Center a few blocks away. It worked out great. This time I chose to go and get an injection at the local small hospital a block from the oriental medical clinic. I want to feel well quickly, I have some things I need to do, besides, and I wanted to have the experience.

I walk into a large lobby with about fifty people of all ages sitting on cushioned red benches with a big screen TV set mounted on the wall to the left with some sit com that folks seemed to enjoy. I see at the far end an information desk, I walk there slowly and cautiously not knowing the protocol and knowing that the language barrier is about to express itself again. I feel sick and do not feel up to it, too bad. I approach the desk and we exchange the simplest of English conversation including me pretending to cough, pointing and exaggerating my throat inflammation and showing my sinuses dripping. I have become a method actor here in Korea as matter of circumstance. They take my alien registration card; type some stuff in the computer and point for me to sit down while speaking in Korean as a matter of habit. I sit at the other end by the door; it feels like I can hide better there. Fifteen minutes later I get waved into a doctor’s office, he speaks minimal English and I repeat my Broadway performance of a sick man about to die from something awful. He smiles. He tells me after a brief examination, “You have the common cold.” I reply without reaction, “I know.”

“We give you injection ----- ---- ---- and three days. OK?”

“Yes, OK.” Assuming that he meant I would either get some medicine for three days or come back in three days. I do not know what he said in between injection and three days even after he repeated it twice. I respected him and his time, it is not his fault I do not speak Korean. A nurse shuffles me to another room and tells me, “Take your pants down for injection.” It then occurs to me the injection will be in my butt and not my arm. I have not had an injection in my butt in probably thirty-five years. I panic briefly but then pull them down behind a red and white striped curtain. Why the curtain if she is going to see my butt naked anyway? She re-enters the little space and rubs something wet and cold I assume to be alcohol on my butt and then rubs around for a second. Somewhere during that, she injected me. I did not feel it or even know she was dong it yet. Magic. I go out to pay and find it costs the equivalent of $7.00! I am shocked. I pay and leave not believing I went to a hospital, was diagnosed, injected and left in less than thirty minutes and it cost about $7.00. I picked up some groceries- oranges, tangerines, lemons, ginger root and other goodies to support my system and head home. Fruit cost more than the hospital visit. I feel better about an hour later.

It is now Tuesday night. I am still sick, maybe worse. It lasted shortly and I have a clogged up nose, coughing and yuckiness. I decide after dinner I will return and see if I was supposed to come back after three days or not. I walk in and nobody is in the whole waiting area. I approach the desk again as I did the other day but now there are different folks and need to do the Hollywood thing again. They are not amused. They bring another woman out, a nurse who speaks English. She is kind and helpful. After they figure out the intake nurse the other day decided to cut my last name in half, she brings me to the doctor’s office and joins us to help with language issues. She does great. We figure out that I was supposed to be taking medicine for the last three days and they gave me a prescription. I tell them, “I did not know if I was given a prescription or not and asked at the desk if I was done. And they said ‘Yes’, so I left. I am sorry. “No. We are sorry. They should have told you”, the doctor says with the nurse nodding her head yes. You can get another injection and we give you prescription for three days. If you still sick, please come back see me. OK?”

This time I understand totally. “Yes OK. Thank you very much.”

I am ushered to the other room and again pull my pants down to get the injection in my butt but she turns me around to do the other side. She says while smiling, “Now you have balance.” I laugh and before I know it she is done. “Pull up your pants and I take you to get prescription filled.”

“No I can do it myself. Thank you.”

“There is nobody here. I can help you.”

I let her lead me to the desk to pay before we leave. This time it is only $5.10. I think they gave me a discount because of confusion over prescription. She then leads me out the door to the little pharmacy around the corner. We enter and she hands the prescription to the young lady and says something to her. They bow. She turns back to me, “I work from 8:00-midnight if you ever need anything.”

“Thank you very much. Hopefully I will not see you again.” She says, “Good-bye” bows and leaves. I return the bow. My prescription was filled about two minutes later. The pharmacist said “Take after meals three times day.”

“OK. How much?” I make gesture of money exchanging hands. It was the equivalent of $3.10 for tablets and syrup for three days. I leave to go home smiling with my little pharmacy bag.

Things sure are different here. The presidential election has started in America. I already voted absentee.

Blindness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sirens

I am baffled, completely. I have been here in Cheonan, South Korea for three and half months and I have only heard three sirens during that period. I live about three hundred yards from the local police station. You would think I would hear them fancy sirens they have go off just to test them, like they do with fire trucks in the USA.

Siren #1: In August, no September, no it was August I was taking a bus to Incheon-Seoul Airport for a flight to Japan, while trying to fall asleep from boredom and exhaustion of going to bed after midnight and waking at 4:445a.m. to meditate, catch two buses and make it to the airport on time; I heard my first Korean siren. It caught me off guard due to my groggy state and the never before heard sound of a Korean ambulance. It passed us in a hurry on Highway 1 in a buzz and flash. I fell asleep a moment later.

Siren #2: A September evening walk through Ssang-yongdong on an atypically warm night but still cool enough to enjoy the occasional breeze and fresh air without sweat to get in the way. I crossed Ssang-yongdong 2 towards the park I have a thing for, especially at night. It is an open area with pretty red, green, yellow and burnt orange tiled floor and benches along the perimeter in two semi-circles and a circular bench-like place to rest and enjoy the trees, grass and seafood restaurant across the skinny street. I can see the stars and clouds anytime I go there. I have painted there on Sunday afternoons to enjoy sun, air and well, painting. This night I was still passing Highvill apartments across from the better Paris Baguette in my neighborhood when I heard my first Korean police siren. It startled me. The sound was foreign and piercing. Almost nightly I walk past the police station twice on my way out and in from a walk wondering what a police siren sounds like here. The first time caught me by surprise somehow. I must be the inner anticipation of sitting on the circular bench-like thing staring at stars and nothing. I stopped when I heard it moving closer, quickly and forcefully. And there it was, a police car with blue and red lights and a siren. I gawked at it like I do the first time I see a barely covered young woman in a bikini every spring like I have never seen a woman before. I forgot where I was going when I was done gawking and the police car was out of my visual proximity. Bikinis, yum!

Siren #3: I was walking home from school and had just passed the police station. The police car went less than a block before finding whatever it was looking for. I saw no urgency or criminals or anything. Just a siren and a cop car driving a half block and the two tall thin male officers dressed in tan uniforms leaving the vehicle and standing by the patrol car looking at something. Nothing happened that I can see but they stayed there for a at least the two minutes I watched from the corner where the silly looking blown up sign in front of the cell phone store is across the street. I hate those blow-up signs I see around here at cell phone places. Sometimes I feel like popping them when I walk by. A product of growing up as a boy in America, the deep need to destroy thing because I can. They don’t do that here for some reason. I left to get home and take my nightly 15-20 minute Reiki nap on the floor before dinner.

I am baffled. Why does a city with a half million people all living so close together not need police sirens for crimes or crisis situations? How are there no fires? Doesn’t anybody ever need to go to the hospital with an emergency? I do not get it. How is this possible? I live two blocks from the police station and work across the street from it with my classroom staring directly at its front door with my windows open every day. Where are the emergencies and crisis? Baffled, simply baffled.

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.

My New Korean Bike

A silver frame with some cerulean blue mixed in. The seat is grey and the rack on the back is sliver with grey fenders underneath front and back. It is Korean made and new. It arrived today in a box at the school I work at by delivery. The bike cost an equivalent of about $55.00 dollars and the delivery fee about $6.00, it is the first brand-new bike I have owned since age ten when I had a Black Ghost sting-ray with a sissy bar in back, it was a five speed and I loved it till I crashed it going down a hill and landed in the hospital with five stitches in my right knee. The scar is still there. I have a new bike.

This is significant for many reasons; the one that moved me to start filling this blank page is that somewhere in the mid-late nineties, I made a personal commitment to stop buying new. This commitment has included everything in my life except food, plant seeds and underwear. I have been pretty vigil about this for the most part with a few alternative choices while traveling around in my van for five months this past year that added some new, simple tan leather shoes and a pair of Keen hiking shoes I found at a privately owned camping store for $30.00 at 80% off. I wore them bike riding tonight. My commitment was about recycling more than anything. Economy factored in since most of the last fifteen years has been one of part-time jobs or long-term retreats without income, to say money was not part of the equation would be misleading. I have found ways to wear clothes that were either purchased at thrift shops or dumpster diving to support my professional, spiritual and athletic lifestyle successfully. The few books that I felt the need to own a copy of came from half.com, garage sales and more dumpster diving. Furniture has only been found through sidewalk dumping and an occasional garage sale. That has ended now since residing in South Korea. Koreans do not do used, period.

There are no thrift shops, vintage clothing stores, e-bay equivalent and only two days a year are reserved for garage sales, yes two very specific days, otherwise it is illegal. Koreans do not believe in taking ownership of other peoples belongings. I have asked why and received peculiar looks as if I was asking to have sex in a public place with a stranger in the snow or something. They do not do used. I assume that they pass on items to each other among friends and family since Koreans typically are frugal, practical, simple and ecological by nature. My gut tells me they do not know why they do not buy used stuff really. My gut also tells me this is one of the many Buddhist traditional thinking concepts passed on so long folks do not know its origin or purpose, kind of like wearing underwear, which really have no purpose, nor do top sheets in bedding. The reason I think it is Buddhist is that I believe they do not want to take on somebody else's negative energy, imprint or Karma. This has always been a great challenge for me and my Teacher has several times questioned my choices on such matters. Used items, regardless of what they are or why we buy them, carry the imprint of those before us. A used bed carries all the sex, lust, dreams, nightmares, isolation and fears that have may have been part of the previous owners world. And the reverse is true as well; the love, joy, sharing, connection, fantasies and mutual-orgasms that may have taken place between the sheets carry an imprint too. What about a couch? Have there been arguing, fights, seduction, television, violence or desperation in its history? Furniture like homes and walls have histories, these histories can speak to us directly or not so directly but their voices will be heard. So the challenge has been to discern before purchasing if my energy and their history can be well matched or not. I have walked away from great and free items that rationally would be perfect for me but through inner discernment about possible contrasts in energetic tendencies. I have bought used clothes that I gave away after one wearing since they didn't feel right on my body or field.

Here in Korea that does not matter, the choice has been wiped from my range of possibilities. I am both grateful and disappointed in this process. I always feel better when I make the decision, not when the Universe does it for me, which is not a complete truth either but another tale for another day.

I enjoyed taking my bike for a test ride tonight. It is a small bike, really too small for my body. As someone who has used bicycles as his main source of transportation since 1995, comfort on a bike is important to me. But it is fine for the next nine months, if I feel guided to stay here longer; I will share this bike with someone else and get a better one that fits me. It felt good sweating enough to know about it and letting the wind flow across my face and cheeks. Seeing my neighborhood with new eyes that are moving faster than walking but slow enough to swallow my environment that buses cannot produce. I love bike riding, it is such a nice and peaceful way to move about through the world.

In 1996 in Bloomington, IN, USA, I was a guest at a meeting of The Simple Living Group. They were discussing how cyclists tend to be kinder and gentler than motorists on the road. My experiences echoed their theory on friendly bike riders. I shared a story that then made my nickname “Smile Michael” from that day forward among this group of folks that became friends of mine. There was this guy who owed a local rare and used bookstore on the square in the center of town. He had great books at semi-fair prices but he is a miserable, unhappy, elitist who made the energy and the experience of shopping in his store downright awful. I stopped going there but used to pass him every morning while riding my bike to work while he walked to his store with that same “I’m an intellectual, arrogant book worm who knows more about literature than you do you stupid un-cultured fool look”. I said “Hello” to him and smiled every morning without even an acknowledgement for almost two years five times a week. One day he nodded back to me. A few months later, he said, “Hi” and almost smiled; the closest he came to an actual smile in my six years in Bloomington. My work was done. Another town, another bike ride.

I have a brand new shiny silver and blue bike, I cannot wait to see what new adventures it will bring me!