Friday Night in Danyang Valley

Friday Night at Danyang Valley

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

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

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

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

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

Michael = Dog?

Michael, Dog?

Anna is one of my favorite students. She is in second grade and just adorable and beats up most of the boys in our class as a bonus. She has black hair like everyone else here, brown eyes like everyone else here but hers are deeper, darker and rounder than most. Her full cheeks with that soft, silky Korean skin is just unavoidable for a quick, gentle caress every time I see her when she is done walking with me with her little hand inside mine. Anna is very affectionate and loves to be loved. Fortunately, I love loving her, so we get along well.

Today while waiting for her classmates to get to class, she was holding my hand, well actually my wrist and looking up at me with those wondrous eyes and dimpled smile. I was lost in her world when I noticed there was someone petting me, yes petting my forearm and I came back to earth and my classroom. It was Anna stroking and petting the hair on my arms. She again looked back up at me this time with wonder in her eyes and said in her best English, “Michael, dog?” and she pointed to my arm hair and then to my chest. Translation for the non-EFL teachers of the world: “Michael you have hair on your arms, are you a dog?”

I laughed half-heartedly and smiled at my precious little angel who somehow made calling me a dog sound sweet. Second graders can get away with stuff like that but adults get the Jersey/NYC stare when they venture into making comments of that sort.

I still get startled at the fact that most Koreans, both children and adults have never touched a human being with body hair or facial hair. It startles me. I grew up in an Italian family and amongst Italians, chest hair and facial hair are signs of virility. In fact, you are not really considered a man until you have chest hair. I faired well in that department. The other symbol of Italian manhood is not as easy to see, but we will leave that one alone for now. The idea that men can be men and not have hair on their chests, face and arms is beyond my mental capacity to understand. When I am lazy and do not shave, the next day almost every young one will come and rub my stubble. It occurs to me that they may have never felt a man’s facial hair as stiff as mine, another fact that baffles me and my social programming.

While on a roll about my social programming, bodies and cultural differences, I might as well dive into the women. Wait, that did not come out right. What I meant to say was I would like to explore the different bodies of Korean and Western women. OK, that didn’t work either but I think you get the point! I was here almost a month before I realized that the majority of females in Korea are not teenagers! Korean women have very slight frames and bones. It is of the highest importance for a woman in Korea to be skinny. I mean skinny, not thin or athletic. Typically, their bodies remind me of the standard American eighth grade girl in girth, bone structure, weight and size of butt and breasts. Even when pregnant, Korean women are less voluptuous then the American college girl on a diet. And I am speaking of American White girls, not Blacks or Latinas. Their butts are smaller then most pre-pubescent American girls, often with even skinnier legs. If thin is in, then Korean women are it but if curves are what shake your nerves, head east in a hurry! Again, I grew up around Italian women and the physical features that define her as a woman are her curves coming and going.

It has taken me a while to adjust my personal definitions of what is considered attractive, sexy and mature here in Korea. I am not sure I would ever adapt completely from the social and familial programming that is seated deep in this curious mind. But I am curious about what the skin feels like, I cannot lie. Koreans have the smoothest, silkiest skin on this planet. It almost doesn’t feel real. I have a friend in the states who is half Korean and I call her Silky Pants (she calls me Jerk Face for the record) and she warned about how the whole country has skin like hers. I did not believe her, I am a believer now. At times, I reflect on wanting to have a one-night stand or something similar just to touch, caress and lay next to such soft smooth skin. My Inner-Slut has a field day with these kinds of thoughts. But generally, return to my prudish ways and go about my business while trying not to gawk at an occasional woman that I cannot tell if she is twelve or twenty-eight- their bodies, faces, skin and clothes are almost identical. I blush when I realize they are a child and lower my head in shame.

The lessons and education continue for me here in Korea. I am starting to pay attention again to my surroundings knowing that my time here is limited. So the young ones will have to find another man to pet and call dog, and I will have to hold the hands of somebody else’s children with skin more course and a lot less bowing. In the mean time, Michael Dog will try to not smirk at the idea of being a man without chest and facial hairs and being a woman without curves. The programming is deep, like the center of an old Oak Tree. And like an Oak Tree, they don’t die easily.

Go Ask The Mountain

Go Ask the Mountain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Case i thought i Knew Something

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Communal Bathing

Community Bathing

Naked
Bathing
Scrubbing
Shredding
Being
Seeing
Shedding
Cleansing
Together
Community
Peace
Respect
Safety
Knowing
History
Hands
Holding
Suds
Green
Hot
Tubs
Sweat
Dripping
Feet
Bare
All
Prone
Moan
Ground
Found
Dissolve
Dissipate
Remove
Renew
Re-you
Water
Salt
Pine
Wood
Steam
Breathe
Release
Men
One

one year: 2.14.2009

One Year: 2.14.09

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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!

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.)

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.

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!

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

Returning to Well

After about a week of feeling stuffed, exhausted and drained from taking an anti-biotic for the first time since the mid-nineties, it was time to get well again. My co-worker insisted I get an injection before I get worse. Out of lack of energy to argue, I agreed. We called our manager and she said my insurance can be used anywhere and that I should definitely get an injection. My inner resistance to THAT kind of treatment was suppressed due to not knowing how or what to do otherwise here in Cheonan. I don’t speak the language and nobody I really know is involved in the kinds of treatment I would naturally choose. I would go before work the next morning; I was about to enter the world of western medicine that I left behind more than fifteen years ago in the middle of South Korea.

I went to bed late, my typical method of resistance that extends the day to avoid tomorrow. I slept later than was helpful, which reduced morning meditation and Reiki. Certainly more evidence of inner resistance when I need to support my system greater. It was beautiful outside and I started heading in the direction my co-worker who lives across the street from me said I could find a hospital for my injection. When I arrived at the corner I was directed to, I looked for the hospital and only saw a children’s hospital. I searched the area around the corner and saw a sign written in both HanGul and English: Oriental Medical Clinic. I smirked and walked in the building trying to figure out which floor to go to since I could not read the information on the elevator. I walked back outside and looked up at the green and white sign and counted the floors- one, two, three. It is on the third floor. I made a point of memorizing the name in HanGul to find it once I made it to the second floor. I can read HanGul; I just don’t know what anything means yet. I entered the elevator with a handful of other people. There were two young schoolgirls dressed in uniforms that giggled and put their hands over their mouth at seeing a foreigner on the elevator. How do they think we made it to the top floor of the World Trade Center without elevators?

The elevator doors opened, I turned left, no, I turned right and there was the same kind of white and green sign with the same words and an arrow. I followed the arrow and when I turned the corner, I could smell the sweet and pungent fragrance of ginseng, schizandra and a host of other Asian herbal remedies filling my clogged nostrils with an aroma that woke up my whole system. This I understand.

I opened the two glass doors with a twisted wooden branch as door handle and made note that like homes, restaurants and schools: medical clinic are also shoeless. A pleasing sight to add to the aroma that welcomed me to the clinic. I approached the desk cautiously knowing the hard part was about to arise, speaking to the receptionists who probably speak no English. I was correct, they both froze when I spoke and looked away as if they were hoping I would magically disappear or become fluent in HanGul when they turned their heads back. I didn’t. I pointed, my latest skill, to my throat and made a coughing sound, they acknowledged somewhat and pointed for me to sit down in the waiting area. A few nurses walked by and covered their mouths while they giggled at the foreigner trying to receive treatment without communication. I immediately felt shame and compassion for all the Latinos I dismissed as customers due to language in the mid-eighties when working for Radio Shack as a Retail Sales Manager. Karma has a good memory; it lasts from lifetime to lifetime and certainly remembers 1985.

About fifteen minutes later I was guided by a nurse dressed in pink by my shirt sleeve towards the back area to a gold curtain which the nurse pointed for me to get up on the small carpeted table and lie down, I did. When I wasn’t doing it properly, instead of returning to the pointing method, she just moved me to where she wanted me the way that nurses do. A few minutes later, a woman, I assumed the clinician of whatever form of treatment they do, entered the little curtained off area and said, “Hello”.

English!

She asked me several question about my symptoms including typical Asian treatment concerns like, “How are your bowel movements?” “Are you sleeping OK?” “Have you had an diarrhea?” Have you been eating well?” This conversation was taking place while she was pressing her hands into various points around my digestive system. Each time I made a face or sound, she pressed again deeper and asked, “Which hurts more this or this?” She then asked, “Have you ever had acupuncture before?

“Yes. Chinese acupuncture in America.”

“Have you ever taken any herbal (with the “h” pronounced) remedies?”

“Yes, many including ginseng.”

“Do you like ginseng? Does it make your stronger?”

“I do like ginseng. It gives me more energy but sometimes I get shaky from it.”

“Are you allergic to anything” She pointed to her arms and makes motion to illustrate hives, “Hives?”

“I cannot take alcohol, and my mother, father and brother are allergic to penicillin.” It did not seem necessary to say they were allergic to penicillin since they are not alive anymore. “I have never had any, since they told me I would be allergic too.”

“Korean acupuncture is more painful than Chinese. This point on the bottom of your foot will hurt, please take a deep breathe.” I did but it still sent a sharp pain through my right foot and ankle, which lasted only five seconds. “I give you three day supply of herbs for you to take, come back at 6:00p.m. since it takes three hours to make. You come back Thursday see me. OK?”

“Yes, I get off work at 6:00. I can do that.”

“OK. Twenty minute, needles. Just rest. OK?”

“Yes.” And she was gone. It was only a matter of minutes before I could feel the little twitches and pulsing of the energy shifting and moving throughout my system. It felt good to be placing my well being in the hands of someone like her doing something like this. After a week of anti-biotic (anti-life) and cough medicine, it felt good to be treated in a familiar manner again.

That was Tuesday morning, it is now Friday night and I feel the best I have since the day I stepped off the plane in Incheon-Seoul Airport on July 15th. My body feels healthy again and my cough and sinus congestion are almost completely gone. It took sickness for me to notice my body was not operating optimally. As usual, when looking for the hospital to take an injection I did not want, I wandered blindly till I found what I really needed, as usual, in spite of myself. The Universe sure is efficient!

Who was the last person you spoke with?

The last person, I spoke to was actually a whole family. There is a Korean family that I have become friends with and visit their home to help their son with his English studies. They took me out to dinner tonight to show me some traditional Korean food and culture, and to share their appreciation for my relationship with their son, Mikey. He is a great kid and he reminds me of myself when I was his age. He will not go down the same road as me as he gets older. He has a family and environment that supports him and his way of being.

We had a wonderful meal, warm, friendly conversation and shared laughter and cultural exchange. On the way home, the mom said, "I feel very comfortable with you Michael". It meant a lot to me. They are good folks and I enjoy and respect them all. It is interesting to me how sometimes we have to go 8,000 miles from our home to find where we belong.

I am glad the last folks that i spoke to were such incredible people that i think so highly of and had the opportunity to share time, a meal and conversation with them.

YAY for good people!

moms and little custodians

As I walk down the stairs from the third floor to the first, I am struck with seeing something I have not seen before in a public school, kids with mops and brooms cleaning the steps. Little elementary school kids laughing and playing while cleaning and washing the steps. Humm. Interesting, I think to myself.

One day later, I go down these same steps again to the cafeteria to enjoy some nice fresh squid soup with rice and a side menu that includes Kimchi, sesame greens and fresh dark purple seedless grapes. But there they are again, but today, it is three girls instead of three boys laughing and playing while sweeping and washing the steps. I wonder what they did to get in trouble, they all look so wholesome and their eyes are so clear and true?

Two months later I can answer that question: nothing. In Korea, there are no staffs of custodians that come around and clean up the messes the kids make all day. There is an overnight watchman who does a little but the custodians are the students themselves with some mothers volunteering every now and then. The kids clean and wash the bathroom floors after school. They sweep around the desks in the classrooms. They wash the windows on the outside doors. They really do everything but clean the toilets themselves. The interesting part about this is they have fun doing it. It is not a scene filled with moaning and groaning kids that make things dirtier just to never get asked to do it again. They laugh and play and giggle the whole time. I have not seen a miserable kid while cleaning yet. That doesn’t mean they want to do it or even enjoy doing it. It just means they have fun since they have to do it anyway. There are certainly areas of the school I work in that are not as clean as the staff of six custodians at the school I used to work at in Wisconsin. But does it really matter?

These kids are participating in a meaningful way and take responsibility for their school along the way. It is not surprising at all that they do not make as much mess of the school since they clean it. Go figure? I have reflected on whether it is this way out for economic reasons or for keeping things family-like and teaching valuable lessons during the experience? They don’t wear shoes in public schools like home. They eat delicious well-balanced meals like they do at home. Why not participate in the upkeep of the school like I imagine they do at home? It would seem to be a logical choice for a school principle to make. So the bathrooms are clean but don’t sparkle. The floors don’t shine and the windows have some streaks. This seems to be small price to pay for youth learning that part of life is cleaning up and doing your part. Kids here are not treated as helpless beings that need their mommies and daddies to take care of them and wait on them 24/7. They are little real people. My gut tells me it used to be this way in other parts of the world not too fat back in our shared history. I wonder why we abandoned this way of life? Why do we expect so little from children? Is making their bed and brushing their teeth really all they are capable of? Evidence here says differently. Is this just another consequence of affluence? Kids are so accustomed to everybody doing everything for them that they become the helpless little creatures we treat them as?

Maybe one of theses days I’ll pick up that mop and do my part. Probably not tomorrow.

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.

Boobs, butts, bellies and thighs

The first time I walked through Ssang-yongdong on that Tuesday night while it was still light out, I was struck by the amount of thigh on display in conservative Korea. High-heeled silver sandals with straps around the ankles provide the platform for the exhibition. The exhibition includes the silky-soft skin that is natural to most Koreans. In fact, I have a friend in the states that the affectionate nickname that I use with her is Silky Pants, she calls me Jerk Face. As I try not to be obvious or rude, my gaze slowly follows her calves all the way up to the thighs and right to her butt, literally. Her shorts can’t be but an inch bigger than the skimpy bikini bottoms that American white girls wear to anywhere they can get away with. I get that funny tingle that only lust hormones can produce as I bashfully walk past her and her almost blue denim shorts, I say almost since they barely qualify as “shorts”. Images of hippie chicks in the sixties when I was growing up trying to piss off their parents come to mind. The next woman I am approaching down the hill on the sidewalk on this unbearable hot 92 degree humid evening, is wearing white sandals with the same four inch heals and straps around her ankles. Her silky smooth skin also is on display way up to her blue denim mini skirt that conjures up more images of sixties chicks pissing off their daddy’s. As I now have enough time to lift my head up after this startling visual treat, her t-shirt goes all the way up to her neck, down to the edges of the bottom of her blue denim mini-skirt and the shirt has semi-long sleeves on this hot day in Korea.

I reminisce about earlier this summer in several college towns on the east coast of the states and how much cleavage was bulging out of push-up bras and bikini tops. There are more breasts showing on the American female than the actual breasts of the Korean woman. They do not show boobs, shoulders or bellies here, like ever. The Korean female’s upper body is not on display in public but their legs and butts put the twenty dollar hookers outside Port Authority in NYC to shame, especially with the heals that bring me back to my younger years in bars with half and whole naked women with dollar bills tucked into their g-strings. The g-string is the predecessor to the thong for those of you too young to know there was once a world before thongs that underwear went over your butt instead of inside. With the exception of those who got paid to wear them or trying to spice up their personal life every now and then. Yes, Korean women like to show their legs and butts, but no upper body, and they will never leave their homes without a bra or undershirt on, nipples are outlawed here.

Besides the obvious reason of being a guy who really appreciates the female form, what has caught my attention about these social mores is that on late night TV, woman show their boos all the time and the TV stations blur out any butts or pubic hair. So in real life, boobs and bellies are a no-no, on TV, butts and pubic hair is a no-no. In both, Korean women rarely wear anything that fits snug, alters or lifts their boobs. It appears that Korean female celebrities are very comfortable with showing themselves topless in movies and TV, whereas American female celebrities have to be mindful of what they show and how it will effect future casting, while they walk around with their boobs on display to the legal limit whenever possible with underwear of any form a commodity.

Why is it that we have such curious contrasting and maybe even contradictory social programming about what and where it is OK and not OK to expose the naked body? There seems to be no rhyme or reason that I can see. I initially thought that it might be related to the fact that western women typically have larger breasts than Korean women. After seeing them topless on TV all the time but not bottomless, my theory gets thrown out the window. We certainly are an interesting species. The fact that we wear clothes at all is somewhat bizarre, but the peculiar patterns that determine how that justifies which and when we expose any or all parts of our bodies is absolutely a mystery to me. I doubt I will solve this mystery tonight, tomorrow, or the next night. In the meantime, I will keep my eyes on things that are not as stimulating to the those senses and focus on things that are stimulating some the other senses like trees, mountains, patterned sidewalks of green, red and yellow and all the incredible little places to eat that line every road I can find with sights, smells and tastes that thrill even an objectifying male like myself.

Bread and Walking

10:45p.m. I promised myself I would go for a walk tonight. I have not done so since I returned from Busan on Tuesday night, it is now Friday. I motivate myself through putting a practical spin on my walk; I will stop at KB Bank, take out some money and pay some bills with the ATM machine. Yes, pay bills with the ATM machine. They don't use checks in Korea. You either pay in person, online or by bank transfer, which can be done at any bank on any ATM instantaneously. It is fun and I like paying bills this way, at least while it is a sixty-five degree night in Cheonan. Winter may be another story.

After taking care of my financial transactions, I asked my Higher Self which way to walk. I crossed Ssang-yongdong gil 3 to the other side and walked along the three-lane road that goes through Cheonan to Asan and all points south. As I walked down the red, ochre and forest green sidewalk in my $4.00 soft brown plastic sandals I bought from the Walgreen’s in Williamsburg, VA, USA; I received a rush of gratitude for the gift of walking. It seems irrelevant how I feel, when I put on my sandals at night and walk these streets I feel better, alive. My connection to Self and the world around me increases almost immediately. Even though it is approaching 11:00p.m., families are still out walking and playing badminton in parks together. Young kids and mothers hit the birdie back and forth while dads play with older children. They do not have the same need for children having routines at night including bedtimes. It is nice out, so they go out and be a family together.

As I pass the wonderful plant shop were I picked up two little desk plants and a large floor plant of a variety I have not seen before a couple of weeks ago; I see the blue, white and red lights of the Paris Baguette on the left corner I was approaching. I love that bakeries are often open till midnight for street wanderers like me. I step up the ramp and inside the brightly lit shop. The owner says “Aneoyounghi-gaseo”, good-bye, to the customer leaving and warmly greets me in perfect English, “Hello”. I smile and return the greeting. I search through the sweet breads and almost submit to the cream filled sweet potato bread but remind myself I do not want sweet bread. I want a bread to eat with meals over the weekend, mainly, a killer vegetable and potato omelet, a Sunday morning ritual of mine. I see the corn bread with actual corn in it that I enjoyed last week but then glance to the right and see the Korean version of nine-grain bread. American nine-grain bread is brown and dense, which is something I miss dearly. Korean nine-grain bread is white bread with grains in it for flavor, not texture, substance or health. Yes, the nine-grain bread is tonight’s bread. I pay the 1,700 won, $1.70 for the half a loaf and refuse the bag when offered knowing I live only a few blocks away and really do not need it.

I cross during the red light after watching the young guy do it and slow down to take in the night. On my right are three long benches that are really comment blocks with wooden planks on top to sit for a moment. While looking up at the cement apartment buildings surrounding me, I feel moved to practice some sitting Qi Gong. I have been lax in my Qi Gong practice and gladly jumped at the opportunity. Three meditations later and a full belly of Qi, I decided that some walking Qi Gong would be a nice way to complete my evening walk. I find Body Breathing exercises revitalizing and rejuvenating. This was no exception. Feeling renewed as i came upon the elementary school I am an English teacher for amazingly cute, enthusiastic and frustrating young kids. I have noticed how much I enjoy walking through the property when not working, the sense of connection and community tend to produce warm and yummy feelings within the head, mind and belly. I pass the market I shop at and then the aromatherapy store next to my home where I purchased some lavender lotion and liquid soap last Friday night.

I cross the street and down the mini hill that has a green and white tiled sidewalk and road, and there is my building with two apartments with lights on in the front side of the building. I live on the side above the alley where the restaurant chops their vegetables and garlic. Up the two short sets of ceramic stairs and home. I put the key in the lock and the motion-sensored light turns on. I step in and let my light brown sandals slide off my feet and smile again in appreciation of my home, both the physical space I live in and this place called Korea.

How do you know?

Before I came to Korea, some of my friends were intent on me “finding a good one to take home with me”. As offensive as this is to me and the women of Korea as a whole, it doesn’t mean since I have been here I have not reflected on the beauty, kindness, simplicity and grounded nature of many of the women I have encountered during my short time of more than two months. In fact, the comments made before I hopped on the Airbus to spend nearly eight thousand miles in the air may be the thing that has kept me from exploring some options. Well, that is not exactly true.

Here in central Asia, men and women do not wear wedding rings. They do not actually display anything that would alert a would be pursuant that the individual they are about to initiate courting rituals with is already married. Based on the fact that most adult Koreans do not just flirt with strangers who think they are attractive, there really is not a simple way to explore potential options.

I have reflected on what it would be like to be in your late twenties and single, which is the not the norm, and try to figure out whom you can and cannot pursue honorably. Unlike the west, married women do not get their kicks out of flirting while married to prove to themselves they are still attractive. Married women here are rarely focused on their ability to look “hot”. So, how do you know?

Again, this is not like the States where asking someone out casually is common or even acceptable. When men and women reach the neighborhood of thirty, the family places pressure on them to find a mate, even more so for women than men, which of course is not surprising. When dating someone who has reached that age range, the expectation is that you are dating for potential marriage partners. This increases the pressure for all involved, male and female.

I am older and there are really not any women at or near my age that are not married, so the whole ring thing is not a big deal for me since they would all have rings if that were a social norm. But this does not mean those in the thirties I do not look at as we peruse through the cabbage or mandarin oranges in the local market together. I look at their shopping carriage and see items that indicate family: baby products, cleaning supplies, junk food and quantities too large for an individual. In Korea, there are not women who are single with children, it just doesn’t happen. I do not know how prevalent abortion is here. There is a large Catholic influence and generally people hold more traditional values than many western cultures do. I make the leap that they are not available without giving it another thought. Besides, I do not know how or what are the courting practices here except that often families still arrange marriages. Oh yeah, and I do not speak HanGul yet.

Leaving all the personal details aside, how would one know anyway?
How would you know?

sarcasm enters stage left and right

Like the South Beach Diet for those who think “thin is in”, the low-casm diet, sarcasm that is, has stripped off pounds of negativity so quickly I forgot what I looked like with the extra weight. But like all fad diets, the low-casm diet imploded when faced with a free crème Berlet or Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream from Michael’s Frozen Custard in Wisconsin. In this case, the desert of choice was keeping company with those who value sarcasm above all other forms of communication- English-speaking white people.

This weekend I was visiting a friend in Busan, South Korea during the national holiday Chusak. It is the Korean version of Thanksgiving that includes visiting and honoring ancestors passed. This weekend, I certainly honored ghosts of sarcasm passed when giving the opportunity. I was amazed at just how effortlessly it flowed out of mouth like waffles and vanilla ice cream dripping out the corners on an eighty-degree night in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Yes, sarcasm is back.

I had no idea how foolish I was in believing the progress in letting go of the darkest form of humor had nothing to do with me or any miraculous leap in spiritual development. It was simply a case of not having accessible anyone who speaks enough English to understand sarcasm if I chose to express it. No growth, no step up in commitment, no crossing of the Threshold- just no vehicle to harness the hidden and suppressed hate, anger and resentment in disguise known as sarcasm. If you are trying to shed sarcasm from your daily diet; I can offer the quickest low-casm diet on the market- move to a country where no one speaks your language and it will fall away like The Atkins Diet with the same results until the source of the problem returns; then every inch of unnecessary cellulite regrows itself and looks less appealing than it did when it was part of your natural disposition. I now know what I look like without sarcasm; warm, soft, gentle, open; and putting on the same old tattered coat will never feel as comfortable or acceptable again.

It is time to let go of these extra pounds of weight that I no longer need to survive or navigate my way through the world. Goodbye sarcasm, I bid you farewell. I am sure when I am not paying attention, I will embrace you like an old friend who still owes me the six hundred dollars he borrowed from in 1989 when his father died and I helped pay his family’s mortgage so they would not have to find a new home.

Hello warmth and vulnerability. I want to introduce myself; my name is Michael and I have looked forward to meeting you for many years. I hope we become close friends.