For ever and for ever when I move

Pink, yellow, green, blue: The soft pink of apple blossoms that settle beneath rusty red clusters of leaves in the scraggly branches of our tree; the vibrant yellow gorse flowers in full bloom on the stiff, rugged bushes beneath; the clear blue of the daylight sky beneath the cold, bright sun; the green lawn overgrown, scattered with swamp-like miniature cattails and patches of daisies.

These are the colors of spring: cold, clear spring, with periodic showers, occasional days of heavy gray skies and chilly rains, the last grasping clutches of the misty gloom of winter. It is the fire that keeps us warm, in this house built on stilts beside the sea. We chop the wood into quarters outside the front door, to keep the fire hungry; coal, to keep the fire hot. Shovelful by shovelful, to make this rustic cave a home.

Beneath all human ambition there exists a cold, concentrating core, tight with tension, motivated by desire. Desire to maintain, desire to create. Desire to change the present situation from the circumstances under which it is subject to those which the creator envisions. Tight pressure from within, rippling out, creating change. Seeking more. The waves lap at the sandy, pebbled shore, crashing and shaping the clay-slate landscape of the rugged coast; the hungry surface of a greater depth.

We walk the coastline, through grasses and across trickling brooks which feed into the sea, gathering pocketfuls of smooth rounded stones, perfect dusky shells with their opalescent centers, smooth bits of driftwood worn white from the salt of the waves. The birds chirp their continuous song, passed from one tree to another until it is lost in the murmur of the waves, crashing against the shore, pulling back into the sea.

Ready we are, with a sure and steady foot, stepping quickly into the changing tides: mind and body to accompany the soul, hand in hand, forward we go.

Two chapters of travel thus far: the first, a meditation on slowness, allowing the body to break out of the pattern of stress built on stress, reassuring the self that it is okay to not be working. After the time of harvest comes the time of plenty, to eat and use the food which has been saved. The practical counterpart to making money is spending money. Be smart, buy only what you need, avoid all luxuries except those which are simple: fresh grapefruit on occasion for breakfast, local jam for the bread, whole milk over skim. Don’t eat meat and don’t buy alcohol. Take bread from the baker and not from the grocer. Allow your mind and your body to relax. Release the stress which has so long accumulated in the back of your neck, pinching tight in your shoulders, aching across your lower back. Let your legs grow strong with the steps you take. Your writing is flitting with panic, white fear which flushes through your skull and makes you blind:

Let it go.

The pages turn and days pass by, still carrying too much, but there is progress. Approaching the calm.

Enter the second chapter, passing through the houses of friends. After the development of self comes the time for relationships. Beginning in Aachen, where conversation carries us through the days; focused on the words we speak, we tour through the city. The next day I walk our same route, alone, and realize with a laugh that nothing is familiar. Focused on ideas, I saw only the cobblestones beneath our feet. Breakfasts stretch out long, lazy, comfortable, moving from coffee to tea, sharing so many words. Feeling home in the company which I traveled so far to meet. Easter Sunday approaches and passes, I move through Germany in the companionship of a new friend, to stay in the houses of old. Travel now switches its focus to deepening and expanding existing relationships. Feeling the glaciers in my chest shift and moan, melting slowly, making space. Not yet understanding the significance of this. No longer spending money except in transit; now cooking meals together in the comfort of so many kitchens, falling into a routine, learning again how to spend time on drawing. The mind is still slightly spasmodic, but the spasms decrease in intensity and number.

Moving toward bicycles in Freiburg, where the air is warm; the mind welcomes the warmth with such gladness. My soul rejoices as the tiny buds break forth on the branches, tiny grey fingers which grasp at the air and explode into color, twisting into brilliant green leaf. The streets are filled with people, sitting on their doorsteps, filling the parks; the cafés open their walls and spill their tables onto the sidewalks and suddenly there are so many people. Public space once again becomes shared, life no longer limited to existing solely in the warmth of the private sphere. Conversation fills the streets, bodies walking for the warmth of the sun and the clean goodness of the air; the city bursts with life, shared gladness at winter’s passing. Time becomes gentle and easy. I move further south in a leap, to Perpignan, to Bordeaux. The second chapter draws to a close and demands decisive direction for beginning the third.

Soon I will move back from the company of others into the company of self. From what is familiar to what is unknown.  Always moving forward, embracing opportunity as it comes. Do not shy back in fear. Not sure where it will carry me, I wait to turn the page.

I spent the weekend with my Korean friend, Sojung, and she let me stay the weekend in her apartment. We started the evening on Friday by feasting freely at her mother’s ddukbokki stand, after which we biked around a quiet park. We parked the bikes and sat on a park bench to drink one beer while listening to the frogs’ voices echo loudly through a drainage pipe. After some great conversation with each other, we biked happily back to her apartment.

The next night, after a rather frantic night in which I missed my bus home, we took advantage of another evening together and ate green tea and choco ice cream, watched an old Marilyn Monroe movie, “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes”, and happily accepted a plate of cold spicy noodles around 2 am when her mom came home and joined us.

After my weekend with Sojung, I went on Sunday to Insadong, the neighborhood of Seoul most famous for art and traditional teahouses. Tuesday, May 10th is Buddha’s Birthday, and Insadong is where the biggest celebrations take place.

What I found was an incredibly happy day, light, full of sunshine, beautifully diverse with people from all over Asia, including, off the top of my head, Thailand, Cambodia, China, Vietnam, Tibet, Nepal, Laos, and on and on. Everyone had a smile on their face, there were lotus lanterns all around, bubbles, incense, music and traditional costumes.

It was really something lovely to see, so many colors and smells.

Concrete Jungles of Korea, Dongbae, South Korea

Folding paper into lotus lanterns, Insadong, South Korea.

Korean Buddhist Monks in traditional clothes, Insadong, South Korea.

Bubbles and traditional Korean drummers, Insadong, South Korea.

Small Korean butterfly child, Insadong, South Korea.

Painting station, Insadong, South Korea.

Line of lanterns, Insadong, South Korea.

I love this springtime weather, the air thick and humid, alive with the blossoms on the trees, the smell of the outdoors drifting softly in through the windows, the soft and seemingly distant sound of the birds as they chirp, a spirited chorus in a world still free, the green leaves of the freshly budded trees vibrant and lush against the dark hues of the sky.

Inside the classroom, the tan of the students’ uniforms is mild against the soft wood color of the desks, forty black heads of hair, over half in bangs, thick big lenses the mode of style, orderly arranged and seated in eight rows of five desks that obediently face the front.

Due to a schedule change, this is the second time I teach this class today, and consequently my entrance was calm, the students a little more tired than the morning, the air warm and comfortable enough to softly slip into sleep.

I stand in the front as their heads are bent over crossword puzzles, occasionally they look up thoughtfully, make eye contact with me and hold it for a moment before the corner of my mouth smiles and they giggle and look away.

As I walk around the room, the students working at their journals, the breeze from the window pulls at my senses. Conversation rises and falls around the room, there is a quiet echo of the math teacher’s voice from the hallway, the doors at the front and back of the classroom are both open, the room is peaceful and calm, a secluded space with full awareness of the school activity down the hall and the tops of the trees in the world outside the third floor windows.

The spring breeze is incredibly moving to me. It is fragrant, thick, full of memory, heavy with longing, with the present, with the past, of Taiwan, of California, of greenhouses tucked warmly away in cold spring days of the Midwest, of puddle jumping in the streets as the rain beats down on our heads, laughter and study and friendship and family, so full of new life, peaceful and warm, everything connected, we are old and we are young and this is life: a spring breeze that softly passes through the classroom window.

Flowers and people.

Cherry Blossoms in South Korea.

Korean grandfather, Yeoju, South Korea.

Little pink blossoms, Yeoju, South Korea.

Basket bike and a sunny day, Yeouido, South Korea.

Magnolia flowers, Yeoju, South Korea.

Jinhae Cherry blossom festival, South Korea.