Untold Childhood Korean Tales

Comic realization settled into the corners of my lips while driving and thinking how my whole belief system growing up was fabricated by my imagination. Growing up, I didn’t understand my parents nor did they try to understand me. We literally didn’t speak the same language. Now being a mom, I have already engaged in countless philosophical discussions about existentialism, religion, and creation with my four year old son.
Just the other night my son Elijah asks before bed, “who made all this? The world. Humans. Was it God? Was it Jah Rastafari?”
“Uh, I really don’t have an answer for you. Some people believe it was God, and some people believe it all just happened with one Big Bang.” I explain as I think, if I can’t answer questions for him at this age, we will be ruminating the questions of life together until…
“I don’t believe in God or Jah Rastafari, I can’t see them. But it’s good to believe in something mama?”
“Well I think it is.”
“I believe in Star Wars. Yeah I believe in Star Wars mama.”
“I’m glad. I think that’s awesome love.”
And really I have the biggest smile on my face and I’m not even trying to suppress the laughter. I think it is awesome.
But I don’t remember conversations and bedtimes stories going this way in my own memories of childhood. Instead I would ask questions in English and get answers in Korean. I remember a time there were crickets chirping.
“Um-ma, why do they make that sound.”
She would answer and I would catch some of the words, but I can’t recall any of my childhood dialogues with either parent. My memory has them play out like Shakespearean monologues where all the actors are on stage while I ramble. I do remember though from that conversation I somehow translated my own story about crickets living underground in darkness preparing for their ascension to land. They work their whole life to spend one day beneath the stars and sing beautiful songs of life before they pass into the greater unknown. I used to picture daddy crickets and mommy crickets preparing and teaching their own offspring the importance of preparations for their own final celebrations into the fantastic. The same journey their parents spent their whole life preparing for and never returning from. I remember believing this story and adding to it over the years and thinking of it as a Korean tale. It is the only tale I’ve had with me since childhood.

20130130-232332.jpg

Untold Childhood Korean Tales

Comic realization settled into the corners of my lips while driving and thinking how my whole belief system growing up was fabricated by my imagination. Growing up, I didn’t understand my parents nor did they try to understand me. We literally didn’t speak the same language. Now being a mom, I have already engaged in countless philosophical discussions about existentialism, religion, and creation with my four year old son.
Just the other night my son Elijah asks before bed, “who made all this? The world. Humans. Was it God? Was it Jah Rastafari?”
“Uh, I really don’t have an answer for you. Some people believe it was God, and some people believe it all just happened with one Big Bang.” I explain as I think, if I can’t answer questions for him at this age, we will be ruminating the questions of life together until…
“I don’t believe in God or Jah Rastafari, I can’t see them. But it’s good to believe in something mama?”
“Well I think it is.”
“I believe in Star Wars. Yeah I believe in Star Wars mama.”
“I’m glad. I think that’s awesome love.”
And really I have the biggest smile on my face and I’m not even trying to suppress the laughter. I think it is awesome.
But I don’t remember conversations and bedtimes stories going this way in my own memories of childhood. Instead I would ask questions in English and get answers in Korean. I remember a time there were crickets chirping.
“Um-ma, why do they make that sound.”
She would answer and I would catch some of the words, but I can’t recall any of my childhood dialogues with either parent. My memory has them play out like Shakespearean monologues where all the actors are on stage while I ramble. I do remember though from that conversation I somehow translated my own story about crickets living underground in darkness preparing for their ascension to land. They work their whole life to spend one day beneath the stars and sing beautiful songs of life before they pass into the greater unknown. I used to picture daddy crickets and mommy crickets preparing and teaching their own offspring the importance of preparations for their own final celebrations into the fantastic. The same journey their parents spent their whole life preparing for and never returning from. I remember believing this story and adding to it over the years and thinking of it as a Korean tale. It is the only tale I’ve had with me since childhood.

20130130-232332.jpg

Mama’s Hands

She holds a tray in her left hand, and her head up with her right hand.
When they were innocent, they were smooth and white,
Strong for working,
Nimble for threading,
Swift for feeding,
and still light for loving.
It would seem that because of her reverence for self sacrifice,
these hands,
Rough from salting cabbage like laundry,
Worn from rubbing the steps of her family,
And cracked over the years of trembling misplaces,
It would seem her hands would lose its tenderness to soothe the nightmares into a ball of putty.
It would seem her hands would lose their warmth
and yet they blaze a fire with age that holds the stories of her ancestors.
I stare past her hands and see it is now me looking at my mamas hands
Her stature slight, yet her heart stretching high out of her body,
As I hold a tray and my head up high
With my mamas hands.

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F Me

Because I had it all written out, perfect, pretty, pristine as I captured that exact moment God could possibly accidentally show himself to me and with a light graze of soft lovers fingers hit the red button that ejects only those exact accidentally beautiful moments, I shout “F Me” kicking my feet on the ground like the heart broken emotional 3 year old who had accidentally dropped his just perfectly scooped chocolate ice cream and must succumb to writing a maniacal rant of stream of pretentious metaphors about my hurt to replace what might of left a slightly upturned one sided content smile instead of a bitter taste.

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Time, Soul Mates, Epiphanies, and Enlightenment

In what seemed like a single moment when time froze, I saw my feet pedal in one perpetual motion which was not a motion at all, but a constant that exists still, even though I am no longer staring at my feet. In an instant I knew what I always knew and still know and that is time is only a precept of the mind. Everything that is, was, and will be just is. Then understanding began to absorb into my cognitive faculties about how we are half our soul and pulling towards coming together with the split.

When we are close to our soul mate, we feel a sense of time standing still and a comfortable sense of belonging because the planes we stand on are syncing. When in the act of making love the world spins around the complete soul with “I” as a focal point.

And which comes first? Is it realizing you are complete or the understanding that time is not cumulative. The answer is in the question. It’s the understanding, the revelation that matters. Which came first is irrelevant. When you see that your whole life, the world, existence is not unfolding, but it has all been painted on one canvas and we limit ourselves from seeing the whole picture. We stand too close to each single moment. But step back and look at the whole picture and I can admit and see wholeheartedly without question, that my soul is complete and my mate found and because the answer already exists. It is not a matter of when or how it will happen, but that it exists on the single canvas. Anxiety is lifted and the “ahhah” moment reverberates.

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