Hades

  I used to hate getting baths from my grandma. 

Korean baths were scalding hot and once you were tenderized, she would scrub you with a sand paper glove until all the dirt from your skin was lifted and left a ring around the tub. 

I would stretch my legs to the edges of the tub anytime she tried to give me a bath refusing to touch the hot water. 
But there was this one time the neighbor asked my brother and I if we wanted to play a game. 

He asked my brother to keep a look out for anyone because he would play the guard. 

Then behind the wall, I pulled down my pants and he said crazy things. 

That evening I came to my grandma and asked for a bath. 
I never cried once. 

The Beautiful Lesson

Elijah, my son, starts the day running outside

Anticipating adventure,

Runs back in, wearing a black and gray cap,

“Momma, the neighbor brought something over for you!”

Impish grin warming his face,

Oh and that sparkle in his eye

The light piercing me to stare,

“Well what is it?” Partly confused, partly unbelieving coz I know him.

Removes his cap like a gentleman

a vibrant purple Morning Glory

resting at the bottom with an almost pulse.

My romantic son,

See and Momma’s proud,

Heart swelling,

Can’t stop me from smiling

Hugging him tight because I know he must never lose himself.

And driving off to destiny,

Lunch time brings over to our table, a little girl, maybe a year older than him,

She stands close watching without words,

He notices and begins to act funny, literally funny,

Whoopie Cushion in hand and she inches closer,

I stand away and watch my four year old Chivalrous soul making her laugh,

As he pushes wind in her hair.

Her making him laugh,

As she squeals in delight at it’s harmless silliness.

And the girls green gel filled tube drops,

Straight from a romance comedy,

My boy and little girl bend down to pick it up,

Just as if it were scripted in the 90’s,

Bump heads and look at one another,

Of course what would follow,

But laughter, banter, and innocent assumptions of meeting tomorrow,

Though in truth they will leave with no ties,

Followed with a visit to a familiar friend,

Real talk exchanging between what only four year olds can talk about,

Playing house and wanting to grow up

Which means we must also be doing something right,

Though our flaws are starkly revealing with their imitations,

The hug good bye with no need to talk of when to meet again because it will happen,

The drive home before we must part because I have formed into a family with split times.

“Momma when will I be an adult?”
“Son, my Sun, you wanna be grown? Why?”

“So I can be stronger than my Appa (Dad)”

I find his reasons and ambition amusing.

“And do you think Momma is strong too?”
“No Momma.”
“But I am very strong.”
“But not stronger than a bee, Momma. Right? Not stronger than a bee?”
“You are so sharp my Sunshine!”

And children, the closer to infancy, have it all figured out,

Open flower giving,

Open mouth laughter forming from the heart,

Open honesty, even in thought.

Open for me to see and learn what I once knew

Once again, but this time not to forget so I can also remind Elijah

Once upon a time when a boy reaches his ambitions.

20130414-021230.jpg

In Five

Because I only have 5 minutes to indulge before flying off to my last job today, I grin to think how many random thoughts fly in and out of my head. I’ve figured out, thanks to Mr Coehlo, that my dream job has and will always be to be a superhero.

So much activity happens inside the head and I realized, as I was washing last night’s dishes at 5:00 pm today because I like to spend time on those plates and cups. The feel of the water running hot and the swish as it hits any surface puts me in that meditation, I take lifetime steps back and recall memories, now in technicolor, of myself at four even, though I don’t see myself. It’s a through the eyes kind of picture, and 5 plates done, I see myself flying around in vibrant clothes like a superhero, because what human would not be fascinated with flying?

So I teach, but I must teach music since it’s a secret language. I must teach yoga, because I have an excuse to wear spandexesque fitting clothes all day long. I must teach poetry, the art of writing, and literature because if we can’t describe the fantastic images that only exist in our mind, then we would never have even invented the automobile, or further back still, a pencil. And now I must run off because….

20130321-171502.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

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