Soggy

It has rained much lately. Korea has a rainy season during the summer and we are in the middle of it.  This weekend has been wet, very wet.  I feel soggy inside although I have only left my room once this weekend. 

Soggy but not wet from water. Soggy with laziness. I feel fat but not from food.  I feel tired but not from activity. 

I am an active person who also enjoys being still. I have not been active or still this weekend. I have been sitting but not still. The only thing that is active is my mind’s need to avoid feeling, being. I am not present while sitting heavy for hours. I had a long deep nap from the exhaustion of non-activity.  Non-activity. There must be a name for activity that isn’t, inactivity does not quite cover this state.

Many years ago while living in an intentional community of hard core activists except me; one of the community members used to laugh warmly and appreciatively at my desire to sit and be still and do meditation while they were out doing their thing to change the world full of anger, rage and self-righteousness.  I would sit. I was not soggy then the way I am soggy now. Then I was full of presence, focus and depth with a mind willing to be with itself, at least sometimes.  One night sitting up late listening him play guitar and trying to sing folk songs, we were laughing at where I fit into the community.  Then with his brown eyes below his long reddish auburn hair and fare skin bursting with excitement, he yelled out in the middle of a Woody Guthrie song, “You are a Passivist! Not a pacifist, you are the opposite of an activist. A Passivist!” He was so ecstatic he found a way to identify my spiritual and personal way of dealing with change at that point in my life. That became how I was identified back then. Who knew I would less than ten years later become a slothful man in South Korea hiding from rain and himself after existing as a man who used every season and natural experience as an opportunity to get know myself and our world better?  When did I become slothful? Lazy? Gluttonous?  How does this happen?  Why is resistance to greatness so seductive and powerful?  Is this why so few can find and then hold on to answers; the real answers that the rest all sit around filled with alcohol or caffeine intellectually pondering over without any real experience or personal knowledge with words like existentialism and Darwinism rolling off their tongues like the granola they ate for breakfast?

How did a mystic become a mystery to himself?

And more importantly, what does it take to return to such a state of being but with the added knowledge and experiences to integrate, creating maybe one or two steps further along the staircase of life?  Can we ever return to the Garden of Eden once we have eaten the apple and still be true to each other and ourselves? Is there a way to go back AND go forward?

NO.
It is why i do not try to get any of my written material published or anything similar.

As much as my ego loves the attention, i preefer to be somewhat low-profile. I have witnessed too many folks get their names thrown around and they become different.  I think it is extermemely difficult to keep any kind of humility and spirituality when famous. Most end up new age gurus or pop psycholgy experts when they started with deep, rich spiritual teachings.Thanks but no thanks. I will leave fame and fortune to folks better equipped to handle it. My teacher has told me many times, "Keep your work in the basement".  Words of wisdom for sure. I am learning how to hide in plain-site these days.

Chicken on a Stick for Dinner

The rain has stopped. This time of year in Korea it rains most days. Fortunately he is let out of class a little early tonight at the Hag won where he studies math, Science and English. He can take his time walking home now to make it before midnight, his mom begins to worry if he is not hoe from class by midnight, even though she is already sleeping but not enough too not hear every time the elevator reaches the ninth floor of the building. Tonight she was not able to bring him rice, kim, meat and Kimchi for his twenty-minute break between classes at 6:15 because she had to bring her youngest son to a school performance tonight where he played the violin. So, tonight, Minsu ate two pieces of chicken on a stick for dinner during a day that included him leaving home at 7:50 this morning and getting home just before midnight with enough time to walk from his high school to the hag won without the teacher yelling at him for being late again. Today he made it on time! Now he can walk home and stop for some bread with red bean paste in the center at Paris Baguette. This is the highlight of his day.

Minsu, like his mother an father know that if he does not level up at least two more times this year, he will not be able to get into a decent local college. His grades are good at the high school; 3.87 but that is not enough any more. These days he needs to speak English somewhat fluently, receive nothing but 4.0 in both math and science and be ready to take the toesel test in august if he plans on being accepted at Nazarene University in the fall of 2010. And even then it is still along shot. His friends are mostly all receiving 4.0 grades and that is just his high school. He sometimes cries at night when he cant fall asleep from the constant pressure of knowing two or three wrong answers on a the next test are enough to exclude him from entering college. He dreams of living in America where kids play after school, watch TV at night and do all kinds of fun stuff at night on weekends with their friends. He attends another Hag won on Friday nights and Saturdays just to keep up. Sundays, they go to Church, lunch together as a family and maybe shopping at the E-Mart before he goes home to make up for all the time wasted with his family every single Sunday. He knows that if he doesn’t get his grades up to 3.96 or better, he will spend the rest of his life working at a local supermarket on the microphone calling out sale prices on vegetables or delivering merchandise on a truck. He just wants to be a businessman, not a doctor or computer programmer but he is well aware that tomorrows testing may sway his future one way or the other. Three cups of instant coffee with sugar and dried creamer, Xylotol and one can of cold coffee are usually enough to keep him going throughout the day. Then he takes two sleeping pills when he gets home to catch five hours sleep before testing tomorrow.

A deep breath before entering 815 Mart to get a snack and cold coffee for tomorrow morning. “I can do this. I have to. How else will I find a good wife that will marry me if I don’t get a 100 on the test tomorrow?” he fights back the tears in the bright lights of the store with Big Bang, his favorite group blaring in the background in the store. “I can do this. Today was only sixteen hours since it is summer and next week we start summer vacation and then I will only be in classes for six hours a day. I can’t wait for vacation so I can watch some TV and play video games between studying! One more week till vacation!”

A Cass System

His white dress shirt is unbuttoned and his blue blazer stained with some red bean sauce on the right side near the pocket. He is barely walking in a straight line, more like an inchworm than a sword. But he is finding his way towards Ssangyong Junction to hail down a cab.  It is 11:20p.m. His wife and children are home asleep, nearly two hours ago and a five-hour train ride if it was Friday night. It is Wednesday night and he will not se them till after work on Friday when he returns back to Cheongjiu. He hates his little studio apartment in Busan all by himself. He did not get married and have children so he could live alone seeing them on weekends. He blames the Americans and there lack of self-discipline for this. Sine they started with their recession, Korea has suffered even more harshly since a significant portion of their economy relies on the American lifestyle of luxuries and convenience. Now, he had to accept the transfer or be laid off. The transfer moved him across the country and far from his family.

He stumbles into the cab and barks his address at the cab driver while leaning back on the black seat.  He can smell her perfume even this far away. He will never forget what she smelled like the first time they met at Sin Li Presbyterian Church. She was wearing a white dress with a hint of light pink. She looked so pure and innocent when her and her family first moved to the neighborhood. She sang all the hymns and bowed respectfully when it was called for. Anyone could see how well her parents raised her to be a good Christian girl. The perfect wife- beautiful, pure, honorable and a virgin. Her perfume made hi dizzy, still does Although she rarely wears any these days and it turns out she was not pure, innocent or virginal.  But he still daydreams at night drunk about her. Of course, he was never drunk before the American recession. He only drank during customary and traditional circumstances then. Now, all he needs is for it to be dark and lonely.  He has found a couple of guys who also live there only during the week while working and they frequent the Blue Café with the two for one bottles of Cass Beer nightly. Then finds his way back to his place and falls asleep in his work clothes from the day.

Damn Americans! The think they can do whatever they want and it doesn’t matter what or who it affects but themselves. George W. Bush? What did they expect? Now a Black person to fix their economy? No wonder everybody secretly hates them and wants them to fail. But whoever expected it to hurt so many people? This is what he thinks about while falling asleep at night. That and his wife’s perfume that used to wear before the show ended with marriage and children. Now she is twenty pounds heavier, no perfume, hair up all the time and sex on Saturday nights are obviously a chore to get through in marriage to make sure he keeps send the money to pay the bills on time. He can tell she is just doing it to make him feel happy or at least content till he leaves on Sunday night again.  She can still smell the alcohol in his pores on Friday nights from Thursday night, well and the whole week really.  They sure do put on a good show, he thinks to himself. Since she deceived him so much he feels that she should have sex with him whenever he wants as payment for the lies he believed.  The lies she told him before he smoked cigarettes, drank Soju and Cass Beer and lived alone sending text messages back and forth about the children, school and bills. When she at least pretended to be the woman he married. Just because she does not honor the Korean Way does not mean he has to break tradition and get a divorce; he was not raised that way.  They do not do that here.  Marriage is for a lifetime regardless of what lies or pretenses the marriage was based on. He loved her and still does, even the woman she really is as well.  You do not divorce your wife, period.  Now what a man does when drunk in a café is another story but she deserves it for being such a liar and embarrassing him and his family.  Besides, she is good with the children and if he needs to be with one of the special ladies in the Café once in a while that is his business, not hers.

He is almost asleep with the rooming spinning slightly. He wants to call her and wake her up just to hear her voice but the tears running down his cheeks drown his courage.  He misses her and them so much.  He hates being alone and drunk and smelling like a Café all the time. He wants to get back home to smell his wife, even if she is not the wife he thought he married, she is still his wife and he loves her. 
Thank God for Cass Beer

That being ordinary is acceptable and truthful about any of us. We are so much more than we aim and allow oursleves to be. It is sometimes embarassing for met to witness in myself and certainly in others how far we can stray from who we are and what we are capable of.  Our need for social and personal aceptance hinders us to the point of mere ordonary- how sad.
Greatness; anything less is unacceptable.

Crossing The Lines

She is standing at the curb shifting her weight back and forth. She has her light blue Kumon bag full of books from the hakwon she just left at 11:00p.m. tightly clutched to her chest covering her white uniform top that is neatly tucked into her grayish black uniform skirt.  Her cell phone is somehow squeezed between her fingers ready for whatever calls or text may come. Her eyes are darting back and forth looking up and down the empty street across from the Nunghyup Bank.  Her agitation increases with every passing second.  The urges are beginning to overpower her, but they are wrong. She has been taught better. The training from her mother and grandmother for the past sixteen years will not be thrown away in a fleeting moment like this. She can’t do it, not now, not tonight. Her mother has already tucked her little brothers and sister into bed and is preparing rice for tomorrow morning. Her father, who just showered after another twelve-hour day on the road selling fruits across town, is trying to relax for a few minutes before crashing for the night without dinner again.  They have worked hard to get her in to this hakwon, the best science, math and English academy in Cheonan. She cannot disrespect them like this; it would crush them if they ever found out.

Besides, how will she be able to go to Church on Sunday after such disregard for Korean tradition and values? NO! She will not do it! She lowers her head in shame at the very thought of even attempting to be so reckless.

And then as if she just figured out her clothes were on fire she raisers her head and starts running across the street. I can see her sheer delight at this moment of freedom at being like a real woman who is strong and able. Her eyes are wide-open and bright, cheeks flushed with vibrancy and arms lifted with each stride. She is halfway there ands realizes what she has done, almost comes to a complete stop, begins to lower her head again with a natural twitch but realizes she has come too far, she cannot go back now. She panics and hurriedly looks left and right, then forward and again darts across the street, exhilaration pours out of her like she is an American girl who is out drunk with her friends on a Friday night accepting free drinks from all the boys trying to attract her fancy knowing they will just flirt, tease and go home laughing together at their conquests.  She reaches the other side of the road and freezes cold in her tracks.  The momentary flash of freedom evaporates and becomes drenched in guilt, shame and humiliation. She wants to hold back the tears but is not able. She drops her cell phone for the first time and bends over to pick it up forgetting she is wearing a skirt and is supposed to lower herself properly like nice girls do.  Her book bag slides out from her grasp and the books fall all over the black sidewalk, she is aware she will be noticed now for certain.  Someone will tell her mother. There is no way she can now just walk in the door like nothing has happened. They will know even before she runs the final three blocks to their seventieth floor apartment in Highvill 2.  She trembles as she gathers her things off the ground and stuffs her cell phone into the bag and takes off running even faster than she crossed the street towards home with tears streaming down her now pale cheeks. How could she be so careless and ungrateful to her family and bring such shame upon them? They did not raise her to be the kind of girl who crosses the street while the light is still red! Nice girls follow the rules even if there are no cars on the road at 11:20 at night. They obey and follow traditions no matter what.  Crossing the street while the light was still red; who did she think she was and did she forget where she is and what country she lives in?

Me, I am shocked. I have lived here for ten months and waited patiently to see if during my thirteen months stay I would see one, just one young woman or girl cross on the red. Their moms do it, all teen boys do it and certainly all men do it without even thinking, but young women are trained well here. By well, I mean effectively.

It has been three weeks since I saw that girl cross the street on a red light. Every night when I am walking after dinner I think about her and how hard being obedient must be to those who need to dance and stretch their own limits.  What pressure these young girls carry with them day and night to conform to traditions that are so old that there are nobody left to explain why they exist or where they came from. The answer is simple- “It is what we do”.

 Writers Block Crock
Writers Crock

I have been avoiding writing for weeks now. I have thought about writing a piece about my first battle with writers block but have not done so since I know it is a crock, a total crock. I have no doubt if I sit in front of the computer and open Word, I will write and plenty. Not just small whispers about what I did in my day and my thoughts about swine flu, my recent challenges with my first cold in summer since childhood, my back pains or my intimate friend who just left Korea and how I am torn apart about this. No, I have lots to say. In fact that is why I do not write these days. I do not want anyone to hear what is in my head, especially me!

There is no blockage of any kind, just good old-fashioned resistance and avoidance.  I do not understand how any artist could ever be ‘blocked’.  My head is always active and full if I am willing to sift through the layers of resistance, denial, avoidance, need for stimulation, fear and lack of willingness to go deeper. I am not saying that artists that claim to be experiencing blocks are lying, I am saying that this artist can not imagine any point when I do not have enough going on in my head to fill a page with words, brush strokes or ink. I have no doubt if I was kept in a square white room with nothing on the walls, nothing to do, see or hear except what is in my head, at the end of the day if I was willing I could write fifty pages. If I include a day filled with teaching Korean children English, several emails from friends, an episode of Criminal Minds, three meals, a walk on the mountain, hundreds of women within my visual proximity and meditation- the amount of words that can fill a page must be endless. But, I have written next to nothing this past month.

Therefore, writers crock. I do not want either of us to know what I am experiencing. If I let us know, I might have to either actually feel it or do something about it. I am not prepared to do either at the moment, so why torture myself with the reality of Truth?  Why admit how crushed I am at the feelings of rejection I have experienced in the last month? What good will reflecting on the mental list of things to achieve while in Korea for a year that I have ducked and dodged for eleven months?  How will accepting that my spiritual focus and commitment are a far cry from when I landed here, forget what I have signed up to do, make this change?  Where is the courage needed for the next series of great leaps in my life magically going to come from if I let those always present but hidden fears rise to the surface so I can see and fell them directly?  Who can I blame for my lack of success if I take the time to let the words fill a page with the genuine thoughts that fill this mind and heart?  When will I allow myself to move forward and stop playing games with myself and all those that come in contact with me if I allow me to really let go, really, no I mean really?

Crock #2: the old adage; “If nothing changes, nothing changes”
If nothing changes, everything changes! Opportunity after opportunity slip by while casually watching TV, eating junk food, not asking that woman on a date, accepting mediocrity instead of greatness and fooling ourselves into believing we are doing the best we can. Everything changes and not for the better. I am not doing the best I can, not even close. Yes, I know I am ruthlessly self-critical. Agreed, no argument here.  That does not mean that telling myself that I am doing the best that I can is the Truth! I can do better, much better. You all deserve better from me. I deserve better from and for me.
PSST! Secret: We deserve better from you too.

If I have learned anything from the significant number of deaths in my family is this; we rarely know when our time is done- GET BUSY DOING WHAT WE NEED TO BE DOING! We do not get to replay this round.  Fear is not an adequate reason to not be great. Numbness is not the solution.  Blockage is a crock.  And love is always worth the effort.

Tonight I was dropping down in class and I convinced myself that watching My Name is Earl was a good and positive idea. I have seen parts of the show before and although somewhat funny, it is annoyingly offensive in so many ways.  So, I watched it while enjoying some tofu, potatoes, cabbage and carrots with cumin and Cajun spices followed by an ice fresh vegetable salad like my mom used to make. It all tasted good.

The show was kind of entertaining but there was a line that that stood out to me and felt, well, incredibly accurate and insightful for my life.

“Just because I met a pretty girl doesn’t mean I deserve her yet. I’m Karma’s bitch right now.”

I wish I could take credit for that line but totally feel Ok with making it the foundation of what I want to write about tonight.

I have always had trouble explaining to others why I am not married and why 'a guy like me’ is single, whatever a guy like me means.  I meet attractive interesting and intelligent women. I assume some of them are interested in me; at least that is what others tell me. I have never been good at that sort of thing. I must have been snapping some girl’s bra in science class when the lecture on how to know when someone is attracted to you was been given.  Like Earl, I am a guy with an extensive past to clean up. Most of the bigger stuff I have dealt with directly. It is the indirect stuff that still lingers and kicks me around as ‘Karma’s Bitch’. I do not question Karma anymore. Those of us who have been pick up on the side of the road like the other dregs of the earth know that Both Karma is real and stings deeply without concern of pain or suffering.  We also know that when we do cross something or somebody off our list it feels better than whatever else I am chasing that I think is more important.  Karma is also an incredible Teacher of truth, since there is nowhere to hide for our own karma. Trust me on this one, I have tried, hard.

I remember when I first started dating again after my first steps of beginning life as a human being in the early 90’s. I went on a mediocre date with what appeared to be a nice and normal woman, but my barometer on nice and normal, were skewed at best. At the end of the our date that consisted of some nice Mexican food and a long and slow drive through about six inched of snow; I brought her back to her car. While sitting in mine through the awkward what is going to happen next moments, she leaned over, touched my right arm gently but firmly and without hesitation looked me in the yes and said, “Thank you for not raping me”.

To say that is not what expected would be a colossal understatement. I was floored and stared blankly without knowing what to say or do.  Tongue I would have known what to do with, a soft kiss I could hang with, even a peck on the lips and a “can we do this again sometime” would have been fine, disappointing but fine. But, “Thank you for not raping me” I was not prepared for. I must have missed that lecture in high school as well. We said good night and that was that.  And no, I didn’t get any!

What I did get was my first practical insight into life as a woman who has been raped.  Till then it was all knowledge firm books and sharing of stories but not once did I have to deal face-to-face with the ripples that sexual assault leaves behind. I have never even come close to acting in such a matter since. Karma made me her bitch that night and has never lost her grip to this day.

An interesting chain of events followed that date and her comment. I started volunteering as a public speaker on date and acquaintance rape at schools, colleges, community centers and corporations. That lead me to an amazing man named Jeff Fleischer who inspired me into the social work field and counseling, which changed my life as I knew it. Karma?

Last year I was staying at the home of a female couchsurfer who invited me to spend of few nights at her place on the couch, a bold move as you will see. I was grateful after being in the road for a bit at that point and she was nice.  The second night I was there we were up late drinking tea and talking about this and that- our sharing our life experiences on many levels. At a little past midnight she casually with her voice cracking barely said, “Last year during Christmas break I was raped by a guy I barely knew in Europe.”  Without dragging this story our forever, we both needed each other at that minute to heal our pasts in reverse/parallel fashion.  Over the next few days we continued this process and many tears, hugs and walks around her college campus allowed the healing process to take shape.  Karma gave me front and center what I had been avoiding from ‘my list’ since I made one, but instead of an uncomfortable interaction in the front seat of my sports car in the snow, it was soft, gentle and forceful.  But most importantly, Karma had her bitch right where she needed him again and the gifts have poured in from that moment in both our lives.

Being karma’s bitch is not such a bad thing really. It just sounds bad to those of us who think we are in control of our lives and can get away with what we don’t talk about or admit to ourselves.  But when I stop and think about it, what could be better than knowing that doing good is good for me ad those around me. Even if that means I am not ready for the pretty girl who is the professor at a college yet.  When I am ready, she and any other treats that life has in store for me will come my way when I am can properly accept and respect them for t=what they are.  Again, what could be better than that?

So, I will semi-willingly continue on as Karma’s bitch for now, not that I have a choice.  Maybe I will actually learn something for a change, stranger things have happened. I once thought that Reiki Training was so I could get things that I wanted for myself. The possibilities are endless, as are the consequences for not doing what I need to. Karma’s bitch and gift.

This is a wiritng assignment from the Diving Deeper Workshop. teh assigment was to pick a random piece of music and listen to while letting it soak you into it. The wirte for 20 minutes without editing.



Music Muse: John Coltrane- Naima

It is a beautiful beach, white sand with litter scattered about. A windy day in early spring before the weather changes and makes being on the beach an experience of removing clothes and feeling the sun drench the skin with love, healing and cleansing. No, it is early march and it is still quite chilly. I am wearing a windbreaker; it is blue with blue and a rip on the right sleeve near the top and a zipper that slides by a large safety pin.  I am glad I brought my hat with me to help with the temperature and sand blowing about from the wind gusts. Some gets in my eyes but it is Ok.  Everything is perfect, just perfect. Who could ask for more right?  Then why do I feel so sad and all alone?

I feel like I have everything I could possibly want out of this day and this beach and my life but I am still sad, very sad. Maybe even desperate enough to give up for good this time. Why keep fighting? What is the point and purpose any more?

I always end up alone just like right now at this moment here on the beach staring somewhat at the waves crashing in the sand and the rich smell of salt water and dead crabs on the shore.  Alone. Does it ever change?

Why is loneliness so relentless like the waves and the sand? Don’t I ever get a break from me and my thoughts and my fears and this sense of dread? Just one moment, that is all ask, for just one moment of feeling satisfied, really grateful. Not the words I use to trick myself and con you, but actually feel genuinely, wholly grateful as if I have received enough.

Enough. I remember we were at a retreat one time and after dinner we would make some fresh guacamole and eat them with blue tortilla chips from the Mexican grocery store down the street near the border of New Mexico and Mexico.  Those chips and gauc were so good. We made more every night and no matter how much we made, it was always enough. So, we decided to change the name of guacamole to ‘enough’.  We still call it ‘enough’ today. I miss those days and nights together in those intense and gut-wrenching retreats. The sense of being a part of something and part of a group nourished me the way I have not felt in years since. I wish I had the courage to go back there and dive back in again. I am not that man any more. I watch TV, stare at young girls, play on the Internet and complain about not having enough time. Enough. Nothing is ever enough. Same song keeps playing and playing in my head. No matter what I have or do not have, it is never enough. Maybe I should write a book titled Enough by Ivan Neverenuf. I could write the whole thing just sitting here with the wind blowing sand in my face and shoes and letting it all rip the truth out of me like it is a secret that I am lonely and sad or something.

Note to self: Everybody already knows! The only one you are fooling is yourself!

Surprised as I may be, these days it is when I do Qi Gong at night. Surprising because I have never made a full commitment to Qi Gong as I have to my other spiritual practices like Reiki, Meditation and Breathing.  It has been ‘the other’ thing I do when I need something extra or want a special feeling when on a mountaintop or beach.

I have appreciated the feeling of being full with energy and connection that I feel during and after the session. I feel alive and strong!

Although I would have to say that the 15-30 minute nap/Reiki/meditation I have daily between 5-7 at night is right up there. I adopted this practice about half dozen years ago and it is precious to me and I work real hard to make certain it makes it way into my day. Initially this was to support the changes in my vision and its strain. It has become a time of quite, peace, relaxation, refreshment and a transition from day to night and the energetic differences between the two.