This is a continuatioon of a fictional piece
 http://michaelsits.gaia.com/blog/2009/3/first_line_last_line_the_pink_cyon_ice_cream




But he did go back to The Jolly Cup, his favorite coffee house.  While everyone else brags about their Americana, he lives off the Swiss Vienna.  They are the only ones who use real cream and it is worth the twelve-block walk to get there.  Even on a day like today in the rain.  The showers turned into a quite the storm for a bit there but now just a steady down pour.  He watched it shellac the streets form the large front window.  He has his MacBook with him today, most days he brings just his pad and pen.  Her likes writing better with the pen in his hand then pounding away on the keys. Just like the Swiss Vienna, it is worth the extra effort.  Too bad it is a blank page so far.  He has not been able to concentrate the same since the Pink Cyon Ice Cream appeared in his life.

He can’t seem to throw it out or answer it or check its messages. It just sits there now. The battery has gone dead so he does not have to endure the vibration and screeching anymore but it has haunted him. He even considered go back to the scene of the crime so to speak. He does not like bars; he doesn’t drink. He does not even support drinking.  He does not know what bothers him more; taking advantage of an innocent woman through alcohol or the total lack of respect he showed her once she was sloshed. Either way, he is not the same. Prayer doesn’t work.  He was once told God can forgive you in an instant but forgiveness of self is a much longer journey.  He fears he has yet to enter the trail.

But what can he do? He does not know where she lives or her name?  If God wants him to make amends, he will put her in his life somehow.  This thought seems to comfort him for a few moments each time he tells it to himself.  She is all he can write about. Not because he loves her or misses her. It is what that night represents to him.  All his fears about himself realized in one simple virgin. Well, not a virgin anymore. He drinks his coffee while it is still too hot and burns his lips.  Last time he spilled it on his notepad.
He wonders if she has a new phone yet?  Of course she does, it has been how long now? Two and half months and he leaves Korea in three weeks. 

“Steven?” He turns his head slowly from his self-absorbed state.  “Is that you? It’s me Eun Chung. Do you remember me?”  Bang! His breath is gone, heart pounding and mind swirling.  There she is, at least he thinks it's her. Her hair is shorter and she is dressed differently.  Her soft pink skirt is longer than the night he met her.  Hair is simple, almost the Korean version of the librarian cut.  No make-up and her eyes look different too.  They are small, lifeless.  She has gained weight, how is that possible so fast?

He remembers to answer while she is staring at him.  “Yes. I can’t believe it is you.”

“Do you even know who I am?” He doesn’t know what to do but stare in disbelief.  “Of course not, you do this to all of us Korean girls right? We all look the same and we are all virgins and fools to you Americans right!”

“I know who you are. I am just shocked to see you. I was just thinking about you and here you are.”

“Oh cut the bullshit Steven, it will only work on me once.  Don’t think you can charm me and get to have sex with me again. We’re not the stupid.”

“No, I don't mean it like that. I know you don’t want to have sex with me again. Why would you? I was just thinking I hoped I would see you again before I leave to apologize.  Eun Chung, what I did was wrong. I have felt awful about it.  I wanted to give you back your phone too but did not know where to find you.”

“My phone? Who cares about my silly little phone?  You get a girl drunk, take her home and steal her virginity without protection and you are feeling bad about my phone?”

“That is not what I meant.  Wait, what do you mean without protection. You said you were a virgin, I did not think you would have any diseases if you were a virgin.”

“Diseases, who said anything about diseases? God, you Americans are all alike.  All you think about is yourselves.”

“Then why bring up protection? I do not have any diseases like that.”

“Back on the disease thing again. Look Steven, nobody has any diseases OK. Can we stop with the diseases?”

“I am sorry, do you want to sit down? Let me buy you a coffee, please?”

She starts to sit, and then pulls back. “No, I have to go. I just came to get a coffee to go.” She turns around real quickly so he does not see the tears forming in her eyes.  She drops her phone. This one is white with a pink ribbon hanging from it. As she is bending over to grab it, she becomes dizzy.  He sees her grasp for the back of the dark wooden chair for balance.  He takes her hand and guides her to the seat without much resistance.  He sees the tears and her face is now pale.

“Eun Chung, are you OK?”

She lets her tears cleanse her cheeks.  She cannot hide them any longer.  Soon she will not be able to hide the extra pounds either.  It is only two and half months and already she has gained eight pounds and she is barely through her first trimester.

“No, I am not OK.”

This is how to do it

“No, no, no. Michael you don’t use the lettuce to eat grilled beef, that is for pork only.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Grilled pork we eat directly for the grill.”

“Why?’

“I don’t know. It is Korean culture.”

It is those last for words that have been playing through my mind tonight and many nights lately, It is Korean culture.

What does that mean?  Really, what does that mean? Stating it is the way it is because that is what we do is not an answer to a question.

Arresting Officer: “Why did you rape those poor defenseless women?”
Perpetrator: “This is what men do”.


Divorce Lawyer:  “So why did you cheat on your husband of 27 years?”
Woman: “This is what women do when their men don’t pay attention to them.”

NYC Tourist: Why will nobody help me find the Brooklyn Bridge?”
NYPD: This is New York.  If you don’t like it, get the hell out of here and go back to where you came from.”
NYC Tourist: Why does nobody care about helping a lost visitor out?”
NYPD: We’re Americans that’s why.”

Washington Post Reporter:  Mr. President, Why are we attacking the people of Iraq? 
George W. Bush: “Because we are United States of America.
Washington Post Reporter: “What does that mean Sir?”
George W. Bush” It means we are Americans. This is what we do.”

I used to live in an intentional community for a few years around the turn of the millennium. It was a vegan, environmentalist community with a small group of radical activists; I was not one of them but lived there and participated in our activities. I was labeled the community Passivist. Not pacifist, Passivist.  They said I was the opposite of an activist, therefore, Passivist.  But that is another story.  One of the community members liked to go onto town from our space on the outskirts of Hoosier National Forest on Tuesday night to go to Tortilla Flats for Taco Tuesday- tacos for $1.00.  I could usually be talked in to going.  I never quite got the point of a taco without cheese, but the meatless part didn’t faze me.  One night while seated outside on their terrace with white iron table and chairs, we were talking about why we feel the need to identify as vegan, as opposed to just not eating meat or dairy and when we feel moved to do so, choose to eat it in special situations. She said something to me that felt very profound, “Michael, for me it is easier to just to make the decision to not eat meat or dairy products than to have make the decision before every meal. It is just easier this way.  To be vegan, this is how to do it. It solves all the questions.” I think this is how most of us go through life- the this is how to do system of life.

In Korea, this seems to be more so than most places. Koreans in general seem to embrace the notion of one way to do everything.  The say hello all in the same exact tone and cadence. They say goodbye in the exact same tone and cadence.  Mood, affect, relationship or environment do not matter, it is always said the same way by pretty much everybody- one tone for men and one tone for women. Done. This is how to do it.  When being taught how to say hello my first day and by every single person thereafter, they all demonstrated the exact same tone and cadence for saying hello and made me practice it that exact way.  Until less than ten years ago, very boy and girl in Korea had the same haircuts-one for boys and one for girls and each had their own uniforms.  This is how to do it if you are a child in Korea. Done.

A friend was aware a few weeks back that it was the anniversary of f my mothers passing.  She asked, “Are you going to Church tonight?”

“NO. I will light a candle at home and say a prayer.”

“Can I join you?”

“Yes, I would like that. Thank you.”

Around 9:00 that night, she rings my doorbell and I open the door and she is standing there with sad expression holding a large grocery bag.  “I brought you some fruit.” She hands me the bag and I look inside and there are oranges, kiwi and strawberries. She knows how much I like fruit. 

“WOW. Thank you! Do you want to come in?”

“No. I can’t. It is Korean culture. Sorry.”

“Oh, OK.  Well thanks for the fruit and the thought.  See you tomorrow.”

“OK, hope you feel Better. See you tomorrow.” And she leaves. At another conversation she explains how she thought she would be able to join me with her sister but her sister could not come.  And in Korean culture a woman cannot be ion a room alone with a man that is not her husband. Done. This is how to do it. I knew this fact of Korean culture, although more rare today than twenty-five years ago, but did not think that applied to prayer and memorials but hey, it is Korean culture. Done.


Non-Korean: “Why do you not hug or have physical contact with your friends?”

Korean Native: “It is Korean culture. Why do you and your friends hug each other all the time?”

Non-Korean: “It is what we do as humans.”

Korean Native: “Really?  Humm. We are human and we do not do this.”
 

Why do we grip so tightly to this need to have one way to do things? We are we so afraid if living without prescribed rules, mores and laws? Are we that fearful of what we are capable of? If so, do these rules really keep those dark desires and longings from being expressed? Or are they the cause of the outward expression themselves?  Do Catholic girls who go away to college get pregnant so quickly because they are sheltered from the knowledge and experiences to deal with their feelings and action or is it hidden desires that finally are expressed?

Boy: “Why do you spend an hour getting ready every day?”

Girl: This is what girls do.  Why do you plat sorts every day?

Boy: because this is what boys do.


White Person:  Why do you talk like that?

Black Person” Why do you talk like that?


Person from Culture A: “Why do you eat the skin on the apple?”

Person from Culture B: “It is where all the vitamins are and it tastes good.”

Person from Culture A: “No, the skin is bad for you, you shouldn’t eat it.


French Chef: “Why do you serve the vegetable salad after the meal?”

Italian Chef: “To help you digest your meal. Why do you serve it before the meal?”

French Chef: “To help you digest the meal.”


If there is one thing that will push me towards definitely making the decision to not renew my contract and stay another year, it is the exact phrase, It is Korean culture.  It is not that the social rules or mores themselves are that troublesome for me, it is the blind obedience to living a certain way for no reason other than it is what we do.  I ache every time I hear this phrase. It is what is wrong with every ‘developed’ society, this need to set life up to be a certain way with no or little room for personal or spiritual growth or guidance/direction. Love and Compassion lose out to this is how we do it.  God takes a back seat to social programming and acceptance.  Have we completely lost touch with our primal sense of being?

Michael: “Why do you keep giving different versions of the same example?”

Michael: “Because this is what I do. It is how I do it.” Done.  This must be how to do it.

Every one of my favorite blogs is now out of the top ten "popular" list for me.
The various possible reasons aside, it is a bummer that the stuff that i really dive into is trumped by more socially acceptable topics that do not go very deep or take risks.  I should not be surprised but for some reason i continue to be.

humility. a lost value.

courage. what is this courage you speak of?

conformity. safety and security in numbers.

sex. it sells. if i do not want it to "sell" i should not write about it.

hypocracy. an art form, possibly the only thing i have mastered:)

ego. a firm grip on things. i am not alone.

i was thinkiing about this the other day while walking on the mountian around 10:30 at night.  The weather here in korea has changed and i have enjoyed the nights on the mountain.  there were  a few others that i forgot while writing.

 dont drink alcohol or do drugs

 mediate and practice some form of Reiki every day

 dont date women who smoke or walk around with their cell phone in their hand (the latter is a new addiiton)

treat others better than i expect to be treated and much better than i treat myself

eat well- to me that means gobs of healthy delicious food and plenty of chips and salsa

dont listen to the intellect or emotions when making important decisions, The Higher Self gets the only vote

play, laugh and be alone a lot

pay attention

love honestly

practice what i preach

when i do nto know what to do- Pray
when i do know what to do- Pray

accept my lack of acceptance

remember who i am

This is a fictional assignment for the Diving Deeper Pod. The assignment was to download a random plot from a plot generator and write for thirty minutes based on this random plot. This is the one I received.



The Plot Machine: During surgery a hyper first-grade teacher befriends a young runaway with a secret


“No. I will not help you get out of here. Where are your parents? They must be worried about you?”

Sally takes a breath and lets her tears start to fall again. It has been like this for three days now and she is sick of crying and hiding but will not go home. No way, no how.  “You don’t understand; you are like all the rest of them!”

“Look, I don’t know you but I am a school teacher and I know your parents must be worried sick about you and you look like you have net eaten or bathed in days.”

“So what! I’m getting by.  I just need a ride to Phoenix. I will be safe there.”

“Phoenix? Phoenix is four hours from here.  What will you do in Phoenix?”

“ I can get a job there. I can work at a modeling agency. I have a friend who works there and they need young models and I once did a photo shoot for money and got paid $1200. And that was in Sante Fe, not even Phoenix.”

“Where will you stay? Who will take care of you?”

“I will take care of me! I am not some little kid. I have been taking care of myself my whole life really. I will stay with my friend, he has three roommates and they need another roommate. I can move in immediately.  Are you going to give me a ride or what?”

“Look, I do not even know your name. And I am about to have a corn removed from my foot. I do not know if I can even drive home, forget Phoenix.”  Charlie stops speaking for a minute. She looks around at operating room #4 and her vision becomes blurry with the light pointed right into her eyes.  Sally has her attention and she had not notices how bright the light was till this moment. She feels her heart pounding as if it will pop out of her chest.  She smells the alcohol antiseptic scent that makes her gag, or is it the idea of helping a runaway fourteen year old girl dressed in ripped jeans that show her bright pink thong underwear and a black sleeveless tank top with “I Hate You” written across her post-pubescent chest. Her dirt thickened fake black hair make her like someone form a late night movie FX Channel about a punk girl from the city living on the streets.  Charlie gets dizzy. The anesthesia they gave her fifteen minutes ago is starting to take effect.  She hears footsteps fort he down the hall. All hospitals have the same tiled floors that reverberate anybody who has shoes up and down the hall just to make sure you do not fall asleep.  She can tell by the weight of the steps and the number of feet; it is Dr. Campisi and the two nurses that have that always scrubbed look that nurses tend to have. They never look like they are more than twenty minutes from their last shower.  She tries to turn to Sally but she is gone, or is she just not able to see her with the anesthesia taking over?  Was she ever there to begin with or is it just the drugs?  She hears the door open with the doctor entering first. Men have to always be the one to enter a room first. It is some kind if man-law.

“Mrs. Leventhal?”

“Miss Leventhal”.

“I am sorry Miss Leventhal. Are you ready to get that ugly thing removed for your foot now?”  Dr. Campisi reaches for his tools that the nurses laid out for him already without waiting for Charlie to answer.  He can see she is fading in and out by the way her eyes are falling back in her head.

“Where did that girl go?”

“What girl?”

“The one that was just sitting here. The teenage runaway, her parents must be so worried about her.”

“Miss Leventhal, there is no girl here, just us.”

Nurse Rancid steps forward and whispers in the Dr. Campisi’s ear, “I just saw on the news that the girl who was gang=raped by those New Mexico State football players is supposed to have been seen in town earlier today! Maybe it is she.”

Dr. Campisi looks up long enough to make sure Nurse Rancid was being serious and then starts to rub his chin where his beard used to be before Phyllis told him it was either her or the Goat Tee. Now it is bare like a baby’s butt.  “That poor girl. She must be scarred to death after they did that to her.  Call security and have her found and brought safely home. Stat!”

Brought hoe to safety.  Where her brother was the football player who gave her the Quaaludes without her knowing in the first place.  He got to feel up Joey Rogers sister as payment for his sister drugged up and home alone while their parents were at the opera seeing Madame Butterfly with a camcorder set up in the living room ready to go. Joey Rogers’s sister is a size 36C, so he knew it would be worth it.  Besides, Sally is a tramp anyways, she made out with both guards on the basketball team at the same party on Homecoming Night.

Home is not always home or a safe place to be brought to.

Last night i had a wosodm tooth pulled.  I bight some ibuprofen, which seemed less drug-liek than whatever it is that they wrote aprescription for. Sice i cannot read Korean, i went witht he ibuprofen.  One day later, i am trying to figure oout why anybody on earth would ever intentionally put any form of drugs in their bodies and mind.

I fel totally lost,ungrounded and disconnected from myself, my body and The Higher Self.

It got me thinking.  I struggled mightily this morning trying to meditate or  have a Reiki session.  How does anybody who puts drugs of any kind in their bodya dn mind meditate or pray or really do anything worth living?  How do alcohol, caffeine, nicoteine, aspirin, chocolate effect the ability to connect with The Divine?  Does this mean that while filled with toxins we are just disconnected from our bodies all the time?

I can't imagine surviving like this. I am considering choosing pain over cotinuing another day of this kind of state. Time is too precious to miss out on feeling, being and sesnig the world around me.  To think there was a time when i lived solely for cosuming stuff that wouod make me feel different. Now i can't even last twenty-four hours. For thos eof you who do consume products that alter your mind and body, i am impressed that you can pull it off. I do not kwow if  impressed is the correct word but maybe stunned would be better.

Me, i think i will go back to working through discomfort as opposed to around it. I am totally off my game.  I definitely prefer inner challenges than self-dogested ones. At least i a working with an obstacle that i recognize, have knowledge of and am eqiuped to deal with. I am gratfeul i am not part  of the lareg group of people who suffer with physical pain on a regular basis.  I took a few aspirin about five years ago when i broke my nose playing basketball with some high school kids and a handful of them back in 1993 while in a full leg cast after a volleyball ankle ligament pull.  That is the extent of the 'drugs' i have consumed since many moons ago. I am grateful that this is not something that i experience on a regular basis.  Addiction without drugs is hard enough, tough to rememeber what it was like with the drugs.

There is a door. I can see it. I have felt it many times. It is strong and heavy but really only feels heavy. It feels tall like a redwood or solid like an oak. Dark heavy wood, at least it feels heavy.

I have seen it open. It is beautiful inside. Home. No, better than home. It is home for the Homed. I belong there. I know this.

Inside there is strength. I can feel it even from the outside. Inside there is courage. I can feel it. It has fortified me the times that I have had a foot in standing at the threshold. Inside there is me- tall, solid, unwavering and alive, really alive. I have seen what I look like in there. It embarrasses me to see what I look like out here.

I have stood at this door for many moons and suns and birthdays and Holydays and deaths and births and loves and lusts and mountains and valleys and oceans and deserts. More deserts than oceans though.

I count. And I have been counted.

There are many zeroes after my history- not days but years and centuries and millenniums. Many zeroes. I am not a newbie. I have been at this game longer than even I can imagine. I have cried and begged to get in. My wrist gets slapped like a child chewing gum in Sunday school by Mother Mary Margaret or Rabbi Chaim Weiss. The scars still remain on these tattered limbs. I see them when my eyes are closed. Only when there is nowhere to hide like when the eyes are open. Darkness shines on the Atlantic at midnight. All looks so inviting but I cannot get in the door that way. Not me. Other’s maybe, but my agreement is different.

I’ve tried the book door too. It is lighter; almost see through. Transparent without really letting us see in beyond a glimpse of the porch. The red, yellow, purple and blue flowers sure do look pretty on that back porch. Sometimes at night I dream of their fragrance; its sweetness overwhelms me. I can’t sleep those nights.

I matter. And I have mattered. I still do.

There is no side door. Just the illusion of the back and the willful front. To touch the front door is to remember where we came from but have forgotten how to get back there. I wonder how many times we are given the grace to place our hands on the door and not enter? Is there a statute of limitations on grace or forgiveness? Can the Sacred Trust be permanently broken or can we get by with all these little fractured threads?

Is running in place any different than running backwards?

I have been here before. I know the ripe smells of the Honeysuckle, the clear Voice that echoes through time and space, the grip of the solid door, the sweet taste of fresh mango, the vision of purpose and the waiting hand from The Beginning.

I have been here before. What will it take to enter with both feet in the door and to not run and hide back in the familiar comfort of distraction and stimulation?

There is a door. When will I be ready and truly willing to enter?

Dear Leandra;
The high-speed train that will take me back home is less than 10 minutes from departure, which is more than twenty minutes since we said goodbye.  I am leaning forward in my green seat to stay awake and write you.  To tell you what I wanted to say and was not  a strong enough man as we parted at the station in separate directions.

You are amazing!

If not for lust that word I abhor and haunts me, the last twenty-four hours with you would not have happened.  The magic, love and joy we shared and exchanged would still be bottled up in this vault I keep my heart in struggling for release.  Lust for the Girl in The White Bikini is how the Divine Presence brought us together.  Love and willingness are what squeezed it open.

While walking away trembling, I started to cry but fiercely held back the tears, not of sadness for believing I will not see you again, I will. Tears of letting a moment pass without grasping for it like it is my last breath.

You see; you are perfect in my eyes. If I were willing to allow myself to fall in love at this time, I would leap at you while desperately clinging to my last shreds of self-control and protection.  I am not gong to fall in love with you even thought you are ‘her’ for me; my blueprint of a woman- strong, courageous, sensitive, vulnerable although hidden well, loving, incredibly smart and fun and disturbingly gorgeous and sexy.  I want to be your friend and companion, to share more moments of French Toast and nights ending at 6:00a.m. that shake my illusion of control and imprisonment free to be wild.  I want to be the one you hunt down at 3:00.am. when you can’t sleep and need to wake someone to know that you are worth being woken for. That you matter and matter to me.  That you are loved, lovable and love me more than I deserve and expect or knew I needed.

Last night you told me, “Lust is not a sin”.  Lust got me in a room with you and let me look in your eyes to see and feel who you are, in spite of that face, smile, cheeks and body that make me squirm in my pants.  Lust forced me to reach out to you but you showed me why lust is not only exempt from the sin list but you transformed it into something beautiful and treasured in one quick flash of your smile. 

Thanks for being you and choosing to let me inside both your door and your so-called walls.

Love,
Michael the Trophy Holder
PS- I will keep my word and not cross that Sacred line, your worth it.

“I can’t help myself. It is just the way I feel. Do you really want me to love you less?”

Lisa bows her head slowly.  She takes a breath ad looks back up at Jude.  She is trying to hold eye contact but she is all over the place.  She sees the poster of Bob Marley in the corner of the room.  She has always loved him and he was what brought them originally together.  She remembers that day at Soulders in downtown Phoenix.  He was standing there playing with some unisex cotton pants of burnt orange, gold and rust with a hint of pale green. She was startled to see such a good-looking man who was not your typical hippie-type that tends to gather around these kinds of stores.  She broke free of how she usually acts in situations like this and walked up to him with a half grin, half smirk on her face, “Are you really going to wear them in public?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with them? What do you think they are too girly for a guy like me?”

“Yeah, since you asked.  What is ‘a guy like you’ anyhow?”

“You know, your typical old cleaned-up hippie who still kicks himself in the ass for blowing off a Marley show back in 78 because I was too stoned to make it to the show that night.”

“And I was laughing at you for shopping for pants in the women’s section, now I have some real material. You really blew off a Marley show?”

She remembers where she is and flinches. It has been three great years. At least mostly great.  They have been fortunate to travel enough to have some breaks organically bleed into their relationship. He went to India, Tibet, Nepal and Pakistan. She landed in Nicaragua, Chile and her dream home away from home Brazil.  They spent three weeks in Morocco together before splitting up when he needed to do his solo retreat in Egypt and she spent that summer in Liberia working for a non-NGO supporting the restoration of the post-war communities off the coast. But here they are standing in his bedroom in their rented beach house on the Big Island.  The separate bedrooms were his idea but she was actually the one who takes advantage of having her own space the most.  Late nights with her easel and brushes or writing pad and pen have kept them together.  Now they are fighting over being loved too much, she thinks.  “Of course I do not want you to love me less. What I want you from you is to love me more genuinely. You say and do the right things more than any other man I have met; you are amazing. I just wish I could feel your words and gestures. There is nothing behind them sometimes.”  She hesitates to check herself before she continues. A quick prayer and she looks at him this time with eye contact, “Do you really think I want you to love me less? Why can’t you just say what you really feel and not try to make things perfect? I’m a big girl and we have been through so much together. Please trust me and us. Just let me know what you feel with your energy, not just words.  I want the real Jude, not the one still fighting demons of self-doubt from your dad and older brother. Let him out! He is a beautiful and kind, gentle man.  Let him love me more.”

Jude starts to tremble. She can see his hands shake just enough to throw him off.  His eyes are red and watery with his skin turning pale and blotched.  He starts to take her hand but then pulls his back. “I would if I could, but this is the best I can do. I wish I could do better but I am damaged goods. You knew that when you got into this and here I am still this way after all the love and healing you have shared with me.  Why do you stay with me? You could do so much better?”

“I don’t want better, I want you. You are what I need. Just stop trying to be something you aren’t. I need Jude, the real you. Is that too much to ask?”

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.

To not listen to my lowest self.