Today I received a thank you card from my ten-year old godson, thanking me for his birthday gift. And then, in a child’s handwriting, where letters aren’t quite perfectly formed, he added this:
And my heart broke. In the most wonderful way. Because I miss him, too. I miss our loud and rambunctious outings. I miss snuggling hard on the couch. I miss listening to books on tape together.
I miss all of my friends in the Bay Area, especially the children of all of my dearest friends. It’s like watching the best of the best grow up again. It’s a lot to hold true all at once: not missing living in the Bay Area, for the cost of living, for the politics, for the homelessness *and* at the same time missing the people that I love so dearly. So hard. Missing the opportunity to be part of their day to day lives. I guess that’s what letters are for, right?
The most recent book to become available on Libby was Human Acts: A Novel. I started reading it last night and finished it today. Though this was not a chapter in Korean history I was familiar with, I was overcome with nostalgia for my time spent there in 2001-2002.
Nostalgia washes over me. I remember experiencing illiteracy for the first time. I could read the hangul letters, and sound out words on signs, and had no idea what the meaning of said words were. Everything was new. Each day was an explosion of learning. How to order in a restaurant. How to pay the electric bill (at the post office?!?). How to navigate transportation systems. The kindness of strangers.
And the seoye classes. My job as an English teacher didn’t start until 3 pm. So every morning I took seoye classes with Mr Song. Me, and seven Korean grandfathers. Seoye, or Chinese calligraphy brush painting, was something one traditionally did in retirement. But I loved the beauty of writing and art, and asked if Mr Song would allow me to take classes with him each morning. He agreed, though he spoke minimal English, and I spoke minimal Korean. Each morning, for hours, we sat at our desks, brush held at a ninety degree angle to the paper, and practiced strokes. Mr Song would often come by and place his hand over mine, coaxing my hand into the correct position to make beautiful brush strokes. I would smile and offer an enthusiastic “Khamsa-hamnida!”
About a month into classes, the group decided that one day a month would be spent on a field trip to a cultural institution to expose me to more Korean heritage. Again, because of their limited English, and my limited Korean, I’m not sure that I understood the full depth of what they intended to impart. And I appreciated the great kindness they showed. Our first trip was “The Welcome Party.” They introduced me to black pig (delicious) and the correct way to pour and receive soju (dangerous).
They taught me the Korean song for the 2002 FIFA World Cup, “Oh Pilseung Korea.” We sang it through the month of the World Cup, waving the Taegeukgi flag and cheering for the national team that eventually landed fourth in the tournament.
Nostalgic, I found my bag of seoye materials in my craft room. I probably haven’t examined the materials in 20 years, yet they’ve made the move with me from apartment to condo, from San Francisco to Asheville. I took out my onion skinned practice papers. I marveled at how proficient I used to be.
I spread the felt cloth over my dining room table. I opened my ink stone and began to grind the onyx black ink. I twisted my brush into a fine point, and began my exercises. For hours, I awkwardly practiced strokes – numbers first, then common characters such as happiness, longevity, and strength. I’ve lost the natural flow of strokes. But I haven’t lost the overwhelming feelings of calm and peacefulness as I silently place ink to paper. I’m grateful.
Hands down, the thing I miss most about living in San Francisco is the ease of connecting with friends. We still connect, through postcards, and texts, and emails, but the in person visits require a bit more coordination now that I’m on the east coast.
What surprised me about my most recent visit is that I discovered I also *really* miss the Pacific Ocean. I had two very different, yet equally perfect, days with her this trip.
On Saturday, we were at Ocean Beach. It was a quintessential San Francisco summer day. Cold, drizzly, and ridiculously strong winds. My legs were bare and the coarse sand pounded against my exposed skin. My loose hair whipped around my head, preventing me from always seeing. The water was rough, no surfers daring to tackle it. I love the raw power of the Pacific Ocean on days like this.
Stormy Pacific Ocean at Ocean Beach in San Francisco
On Wednesday, I walked along Crissy Field. A gentle breeze blew, the sun warmed my bare arms. This was San Francisco October at its best. Blue skies, gentle breeze, warm sun. The most perfect month to visit. I stopped at one of the many wooden benches overlooking the Bay. The water isn’t as rough here. I can see to Marin. Sailboats glide by. Tankers slowly make their way across. The Golden Gate Bridge stands majestically in the distance, its International Orange contrasting with the blues of the Bay and the sky. The roar of Highway One traffic is in the near background, yet feels far away. A young couple sits cross legged on a blanket in the sand not far away, facing each other with little space in between. Talking, laughing, ignoring their Husky. The Bay is the epitome of opportunities – anyone’s dream can become reality here.
Beautiful San Francisco Bay on a sunny October day
The day was perfect. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, cool temperatures. I had just come home from dance class, and sat on the front porch, rocking in my favorite chair and enjoying the moment before it dawned on me that it would be a perfect day to drive up to the Parkway. Sections that had been closed since Hurricane Helene had just reopened. I prepared some snacks and jumped into the car.
As I drove higher and higher, I felt an overwhelming sadness. I saw evidence of the destruction Hurricane Helene had wrecked. I was grateful for the crews that had worked so hard to reopen the parkway. I was sad for all the downed trees and destruction. Both can be true all at once.
I parked at the trailhead to Black Balsam. I bounded up the rocky path, and relished in the pristine air. I appreciated the silence. I hadn’t realized how accustomed I had grown to noise. I loved the lack of it. Silence is beautiful. Silence is restorative.
I don’t know what they were, but the bare trees with bunches of red berries were striking. The sun over the horizon was invigorating. The red leaves rustling in the wind. All were almost too beautiful to take in. Almost.
I sat on a rock and just was. I looked out over the mountains. I listened to the wind blowing. I felt the warmth of the sun. I appreciated the land that has been here for ages and will continue to be here for ages to come. I was content. I was happy.
I love when it rains. There’s something about inhaling the clean air, pondering the metaphor of renewal, and the practicality of knowing I don’t have to water the garden. As an added bonus, after the rain I pick all the downed flowers for an inside bouquet.
This morning, three beautiful pink dahlias lay in the mulch, their stems snapped by the high winds during the night. I brought them in and marveled at how different, and how spectacular, each bloom is. Three perfect dahlias.
Dahlia one, as large as my spread handDahlia two, pink petals almost transparentDahlia three, with perfectly curled petals
The JAC TSA agents were unexpectedly kind and friendly, especially for 6:45 am. Which seems like an impossibility for me. I struggle in the morning.
As I was retrieving my scanned bags, I noticed a speck of color on the stone wall. I stepped closer, and was delighted to see dozens of tableaus, all in miniature. A car being pursued by giant dogs. A crowned frog waiting to eat a watermelon slice. A campervan headed towards a massive rubber ducky.
I took out my phone, and noticed the “no photographs allowed” sign. I looked around, saw an imposing TSA officer walking towards me, and asked for permission to take a photo of the wall. “Be my guest!” he boomed, smiling. A delightful way to ease into an early morning of travel.
There are evenings I glance out the window as the sun is setting and my heart skips a beat. Tonight was one of those nights. I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of cotton candy skies. The layers of pink and blue, reminiscent of the bags of layered cotton candy at state fairs. Just like real cotton candy, the skies are sweet, indulgent, and never last long.
It’s the end of July. They shouldn’t still be here, but they are. I’m not sure if that’s cause for delight or for concern.
During the month of June fireflies appear in western NC. They start glowing just before sunset, and generally find their mates (and stop emitting light) 30 – 45 minutes later. That’s part of their magic. They only appear during one month, and during that one month only for a limited number of minutes each day. It’s easy to remember, because June is my birthday month. June is the month of fireflies. June is the month I go to the porch, just before sunset each evening, with a glass of something cold – ice water, iced tea, or wine.
However, it’s the end of July and they’re still glowing. Not as many, yet still a respectable showing. I’m delighted, as this truly is one of my favorite phenomena. I’m concerned, as fireflies shouldn’t still be glowing at the end of July. What has caused this?
And yet, every evening, just before sundown, I mosey to my front patio with a glass of something cold. I sit in the glider that was Mom’s, and I listen to the increasingly loud sound of crickets. The chirping is a lullaby. Monotonous. Louder, then softer, then louder. The sound oozing into the humidity. Occasionally, a bat swoops above my head, quickly from one side of the house to the other. I enthusiastically hope that it is eating all the mosquitoes that like to eat me. I cannot imagine a more magical evening. How am I so lucky?
LoriLoo 