Simple Pleasures

What delightful days these last four have been! Warm and clear; lovely in every respect. I have taken advantage of the weather by daily climbing the mountain near my house, an activity I have not enjoyed since winter began. It looks so different now than it did six months ago. The short, spindly trees are bare, and the earth, still covered with the brown leaves of autumn, is damp. At first I was disappointed by this contrast with the flourishing green of several months ago, but now I find it enchanting in it's own quiet way.

My room-mate, Teresa, will be leaving a week from today. The thought is unreal, so doesn't yet effect me one way or another. No doubt I'll miss her, but I know that rather with my head than with my heart, so I am able to help her pack, etc., with neither foreboding nor loneliness.

As one friend leaves, another comes. I will see Petra on Thursday, the anticipation of which is, contrary to the above, ­anything but unreal. I've no doubt of being heartily blessed and encouraged by her visit.

My back has been more sore, lately, than usual. The knot in my right shoulder, never quite absent, is tight and aches relentlessly. I suppose that the monotonous motions of knitting probably aggravate the mischief, though I occupy myself less with that now than before.

Rather, I have taken into my head the notion of making a rag rug. Teresa has a mountain of clothes to get rid of. I keep myself amused by tearing these into long, thin strips, to be later tied together and braided into that rug with which I hope to make the middle room more comfortable and homey. The prospect pleases me.

I have found a restaurant that gives free coffee refills! Teresa and I were dining comfortably together; I had no anticipation of any occurrence out of the ordinary. The coffee had been remarkably delicious, but came in that very small mug that indicates some stinginess on behalf of its server. Sitting thus, engaged in pleasant conversation, I was surprised to have my empty cup replaced with a full one. The surprise quickly gave way to a hearty benevolence. What warm and cozy feelings a good cup of coffee excites! Something akin to a blazing fire, or an intriguing book; the smell of chocolate, or the crisp sound of autumn leaves under foot. Simple pleasures, are after all, the fullest.

Service Here Rocks

Family o' mine,

I taught Beth and Teresa how to knit last week, and we three have really gotten into it. We've discovered a multitude of little yard shops tucked away in corners here and there, which we frequent. By 'multitude' I mean three. I act as interpreter, which consists solely of, "How much is it, please?" and then translating the clerk's response back to my companions. This it gratifying, so long as she restricts herself to single sentence replies. I get lost when she goes into a spiel along the lines of:
"If you buy one, it's five-thousand won, but if you get more than one, I'll take one-thousand off the total. If you buy up to fifty-thousand won worth, I'll take a total of five-thousand won off, and throw in a pair of knitting needles."
"Oh." I respond doubtfully, and place the yarn gingerly back on its shelf.
My next project will be a pair of socks, then I'll go on an all out attempt at a sweater.

For the entirety of February the Hagwon, or English school, is on break while the school building is under construction. I still teach during the morning at the kindergarten, but that's as nothing, when the whole rest of the day is free. I'm not really certain what I'm going to do with all the free time. I'm pretty sure I'll be eager to get back to work in March. But until then, I'm enjoying the break. I've been fighting a cold for a few weeks, and on Monday a week ago, I finally succumbed to it. I feel like I haven't been able to get my feet back under me, so I'm hoping the break will do it.

I may not have gotten so sick on Monday, if I'd stayed at home. I had contemplated doing so, feeling not exactly up to par. But Monday evenings are enjoyable. "And perhaps," thought I, "Getting out will do me good." On Monday, Hapkido classes, dealing strictly with self-defense, are offered at a local church that I irregularly attend. Daryl Covington is a seventh degree black belt, and coached for two years in the National Olympics, so the opportunity to learn from him, and for free, is one I'm glad has come my way.
Classes are supremely exhilarating, though they leave me so sore that I can barely move for days afterwards. Even shifting positions in my sleep jars me painfully awake. Last Monday I practiced falling backwards onto a mat, while keeping my head tucked up to my chest. I suppose those muscles much be acutely underdeveloped, because I couldn't keep my head where it was supposed to me for the world. As soon as my body hit the mat, my head would fling backwards, slamming down with all the force of its weight. By the end of the evening, my head was beginning to pound, but I was able to stop my head just a fraction of an inch from the mat. Every muscle in the front of my neck was strained until, even standing upright, my head wobbled painfully on my shoulders. When, the next morning, I woke up sick, it was the most uncomfortable experience ever. Raw throat on the inside, and burning muscles on the outside. It defies description.
But self-pity was crushed when, a few days ago, I got a text from Daryl's 12 year old daughter, Miriah. "My dad's sick, and I'm crying." I called her, of course, but found that her tears were shed for the disappointment of a postponed outing, rather than for that sickness which was the cause thereof. After we'd gotten that sorted and properly consoled, I asked after her dad. They're pretty certain that he contracted Asian bird flu from a raw duck that he ate in China a week ago. The mortality rate among those few who have ever contracted the flu is pretty high, partly because it doesn't respond to antibiotics, so your prayers would be hugely appreciated.

I finally broke down a few weeks ago, and asked Ruth if she could hook me up with a dentist. We went together of a Thursday. She was seen first, then I was ushered into a back room. The dentist, judging from his manner, seemed find the linguistic barrier a bit awkward, but 'Ahhhh' must, I think, be a universal word, and I accordingly opened wide my mouth. Without further ado, he ran a small camera over my teeth, and within five minutes had me back in an upright position, looking at pictures of my teeth on the computer screen hanging in front of me. "You have ten cavities." He told me, with the aid of Ruth's translation. I wasn't necessarily surprised at his assessment, having been pre-warned that dentists here are cavity-happy. Nor however, did I trust it. I told him that I would go home and think about which ones to have filled.
As we left the office, I asked Ruth, "How much did it cost?"
"Why, nothing." She replied, "You didn't have any work done."
Service here rocks.

I mentioned in my last email that I was going to have to find a new place to live by the end of February. Well, that may or may not still be the case. I've heard that I might be able to continue to live at Herb Farm, my present location, for as long as I teach at SCG. I would love for that to be the case, but I'm not banking on it until it actually happens. This constant fluctuation seems to be the story of my life. But I just finished reading through Exodus, where God gives directions to Moses for the building of His temple. Those passages reveal the precision and foresight of the mind of God. Why do I concern myself with what my future holds? Why do I find myself growing preoccupied with trying to solve all the little difficulties involved? God is detailed. God is accurate. It is His work in which I involve myself. I must, then, let Him work. It is presumptuous for me to take upon myself the task of solving those troubles that are not mine to solve.

I bought a three-thousand won plant a few days ago, with showy, magenta blossoms. I like such things. They make me think of God. I've been tossing around the question in my mind, of whether or not the re-creation of beauty, be it in music or in drawing or in any other form of art, can be of itself an act of worship. I like to think that it can be, and so have picked up my pencil again, and begin to sketch a bit in the dark wee hours of the morning. Oddly enough, I'm drawn more to abstract art than I ever thought I would be. I'm curious to discover whether I can communicate such ideas as mercy, sorrow, or love through indefinite shapes and shadows. A week or so ago I depicted the last half of Romans 7 almost to my satisfaction. The sketch lacks the element of duress, but I trust that a little practice will render me more facile.

I've been a little bit discouraged with myself lately, I think. I seem to be loosing momentum on the up-hill, and am wondering how I'm going to make it to the top. It is difficult to live here. It's very alone. It makes the words of Isaiah so much more beautiful, "Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? There is no searching of His understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might He increaseth strength."

As always, I ask for your prayers,
Elisabeth

An Equitable Diaphragm

Dear Family,

That my emails are coming farther and fewer between is indicative that I'm finding more things here to tie myself to. I don't feel the need, so deeply, to relate my life in Korea with heretofore familiar things. On the other hand, I've never so appreciated fortification from friends back home. How shall I say it? My roots are deeper, but the wind is proportionately stronger. So don't forget about me quite yet - I count on your prayers!

Teresa and I bought a cordless a few whiles ago, which is a super-blessing. I can get things done while I talk now, so I don't feel like I'm wasting half a day when I call home on Tuesdays. That will be my last splurge for a while, though. Since I've been here, I've been keeping track of how much I spend, and on what. About a week ago, I multiplied my monthly expenses by two years. If I don't buy any more cordless phones, I should be just able to scrape through language school on what I make teaching.

That is, provided I can find a cheap enough apartment to rent. I have to find another place to live by the end of February. There are a few options before me, but each holds its own respective quirk, leaving me uncertain as to how to proceed. I'm not troubled, though. I have no anxiety. God has never failed to provide, nor will He now.

The days are very cold. I avoid the out of doors as much as possible, which while perhaps not good, nevertheless is. I contemplate making use of my apartment's five-flight staircase. It's not heated, of course, but being enclosed, nor is it bitter. The exercise would, no doubt, be good for me. But so far it hasn't passed from ponder to practice, and perhaps never will.

My students gazed quizzically, a day ago, when I randomly contracted the hiccoughs. I supposed they were just being amused, as was I myself. The malady passed quickly enough. I spoke of the happenstance, later, to Teresa.
"You know what they were thinking, don't you?" She asked.
I shook my head.
"Well, when a person hiccoughs, it means that he's eaten stolen food."
Though guiltless, I cannot plead innocent. I'm told, to my chagrin, that the diaphragm never lies!

This is my Prayer

This evening Titus, Travis, Chad and I met together in a little coffee shop just beside Hapjeong Station. I do so enjoy the warm coziness of a coffee shop! … my fingers have been resting motionless for several minutes between that last sentence and this. If there's one thing I take satisfaction in, it's the ability to communicate via writing how I think and feel with a fair amount of accuracy. But here my colliding thoughts defy prose. Several years ago I wrote a poem:


"This is my Prayer"

This is my prayer, my Master, King:
To know the life of Christ in me.
Can mortal man discern Your heart?
Of this, then, let me have a part!
With second best I cannot be
Content to live.

But one accord with You, my God,
Is hope beyond this human clutch.
My spans of sin I cannot breech.
Your righteous heights I cannot reach.
Your perfect will I cannot touch
With my own hands.

As You love, You must reach down
Into this pit of living shame!
Come free me from deception's art,
And share with me Your weeping heart,
And grant to me to bear Your name
In holy fear.

To know You and be known as Yours!
Is this naught but a foolish dream?
A thousand times my cry is Nay!
Oh, let me taste of what I pray:
This fellowship of suffering
That you desire.

What pain! Partaking of Your death!
Broken, crushed, refined until
My heart in grief to You has flown,
And I have ceased to be my own,
But Yours to move and use at will,
And in Your time.

Burn me with Your cleansing fire.
Consume me with Yourself, my Lord!
For love, demand I die to me
And live for You, that I might be
Bound to Your grief with love's own chord,
And know Your joy.

My all surrendered full to You:
Oh bliss! Oh all consuming grace!
My life compelled by this alone:
The love and agony You've known.
What moves Your heart shall I embrace
With grateful tears.

This is my prayer: My Master, King:
Proclaim through me this dulcet tune,
"Come praise Him, all ye myriad lands!"
Then let me live to be Your hands,
And gladly I will bear the wounds
That pierced Your own.


On Wednesday God rekindled this passion.

I Feel Vindicated

While taking classes at Ewha, I rarely ate lunch at the school cafeteria. The food was gone and the kitchen cleaned by the time I got back from school, at around 1:30, so I would pack along a pbj and two hard boiled eggs, when I remembered to. When I didn't remember, I would stop on the way to work for kimbop, a delightfully bland and inoffensive food. Today, however, I broke that pattern, taking my repast at the kindergarten. As I went through the buffet line, I took perhaps a larger helping of kimche than ever before, for time takes rather fiendish pleasure in counterbalancing those lessons that experience has so painstakingly taught. I knew it was hot, of course, "But certainly," thought I, "It can't be all that my memory trumped it up to be." So, rather than the cautious nibbles I've been accustomed to, my chopsticks raised a Korean-sized, dripping red cabbage leaf to my mouth. The first thought that raced through my startled mind was, "Just keep eating. Don't think about it. Just keep eating." One hand clenched into a fist, and tears swam in my dilated eyes. And I kept on chewing. A pose of casual nonchalance impossible to strike, I bent my head, clapped my unclenched hand to my burning mouth, and writhed on the edge my seat. It was a few moments before I could bring my hand from my mouth to the glass of water before me. I raised it to my lips, but as soon as the water touched my tongue, the pain exploded. The cook, bless her!, noticed my fierce discomfort, and rushed over with a piece of cheese. I took and gratefully laid it on my swollen tongue. I let it sit there, not chewing, just taking relief in its beautiful, smooth coolness. I still hurt all over, for quite a while (in fact, when I caught my reflection in a mirror, nearly a half an hour later, my lips were still a swollen, fiery hot red), but that soothed the worst of it, and I was able to open my eyes and relax my clenched toes. The half dozen kids I was sitting next to were eyeing me bemusedly. Then Raymond laughed, "Lis Teacher! Watch!" He dug his spoon into the kimche and shoved a dripping spoon full into his mouth. I was as amazed as I pretended to be, but laughed a few minutes later to see, from the corner of my eye, a small, red-faced boy chugging down a glass of cool water. Somehow, I feel vindicated.

Clean, White Snow

This morning opened its eyes to a world wrapped in clean, white snow. In my estimation, as long as it's going to be cold it may as well snow. So I can appreciate the whiteness, despite the weather. I'm told this is the biggest snow fall they've had in twenty-five years. It's melting off as the day grows warmer, so the streets now are nothing more than slushy mud. But I'm ok with that. The memory of what was keeps me from despising what is.

I think I can, without exaggeration, say that I have now experienced the ultimate public transportation squish. Often a bus or subway is quite empty, with plenty of seats for all. Just as frequently one must use his elbows and body weight in order to manuver. Even this, however, I have lately discovered to be but child's play. I was in the subway, a few evenings back, waiting for the train. The platform was uncomfortably crowded, but not uncommonly so for that time of night. The train pulled into sight, and slowly rolled to a stop in front of us. I was curious to see, through the windows, that it was already packed to capacity. The doors slid open, allowing a few dozen people to disembark. And then a mass of bodies surged forward. Quickly at first, then as space became a minimum, more slowly. The flow came to a stop just as I stepped from the platform to the train. Many people remained on the platform behind me. Two 'pushers' moved to the back, thrust their arms forward, and began shoving. The inevitable domino effect crushed me forward, as the stragglers were muscled onto the bloated train. I lost my footing and would have fallen, but there was nowhere to fall to. I slammed into the suit coat in front of me, and there I stayed, like a bug splatted on a pain of glass. He slammed into the person in front of him, and that made two bugs. The bouncers gave one more shove, the doors closed in on us, and all we splatted bugs held our breaths while the train, bursting at its seams, wobbled off to the next stop.

Some things are still difficult, but I think I'm beginning to find my groove here. The more I'm able communicate, the easier it is to cope. I'm still at the baby-talk level, but that doesn't really daunt me. And, while my effort certainly amuses my Korean friends, it also pleases them. Some day, I whisper to myself, some day...

At Long Last!

Well Family, It's been a while. I won't offer any apologies, because there are none to be had. These last few weeks have applied more pressure than any I've yet experienced since coming to Korea. This has been mostly due to the Korean classes I've been taking. They really wouldn't be too bad, if they weren't being taken on top of a full time job. But as it is, I don't feel like I have enough brain space to do all I need to. We took one half of the final exam today. The listening/writing half. On Monday it'll be reading, grammar, & speaking. I'm at the point, though it took me a while to get here, where it doesn't really matter any more whether or not I pass. I've given it my level best, and that's all I can do. Whether or not I get a passing grade, I don't think I'm going to take the next level at Ewha. Adam and I are talking about splitting the cost for a private tutor next semester, instead. Language learning will be a little more relaxed that way. We'll be able to go at a slower pace, and study at more convenient times.

Work still goes well. Right now the kindergarten is practicing for a Christmas play. That's around thirty 4-6 year olds, who don't speak my language. It was really chaotic at first, but it's beginning to fall into place. It's super simple, so we should be able to pull it off. I say 'we'. Really, Adam and Teresa have borne most of the responsibility for that. I'm not quite sure how that happened, but I'm glad not to have that to add to my already full head.
Today we practiced 'on stage'. As I wasn't needed with the kids, Adam asked me to go up to the sound room to let the sound-board man, Mr. S, know what songs we'd be playing, when to play them, and at what point to turn the volume down. Well, that was interesting.
I went up and took a seat next to Mr. S behind the controls. It didn't take long to ascertain that he spoke no English. I knew enough Korean to specify which track to play, and when, but didn't know how to tell him about the volume. So I gestured eloquently, communicating that I wanted to be shown where the volume control was. He shook his head, and made me to understand that he was the sound man. Very well. I shrugged and leaned forward to watch out of the little window.
At the appropriate moment Adam signaled for me to play track five. I turned to Mr. S, "O baun."
He shook his head.
I held up five fingers and repeated myself.
Another man came up. Speaking in broken English, he told me that they didn't have the CD yet. Well, there was nothing I could do about that.
I looked out the little window, and saw everyone posed and waiting. Adam looked up at the speakers. There was no way for me to communicate to him what I knew, so I just sat there, posed and waiting like everyone else. Finally Teresa realized that it wasn't going to happen, so they went on with another part of the play.
A minute later Bok Teacher ran up stairs with the CD we needed. Again Adam looked up and gave the go signal.
Again I clearly directed, "O baun."
Again Mr. S. shook his head. He wanted to play track one.
I turned to Ms. Bok, "O baun keulaumyaun sah baun." I wasn't quite certain about that clumsy conjunction, but she seemed to understand that I wanted track five first, and then track four.
"But then what?" She asked.
"Nothing." I was puzzled, "Just five and then four."
"Not another one?"
I shook my head.
"OK. Five, then four, then five again."
"No!" I crossed my arms to make an X. "Just five and then four. Then stop."
She communicated this to Mr. S., and he began to play track five.
I looked down out of the little window, watching the children sing. When the first verse ended, I turned and made the X again. "Stop now." I said in English, "Song no."
Too complex.
"Song stop!"
Still no go, so I pointed out the window. The kids were being to fuss, and all of the English and Korean teachers were waving at us to turn the music off.
"Ah!" He comprehended wisely, "Cut!"
Very well. Cut.

Some how I feel like my emails are becoming a bit disjointed. Almost as if I write about all these trivialities, while skipping over more consequential events. Many things that add to the continuity and progression of my days are, I'm sure, worthy of note. But, until I can find the time to do them justice, they shall have to remain untouched. Meanwhile, my family, thank you for listening to my random thoughts. Have a lovely day…

me

We Get on Swimmingly

My favorite class is composed of four glowing eight year old boys. Crazy, stupid, and irrepressibly cheerful. Matthew (who informs me that his English nickname is Matt) is perpetually at least ten minutes late for every class. Kevin, James and John light up when I step into the classroom, and wait for my perplexed, "Where's Matthew?" This is their cue to all begin talking at once. In Korean, of course. The gestures that accompany their words usually leave me in stitches. Each day there's a different reason for why Matthew is late. The first time it was because he fell and hurt himself. The next, it was because he'd been hit by a car. After that, he was shot. Each time something worse than the last has happened to him. Each time I reply, "Oh dear! Poor Matthew! Did he break his leg?" They nod enthusiastically, I laugh, and class commences.
We're still working on those first ten sight words that reduced James to tears several weeks ago. The boys don't take learning very seriously, and it's hard for me to press them, knowing that they've just come from school, and will be going back to several more hours of school when they leave. I used to snap their heads with a pencil when they misbehaved. It was pretty effective, I thought. But Joy, one of the Korean teachers, learned of my methods and put a stop to them. Next class, I told Kevin to stop clowning around. He grabbed a pencil from the table and handed it to me. I smiled and shook my head. He looked puzzled for a minute, then snapped his own head. It nearly killed me. Anyways, that method abolished, I racked my mind for another. It came in the form of a large jar of jelly bellies. I bring it to class with me, shake it around in front of the boys, open the lid and let them smell, then set it in the middle of the table. When one of them wins a game, gets a word right, or writes neatly, I make a mark on the board under his name. If he misbehaves, I take a mark away. At the end of class, he gets as many jelly beans as he has marks. It's great incentive, and we get on swimmingly.

Happy Peppero Day

Dear Family,

The weather has definitely become cold. Even still I can't persuade myself to layer. And so I walk down the street with a light sweater and benumbed limbs. Part of the problem is that Koreans keep the indoors dizzyingly warm. The one day that I did wear a long-sleeved shirt to work, I thought I should die of heat exhaustion. During the ten minute break between classes I went into the unheated section of the building to partake of some good, old fashioned coldness. So, I opt for fifteen minutes of coldness during my morning walk to work, over several working hours of intense heat. In all rationality, though, it probably wouldn't kill me to wear a coat out of doors.

Today is 'Peppero Day'. Peppero is a thin, long bread stick, about the size of a small straw, either filled with or dipped in chocolate. And 11/11, because the ones in this date look like Peppero sticks, is the day on which one exchanges Peppero with his friends. Yesterday Paul, one of my students, gave Teresa and I each a package of Peppero with hearts and "Sweet Love" liberally scattered over the pink wrapping in which it came. Very cute.

So happy Peppero Day,
Elisabeth

Like a Bug, Really

As one hour in the class room is added to another, muscular tension in the vocal regions of the Meeguk and Eelbon (American and Japanese, respectively) mouth and throat begins to relax. To chew up and spit out one hapless sound in lieu of its more schismatic brother is no longer the predominant mode of pronunciation. Each has grown either lazy or disgruntled, according to his own particular propensity, and has lapsed into a much more relaxed pronunciation pattern: that which conforms credulously his own native tongue. I won't hazard a guess at the Japanese accent, ignorant as I am of it. You shall have to be content of my caricature of the American, who thakes voiceless sthops tho a new level, by unceremoniously thurning the more evasive intho fricathives. This is salubriously cleaner than the than those previous expulsions of breathy force, but is unfortunately no more accurate, and is certainly far less amusing. Thus evasive remains the Korean language to the untrained tongue…

I was thinking about God, and it struck me how very much greater and more awesome and terrible He is than anything I could ever imagine. I really wonder that I never before thought of God as big. As mind numbingly, explosively big. When I do, I become so very microscopically small and irrelevant – like a bug, really. That's all I can think to liken it to. Suddenly, then, all my goodness is ridiculously insignificant. After all, of value is the most self-possessed bug? I am so utterly beneath Him, so decidedly unworthy of His notice. Is it not presumptuous of me even to think about Him? If He should deign to despise me, that would be esteemed a distinction. That He has stooped to love me and to know and be known by me is more incomprehensible than the most fathomless mysteries of the universe. Perhaps, then, that is why one cannot see God and live. To have the fearsomeness of God revealed would strike such terror into the heart of the observer that he would no doubt die of post-traumatic stress. While I have no desire to be struck dead, I certainly wouldn't mind being seized will a healthy dose of holly fear and amazement.