Skeletons
I searched the night sky for the yellow sliver of the moon, but the sky was lonely. Lit up with the orange glow of city lights that rimmed the blackness and when I looked closer at the tiny little speck I thought was a star, I noticed it blinking and edging it's way across the blanket of black. I miss the stars.
I walk in the alleys because I feel safer there, in the shadows, away from the motorcycles and the traffic. I'm not afraid in the dark places in Korea like I'm afraid when I'm home.
I've been thinking a lot about why I'm here, what pulls me to travel and to live in foreign countries, especially when most of the time it's not easy. Here's what I came up with. Living in a foreign country is like removing all my skin, so all that's left is my skeleton, bare and fragile. I look at it in the mirror in the morning, I glimpse it in my reflection as I walk past store fronts. It's missing some bones. There are holes and my clavicle isn't straight and the bones of my big toe on my left foot are crushed . I've seen this at home too, caught glimpes. But here, I can't put my skin back on and walk away. My skeleton walks around in the rain without an umbrella. And the thing is, here, I'm learning to love my skeleton, holes and all, because if I don't, all my bones might fall apart and I'd be left with nothing. I can't cover it up. And when I look around, I see other skeletons. We are all bones underneath, all the same skeletons, we are just too afraid to walk around with our bones hanging out.
When I crossed the bridge to walk over the river, I saw the reflection of the city lights in the water and they looked like stars, or scales sparkling on the back of a black snake. There is something reassuring about this image, and I feel as if this is the first time I've really actually seen the river. When I jog along beside it, dodging bicycles, walkers, and rollerbladers, I don't notice the river with it's murky brown slush. Every once in a while, I'll notice a heron and pause mid-stride to watch it carefully step through the water in search of fish. But tonight, it feels different to me.
I've made friends with a group guys from America who I probably would have never allowed myself to befriend in the states. Jenny and Mark, a young couple from San Francisco, work at my school. Mark has a small army of friends here from college, all of whom were raised in Christian families, went to Christian schools, and finally met at a Christian college. I have a skewed view of organized religion and I often find myself skirting away from people who were raised in this environment, mostly because their faith frightens me. But the thing about Mark and two of his friends is that they volunteered to do a mission in Kenya when they were 19, for one year. And when they returned to America, they all began to question their faith. Suddenly it didn't seem to make sense to them. And now, they are all here, still grappling with the faith they grew up with and a broader feel of the world. I'm writing this because we often delve into issues of faith and religion and I've come to realize that I am without faith. I pick and choose from the buffet of religion, although mostly I find myself filling my plate from the Buddhist table. And recently, these curious boys have been asking me questions about these beliefs, about growing up without religion, and it has made me realize how half-heartedly I believed in things larger than myself. And that is a hard life to live.
I'm working on losing control. On having faith. On finding beauty on the outside as well as the inside. I'm working at showing my skeleton. At asking for help. At letting the world inside and letting the inside out for the world. These are gifts from Korea as I walk around with my skeleton in the rain.
I walk in the alleys because I feel safer there, in the shadows, away from the motorcycles and the traffic. I'm not afraid in the dark places in Korea like I'm afraid when I'm home.
I've been thinking a lot about why I'm here, what pulls me to travel and to live in foreign countries, especially when most of the time it's not easy. Here's what I came up with. Living in a foreign country is like removing all my skin, so all that's left is my skeleton, bare and fragile. I look at it in the mirror in the morning, I glimpse it in my reflection as I walk past store fronts. It's missing some bones. There are holes and my clavicle isn't straight and the bones of my big toe on my left foot are crushed . I've seen this at home too, caught glimpes. But here, I can't put my skin back on and walk away. My skeleton walks around in the rain without an umbrella. And the thing is, here, I'm learning to love my skeleton, holes and all, because if I don't, all my bones might fall apart and I'd be left with nothing. I can't cover it up. And when I look around, I see other skeletons. We are all bones underneath, all the same skeletons, we are just too afraid to walk around with our bones hanging out.
When I crossed the bridge to walk over the river, I saw the reflection of the city lights in the water and they looked like stars, or scales sparkling on the back of a black snake. There is something reassuring about this image, and I feel as if this is the first time I've really actually seen the river. When I jog along beside it, dodging bicycles, walkers, and rollerbladers, I don't notice the river with it's murky brown slush. Every once in a while, I'll notice a heron and pause mid-stride to watch it carefully step through the water in search of fish. But tonight, it feels different to me.
I've made friends with a group guys from America who I probably would have never allowed myself to befriend in the states. Jenny and Mark, a young couple from San Francisco, work at my school. Mark has a small army of friends here from college, all of whom were raised in Christian families, went to Christian schools, and finally met at a Christian college. I have a skewed view of organized religion and I often find myself skirting away from people who were raised in this environment, mostly because their faith frightens me. But the thing about Mark and two of his friends is that they volunteered to do a mission in Kenya when they were 19, for one year. And when they returned to America, they all began to question their faith. Suddenly it didn't seem to make sense to them. And now, they are all here, still grappling with the faith they grew up with and a broader feel of the world. I'm writing this because we often delve into issues of faith and religion and I've come to realize that I am without faith. I pick and choose from the buffet of religion, although mostly I find myself filling my plate from the Buddhist table. And recently, these curious boys have been asking me questions about these beliefs, about growing up without religion, and it has made me realize how half-heartedly I believed in things larger than myself. And that is a hard life to live.
I'm working on losing control. On having faith. On finding beauty on the outside as well as the inside. I'm working at showing my skeleton. At asking for help. At letting the world inside and letting the inside out for the world. These are gifts from Korea as I walk around with my skeleton in the rain.
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