Author: Susanna

Eckert Tolle describes pain body as living life force. Shadow imprinted on our body from the past, combined with ancestors’ and society’s dark energy. It’s also known as Sankara or Karma.

Sometimes,
I play the same game with no hope of moving to the next level.
I find myself in same relationships with the same people with different faces, watching the same old movie.
I run as fast as I can, spinning my wheels, only to find myself in the middle of nowhere.
Stuck in the same level, same movie, same place. In this purgatory of personal hell.

I need to get myself out of here.

What is causing this free spin of wasted energy? Pain body demanding to be fed. It fights to stay alive. Demanding and belligerent, yelling: I am hungry. I will not starve. I will not go away. I have been with you as long as your oldest memory. I am a living life force. I will not perish. Inviting chaos.

Shielding the light of my being.

Building fortresses and moats filled with sharks. Fortifying every entrance with booby traps and machine guns. Block out curtains drawn on every window. Keeping the world out, demanding safety.

Nothing can get in. Nothing can get out. I can’t see. It’s dark.
I ran to you when I needed to run from the present. A safe hide out, in shadows where I could not be found. Yet, truth be told, I didn’t need you then, and I don’t need you now. And I will not run away from you, the shadow you cast, tethered to my being.

When I ran to you, I was a child, behaving in childish ways. Believing in fairy tales and made-up stories.

I now live in the present, in this body, not the previous one. Grounded and integrating into my total being.

I used to look for you. Mistaking you for my favorite sweater my mother knit for me when I was a small child. Red with a hint of white, with brown buttons on the front, and on side pockets. Keeping me warm and cute, this sweater made of love.

And like the sweater, you no longer fit. Too small, too hot, and too itchy.

You are still a living force, not a garment. I hear you. I see you. I have been feeling you arising inside the deepest parts of my body, demanding to be fed. All you want is junk food. You want me to become a zombie. You don’t want air, the light, and clear water. You want chocolate, chips and soda that makes me feel bad. That makes me want to go to sleep. You try to disconnect me from the real world. Yet, I see you are just trying to stay alive, just like me.

I fed you on Tuesday. A crispy waffle with thick coat of Nutella, powdered sugar and small slices of strawberries. The child in me rejoiced, yet why did I crave another meal? Eyes were full, but belly empty. I walked around hungry despite the large calorific content the meal provided.

On Wednesday, I walked to a local joint for pumpkin pancakes and bananas. I felt full right away, feeling my stomach expanding, my being smiling from the nourishment.

I invite you to meet with me. This isn’t working out, you and me. We have no future together, and all you do is make me feel bad. I choose happiness. I choose myself.

And so, this love letter is to you: pain body, sankhara, karma. I acknowledge you so that I can release you. Thank you for showing me where I come from, where I have been hurting, and where I need to avoid. Thank you for showing me the shadows and the past I must face head on and not run away from. Past is gone, and you too, must go.

This isn’t working out, you and me. I release you into the ethers of emptiness. To become dirt, grass, rain. It’s up to you, you are free to go. To make better use of your life force to feed the universe. Our collective consciousness awakens as we become more aware of you. I am the master, and you are a shadow.

I walk to the windows, opening curtains, windows and doors. I release sharks into the ocean, where they belong. I lower the gates. Walls come down.

This love letter is to partings. To severing ties with things and people that no longer serve us. To long overdue goodbyes. Tschüss!

A dozen eggs crack open. Infinite possibilities pour into a bowl. What will you mix into your bowl of gooey goodness? How about the light of your being?

Bare threads criss-cross, piercing soft earth’s surface, sprouting roots of varying lengths and width as they shoot downwards. Ground hardens. Tree sits atop, creating shade through its height and might. Roots continue to travel deep and wide.

I feel a presence.

Who is there? He does not yet exist in this world, an unborn child in his mother’s womb.

He invites me to lay down my roots here, with him, and his family. It’s as if he knew I would doubt his existence. And so, he brought his father, just in case. A clever child. He is here to invite me, with his father by his side. “Will you be my godmother?”
His mother is absent, because she already asked me months ago. A decision I’ve been mulling over. “No” being the default answer. Now, all three implores me.

Saying yes is a commitment to South Africa. A contradiction. I’ve been thinking of uprooting myself and moving back to Korea or the USA. On top of the black chalkboard of a load bearing wall, I had etched my future in white chalk: “Be in Korea by 1 January 2024”.

Saying yes would mean laying down my roots and coming back. A lifelong responsibility I cannot take lightly.

I exercise my free will to accept the universe’s invitation to integrate into my truest self. To commit to a place with a violent past (so similar to motherland) with the power to heal and flourish. With all its imperfections and impermanence.

Still, we smile.

Here, we walk barefoot, plants and small flowers growing between our toes, through the tough soil, texture changing with the comings and goings of the rain.

This love letter is dedicated to our joyful gardener. A small bundle of joy no longer tiny, as he grows strong and tall, just like the tree I saw in my heart. Thank you for showing me my way home. Into my heart, into yours. South Africa, I love you.

I was in deep meditation, sitting on a black cushion, next to my dining room table, in the middle of afternoon, a daily practice. I open my eyes. I call your mother to accept your invitation.

You were meant to join us middle of April, but I had a feeling it was too soon. I joked you’d be born on the Fourth of May. So that I could be that cheesy aunt rhyming fourth with the force of a Jedi every birthday.

You are overdue, or maybe you were right on time.

May the force be with you.

11 is a palindrome. Double manifestations. Two equals walking side by side, holding hands. Skipping as they go, giggling along the way.

Last night, I went to my very first Improv class. Something I’ve been thirsting to try out for years. At a scout hall, next to a gas station. Twenty people of mixed gender, ages and races, though majority is white. I run into a fellow meditator, small world?

We sit around a circle configuration. A kind man invites me to conversation, “Is this your first time?” A polite and gentle exchange. Three of us join for the first time.

We start by saying our names and sharing something that made us feel seen and supported.

I rack my brain and remember an earlier gift from a colleague I met just a month ago. “I’ve been looking for a set of house slippers to offer my guests. The ones I have are too small for the majority of my tall friends with bigger feet. I mentioned this to him once few weeks ago. He remembered and brought me a fresh pair wrapped in plastic bag.”

After each share, we snap our fingers.

We have to start every response with “Yes, and”, a disruption to our usual “No, but”. Moving from the contrarian to community advocates.

We choose to be here, carving out a Monday evening to meet with strangers to partake on an open play of acceptance and kindness. Giving ourselves permission to play and mess up. We are not chasing alpha.

When asked to join the stage, no one hesitates. This feels like the last opportunity to jump on, and jump, I do.

“Three onto the stage” beckons five to jump up. And the coordinator adjusts to fit 5 from the original 3.

Woman sits down in the middle. A pair is made among the four. I’m paired up with Dani, and the two gents with each other. We have to present the lovely lady with pick-up line. Dani and I hook our arms together. We can only say one word at a time, and the partner takes the next word. We have to start with “Hey, baby”, with fake guns made with index and thumb, as if we’re cocking imaginary guns.

Tell us about yourself, the coordinator asks.

Woman: I like to sleep.

Dani “Hey”
Me: “Baby” 😉
Dani: “Are”
Me: “you”
Dani: “my”
Me: “Teddy”
Dani: “Bear”
Cheesy smile, and we go “heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy”
We win this round. The next one.

Woman: I like scary movies.

Dani: “Hey”
Me: “Baby”
Dani: “Do”
Me: “You”
Dani: “Like”
Me: “Scary”
Dani: “Movies”
Me: “Boo!”
“Heeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy”, shooting our fake guns.
She jumps from her chair, and we lose this round.

The next round, we are tied. Congenial collaboration.

Wrapping up the session, we are invited to call out, popcorn style, what we appreciated about someone. I tell a Tafatswa, “I loved the way you jumped up at every opportunity to participate” She responds with, “I loved the way you tried to pronounce [whose name I’ve forgotten already]”

A social evening, an invitation to go for drinks. I pass. “Who is going to Sea Point?” Asks the lady who likes to sleep.

I shoot my hand up, and give Dani a ride home, not too far from where I live. A casual conversation of 20 minutes, she asks, “You’re brave to try this out yourself!”

“Thanks, improv doesn’t scare me. Other things do. I’m trying to actively chase discomfort.”

What did I learn?

Act of three lines. I couldn’t understand what one partner said, and we were put on the spot. I couldn’t advance, because I had nothing to go with. And so, it is the responsibility of the communicator to speak to be understood, not to stand out. A quick lesson, because we move on to the next partner. New act. If we got used to moving on this quickly, we would be further ahead, happier and less afraid to fail. What is failure anyways?

Life is better lived with imagination, with one another. Not imagination alone, by ourselves. Listening intently to invite the storyteller to expand or advance. Tell me more. This is boring, let’s move forward. Expand into the now, before advancing into the next.

This love letter celebrates the act of trying out new things, creating positivity as we expand and advance.

The number 9. Circling into curiosity. Growing legs, expanding into life.
Here is to new beginnings.

2025/03/21: 100 km from Cape Town, winding through mountains, passing through a 180-degree road, a complete u-turn that connects us from Cape Town to an alternate universe. I miss the turn, and I have to do a real u-turn.

I am invited by a friend of a friend, to spend the three day weekend at her parents’ apple orchards. No one else in sight. Birds chime. Frogs croak. Shades of grey, dancing with the white and blue light trying to peak through the day. We seek the sun and the light, yet under shades of grey and blue, we can see more depth and distance. We are small. But we are not insignificant.

Last night, six of us strangers spend the day together. Walking, talking, chopping vegetables, making fire, eating, cleaning up and turning in for the evening. Coming together like this for the first time, there is a sense of politeness and extended pauses, careful not to talk over others. Don’t be shy. Come out and play. Creating space to get to know one another, respectfully. Patiently. A slow burn of what it will become, without expectations.

Her cousin flies in from Johannesburg. “Your feet look so nice and clean, well taken care of.”

“Thanks… well, I’m gay!”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I have a lot of gay friends, and their feet don’t look like that.”

He shares his story, a living evidence in the power of vulnerability. We listen with appreciation and gratitude,

Her new friend is recovering from her previous gig at a major consultancy firm. Learning how to make it rain. Becoming friends with the birthday girl, who brings moro gelato for dessert after dinner. Curious and considerate. Her large eyes behind a stylish white plastic frame, she smiles radiantly. Such beautiful eyes, I wonder what she sees through her lens?

Her brother arrives after I wake up from a nap. Fire is blaring, and conversation simmers. As I walk to join the crowd, he offers me his chair. Repeating the same action when another comes shortly after me. Taking his job seriously, he carefully flips the metal grill full of chops, asking how we like our meat. He loves data, not unlike his sister.

The lady of the weekend is welcoming. Offering her home and space. “If you get hungry, there is food in the pantry.” She tells us as she goes on her walk. Tending to her parents dog, making sure the furry 10-year Scottish Terrier is taken care of. Not eating what she’s not supposed to. Serving her dinner before humans can eat. Chopping up carrots for tomorrow morning’s snack before the 7:30am walk.

My friend, always considerate and patient. Adding flavor to conversations with a sprinkle of follow-up questions. Small interjections. Sharing and listening. Snack master, creating spreads, joyful to eyes, little morsels to fill our hungry bellies. A laughter. A snail had crowed up to her mug. She almost kissed it, as she took a sip!

I provide the canvas, asking questions to understand everyone better. An opportunity to glimpse into likes and dislikes. Trying to be present, while the mind tries to fast forward into the future. Come back, I beckon. Here you are, welcome back!

We paint broadly, with gentle outlines, everyone filling in, with their chosen colors and figures.

A blank space. A palette of soft blue and grey, I paint this weekend.

I met the birthday girl just a month ago, through a mutual friend. Honored to be invited to spend time away from civilization, next to the fourth largest dam in South Africa. Winds whistle through the green leaves and stalks, creating background music to accentuate local birds solo. Waking up slowly, no sense of time, nowhere to go, except be here together. I ask the birthday girl on a friend date, and she says yes.

2017: I walk through the World Trade Center Memorial, waiting for my sister and my friend to get out of work, keeping myself busy. Standing next to a wall, wearing a white shirt and black pants, shiny buttons and a badge of some sort. A young security guard. He smiles and makes eye contact, as I walk on by. I smile back, surprised to be seen. Happy to be acknowledged.

2004: She doesn’t speak nor does she smile as she hands me one wrapped in black plastic bag. Her eyes are kind, generosity expressed through her gestures. Sitting across from each other, we slowly peel the thin skin from the orange fruit, juicy and ripe, our fingers getting sticky as we take small bites. Feeling the stickiness trying to escape our mouths. Where there should be seeds are viscous pulps of gelatinous flesh. It is autumn, and I’m on a slow train back to Incheon.  Devouring persimmon, savoring kindness of a stranger.

1997: On the other side of the copper wire, she tells me how much the course costs: $130. I cry into the receiver. “I really want to do this course but I don’t have any money.” I sob and say I understand before I hang up. A week later, I am told that I can attend the course for free.

1998: I am here early, joining the long line spilling outside. When it’s my turn, I tell her about being in the Reserves, and she tells me about her son in the JROTC. Nice small talk before her eyes glances my application. Few moments pass, and I wonder what’s wrong. “You know, you can only apply for your citizenship when you’re 18.” A pause, and a wrinkle in her nose.
“You know what, I will accept it now, seeing as your birthday is only few months away.” With a smile, she files it away. I’m five months early. Less than a year later, I get my citizenship notification in mail.

2000: The swearing-in ceremony is at Fanueill Hall. Excitement fills the air, and I’m here alone. At the front desk, I hand in my permanent residency card, in exchange for naturalization certificate. I find a seat in the middle, sitting next to another alien about to become a citizen. He is a local reporter and his colleagues are here to support him. They are sitting over there, among family and friends. A great speech precedes a swearing ceremony.

Few months pass, and John congratulate me in between classes. “For what?”
“Your citizenship?”
“How do you know”?
“I saw it on the papers.”
“…”

The same month, doing my one weekend a month at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. Colonel Sanders hands me a folded newspaper. “I was reading at Friendly’s, and I kept this for you. Congratulations!”
Still frame. I am standing next to the local reporter wearing a brown tie and tweed jacket, with both of our right hands up, getting sworn in. I am wearing my braids in a bun, with the grey angola sweater from Express. Captioned, “As American as American Pie.” A private moment, captured by local newspaper. No one had known about this, not because it’s a secret, but a necessity immigration admin I needed to get through. This, after I was disqualifed from applying to the Air Force Academy (I once wanted to be a pilot), because only citizens can attend.

On the same day, he asks me how it’s going with driving. I had just gotten my learner’s permit and told him I needed more practice.
“Ok, you’re going with me when we leave for our mission later.”
He hands me car keys to his brand new Pontiac Grand Am.

What is the golden thread here?

Snippes of kindness given without any possibility of reciprocity, through small, intentional acts.

Big smile feeding hunger for human connection. Saving newspaper, remembering, celebrating a big milestone. Offering your brand new car. Exuding confidence in my driving, giving me confidence. Comping a course to a poor girl who desperately wants to learn to fly. Providing a respite from the hustle and bustle of a city. Offering your sanctuary to an almost stranger.

Thank you.

[2 x 3 = 6 I say it out loud, as I walk home from school]

A playground of plastic swings and slide is taken over by vegetation. In place but out of time. Who put this here, why does no one play here?
My eyes zoom out to see fields of green paddies submerged in water, rice drinking through its stalk of straw as it grows. It is quiet here.

Translucent wings reflect sun’s rays as they glide across water’s surface, trying to catch water walkers. Landing on a cosmos, folding its wings. Two giant orbs as eyes. Long tail. Balancing on its small legs on rainbows of flowers.

Resting atop cosmos of different height. Blue skies behind them, gentle wind swaying them side to side.

I tiptoe to grab one by its folded wings, to observe the intricate design of connective tissues. Thin and black rectangle etched on the edge of its wings. Feels like mica but much thinner like transparent tape. Arching its body left and right, it tries to escape, frightening me. Then, I release. It flies away, but not that far, before landing on another cosmos.

A game of catch and release I play by myself. Witnessing the beauty of stillness. Gentle breeze tickling my face.

Chasing happiness meant catching dragonflies. Symbol of freedom and flight, beauty wrapped in fragility. A wonder to behold, a reminder to stop and be still. To be one with nature. To be gentle. Breathing in, letting the humidity in the air mixed with dirt and water fill my lungs. Releasing and starting over again. In and out. A play of contraction and expansion. Catching and releasing.

Five dots in a row. Four little ducklings chasing after their mama duck, going quack quack.

I wake up to conversations dancing to the beat of metal chopsticks and spoons scraping against metal bowls. Around round table, adults are sitting down to have breakfast of rice and soup.

Big and hearty laughters continue to escape his mouth. Quiet smiles spread all around him, like small ripple across the water’s surface, after skipping rocks.
He is the rock. She is the waves. Happiness abounds, and my heart is full. Dad and mom, in one space, a rare memory.
I am the skip, the bounce in their steps.

It must be August. Arms bare, no one in a hurry. Grandparents are still around, meaning they are not busy planting, tilling or harvesting rice. It is also a Saturday. I still have half-day of school.

I like what I am seeing, this flurry of activities, and not the usual quiet. I stop the observation to speak up.

“I need to bring a die to school.” I say to no one in particular.

“Why didn’t you ask yesterday?”

“..”

He gets up to go outside. Grabbing a piece of cardboard, brown tape and pair of scissors, he sits in front of me. He doesn’t use a ruler or pencil to draw lines. He folds the hard papers, makes few cuts, few more folding. He applies tape on all edges. On each side, with a black marker, he writes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6.

“Here you go.” He hands me the giant cardboard die the size of my two fists and walks back to have breakfast.

I look down, amazed and disappointed at once. I want the standard die. A small and weighted one with white plastic surface with black dots. What is this? Why doesn’t he glue paper on the sides to hide the shiny tape surface, and draw in the pretty dots? I want to ask him, but I don’t.

How do I feel? Mostly awe. Wanting to fit in and not. A feeble effort, when no one else has a non-Korean name at school. And no one else’s Dad lives in America.

Fast forward six years.

We now live in this big house belonging to his sister. In the kitchen, I am going to pack my own lunch today. A bag of loaf in plastic bag, tied with a metal twist. With my left hand, I grab the bag, using my right hand to untwist. Removing two slices of white bread, I place them next to each other. Where is that ketchup bottle, that I love so much? Squeezing the belly to release the soft red paste. Splat, a bit of air escapes. Sound breaks the stillness of the morning.

I apply the paste evenly like lipstick on both surfaces. I smack them against each other, letting them kiss, aligning in perfect embrace. With a silver knife, I cut diagonally, dissecting the square into two isosceles triangles. A proud moment of yay. I don’t want to figure out what I’m eating at the cafeteria today, my attempt to avoid pungent smells and textures of American food that is as unfamiliar as the language.

He walks in. “What is this? You don’t put ketchup in sandwiches” Smelling the acid and sweet aroma of ketchup. He lifts the sandwich with two fingers, tosses it into the black trash can before walking away.

One year later.

I wake up to a pink watch on my left wrist, with a small white face. Where did this come from? I love it. I love watches. He came in while I was sleeping. How do I feel? Happy. Do I say thanks, I don’t think so. I’ve been suffering from canker sores in my mouth, brought on by stress.

Another year later.

I need help with my homework. Advanced math. He flips through the textbook, creates his own theorem, and helps me solve it.

As I flip through memories of him, I am surprised to have so many, though I wish there were more. There are more pieces of him, than there are pieces of me.

Two years later.

First day of university. There is a mix-up. I don’t get my sea bag, and I spend the week in grey sweats and white t-shirt. Sticking out like sore thumb. Everyone else has uniform except me. Before leaving for the second summer training with the Army, I had applied for scholarship and had the check sent to the house. He had taken it, and I don’t have anything to wear. Until his sister, my aunt comes to pay for my uniform, helping me fit in. How can he do this to me?

Two more years later.

I am visiting him in Seattle. He drives me to the airport to go back to school. My face scrunch. I need help. I don’t have any money. He grabs all the cash out of his wallet and places them on my hands. His face is scrunched up, like a wrinkle that hasn’t been ironed, after being through the wash of life that’s been tough on him.

Twenty years later.

Phone rings, from across the Atlantic, from far away. Except, I am the one that is far away. “Appa passed away. He had a heart attack” It is middle of workday in September. With this memory, eyes water and tears drop. Practicality sets in. Planning handovers, setting up expectations. Calling my boss to tell what happened. “I’m catching the next flight out tomorrow.”

All the major roles are taken, in this major production of funeral. It’s been a while since we’ve all gathered. His sisters, their husbands, their children. Aunts, uncles, and male cousins. Sisters and brother are there. I am the last to arrive.

This house, I bought three years ago for him to live in. When he was looking at two story houses, I told him. “Please buy a house where you can bury your bones in.”

This house where you played your saxophone, where I last came to spend the four-day Thanksgiving with you, your wife, your small white dog, brother, sisters, and your two granddaughters.

I enter the full house, everyone dressed in black.

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

No.

“Do you want to hear me play the saxophone?”

OK. As he plays, I ask him to stop, finding the sound too loud to my sensitive ears. He’s playing “Over the Rainbow”, a song I mentioned when he asked what he could learn to play.

That was only two years ago, but a distant memory nonetheless.

I walk into the garage. He had done so much work into this house. Adding cabinets, putting a third bathroom for brother, so he feels more comfortable when he visits.

On his work bench, I find a hard hat with a blue GE logo on it. It is 2019. I left GE in 2008. How and where did he get my hardhat?

It is the hardhat I wore for six years while working as an engineer building and maintaining power plants around the world. He was proud of me beyond my wildest dreams. He said I was the most like him. At the time, infuriated. Looking back, he was right. An engineer, problem solver. A go getter and world traveler. In his eyes, I could do no wrong. A daughter of pure pride and bragging rights.

What is love? Why do we only see it when they are gone?

Except love never goes away. It lives inside of me. Inside of you, as you read these words. But I can’t help but continue to shed these silent tears in appreciation and longing. To have the opportunity to say thank you for staying. Thank you for doing the impossible. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for not giving up, when walking away was the easy way out.

Thank you for all the regrets, so that I can live on with love without more remorse. For teaching me about faults that create the distance between us. And giving me life and opportunities to help fill the gaps. For giving me my siblings and extended family members that keep me in remembrance of our heritage. Where I come from. Where you come from. Your story and mine, a typical Korean Immigrant. Fruits of the same tree. I am a fruit of your tree.

This love letter can go on and on. An endless celebration of life.

What do you get when you connect three dots? A triangle, two pieces of bread cut in half. A roll of a die. A memory of a father from far away, a long time ago, close to my heart.