emptybeginnings

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.

I light the red candle. Blue digits indicate 05:04. Compressor hums. Birds sing. My face is illuminated by the laptop screen. A car pulls out from the building in front of the patio. Where do I begin?

I close my eyes. Heart knows. Mind wanders.

Fingers dance across black keys. Words appear across the white screen. Figments of my imagination come to life, dancing to a hesitant melody. Where do I want to go today? How do I get there?

I see the rowing machine next to the open patio. Sea mist fills the air, and I remember when I started this exercise.

I joined the crew team while at university. A gruesome activity for someone who needed a lot of sleep. We would have to leave dormitories before 5 to be on the water by 5:30am. Carin or Katelyn often comes up to get me. A sleepy head. Door swings open, white light spills into the room, blackness fading away. I would put my clothes on as quickly as I can, rubbing my eyes.

We drive the 15-seater van. 20-minute drive. We walk to the boat house to unstrap the boat. Oars, twice as tall as me are carried. Equal number of people on either side, we walk it towards the dock. One person holds on to the boat, as we glide the oars across gunnels. We all strap our feet on massive shoes made for men. The coxswain gets in, and we push off. Water is calm, like glass.

We always start at the catch position. Legs bent, arms grabbing the handle. We look like recoiled springs, ready to release. We wait for the coxswain to give order. We are the engine that moves this boat, on command.

“And row”, Herb would say.

We dip the oar in, perpendicular to the water’s edge. Pushing hard as we can, exploding off the foot stretchers. Pulling the boat forward. At the end of the stroke, arms just below the chest, we lift the oar out of the water, turning it parallel to glide across the water to back to the stroke position. This is called feathering.

We go back to the catch position. Dip the oar, pull while exploding your power, feather, glide and catch again. Catch, pull, glide, release, feather.

While not every stroke is perfect, we must move in the same rhythm, the one behind following the one in the front. We are facing the back of the boat, and so, only the coxswain can see where we are going, steering as she goes. My favorites were the Power Tens. Coxswain would count, “And one, explode off your foot stretchers” Assuming an average 23 strokes per minute times 30 minutes, this equates 690 strokes, the four of us in perfect harmony. One following the other.

Once we are done, we row back in pairs, to come back to the dock, using the currents and strokes to get us home. We would skip morning formations and go straight to breakfast without having to put on dress blacks before classes began. We hear the marching bands and color guards, as the six companies report to the regimental commander.

I stuck it out for two years, becoming coxswain my second year. I quit because I needed all the sleep I could get. I joined the cross-country team before graduating.

But I kept using the Concept 2 Rowing Machine. I always set the resistance lever at the maximum: 10. Display screen set on meters and average strokes per second. I strap my feet in. I tie the shoelaces tight and adjust the black straps.

On the seat, I glide back and forth, checking for smoothness. Bumpy? I grab a rag to wipe down the dirt.
My legs bent, arms grab the handle. I look like a recoiled spring.
This is the catch position. Imagining myself on the water, with the oar is parallel above the water surface. Using my outer right hand, I imagine me turning it perpendicular to catch the water before pushing my entire body weight against the foot stretcher. Legs straighten. Arms extend past the hips.
Power comes from the legs, and transfer my upper body. This is how I used to move across the water. At the end of the stroke, arms position below the chest, oars parallel against the water’s surface.
I become the spring, gliding towards the catch position.

This love letter is for my legs. Legs that could barely support my weight as a child. In all my photos, I’m propped up against a blanket covering a box, because I was too weak to sit up by myself. I missed all my milestones of standing and walking. No way, people would gasp. You look so strong. You see, looks can be deceiving.

While at university and in my younger adult life, because my diet wasn’t appropriate for all the leg work out, I would sometimes awaken with pain in my calves, as they knot and clench up. Bananas and Avocados help.

It’s been twenty years since I first started to row, and this rowing machine keeps my body in top shape. I bought Concept 2 in 2020, in the height of Covid. I sold it to a friend and bought it back in 2024. Best two decisions.

My legs have carried me to the city of Cape Town, home for now. To the most amazing and beautiful places. They allow me to carry things and people to safety. I am grateful for the strength and endurance of the engine that carries me.

I used to walk into situations and places of danger like a zombie. Unconscious and directionless.

I have not only learned to walk away from places and people that no longer serve me but also towards joy.

I no longer need to escape from the darkness. Because the light inside me burns brightly. This morning, I walk along the promenade as the sun rises. Tonight, I shall attempt to Salsa, forgetting the steps and rhythm of the three dances. But I continue to move. Just for the fun of it. No expectations and no destinations.

I have nothing to fear, and nothing to run away from. My legs connect me to this earth, keeping me upright. My legs keep me grounded, safe and secure.

Does this qualify as a love letter to my legs? Sure, why not?

Day 2 dotted and hung out to dry.
What do you get when you connect two dots?
A straight line. Something to hang onto.

What is love? I used to think love was sacrifice and pain and hurt and suffering. To love was to become unconscious and complicit. To love was to protect and provide for everyone and everything while hiding myself in plain sight. To love was to lose myself. Love was too expensive for me to bear, the beast of a burden.

Mistaking lust for love. Longing for love. Loss for love. Emptiness to fill. Fleeting feelings of a fire that sputters out at the first sign of rain.

I was wrong.

So I sat down and defined it. To refine it. To grind it down. To make it my own. When do I feel loved? What is my happiest childhood memory?

A flashback.

Around a small, square and wooden table, two little girls sit on each side of their mother. In the middle is a chocolate cake with no candle. I am one of the little girls, and it is my birthday. We haven’t started school yet, so I must be five or six years old. I sit and marvel at the cake larger than my head. Smell of chocolate fill our nostrils, and I cannot help but smile, looking at Mom, sister and our chocolate cake.

We are at grandparents, where we now live, after Dad left for America. We are sitting by the entrance of our small room. Middle of the day, with yellow linoleum floor, swept and wiped down. It is winter here, and the floor feels warm to our happy bottoms. A still frame clicks into memory forever, etched into my heart to remember a mother’s love for her child. My mother’s love.

Love is taking time to understand the one you serve. To take care them in the way they need you to. A sensitive and overwhelmed child, I didn’t care for fanfares or too many people around me. Preferring to read and turn the pages, I savored quite moments with nature and time to myself.

And so, this love letter is to my mother. Thank you for loving and taking care of me. For seeing me as I am. For never stopping to answer my endless questions. For being honest and saying I don’t know.

You let me climb you, to lay myself atop. Because I was afraid of monsters coming to get me in the evenings. You taught me how to write my name in Korean (권 수산나) before school started. You purchased additional lessons to provide extracurricular academic studies. For me, studying was like playing outside and doing additional work with you after school 1:1 gave me joy of learning with a mother by my side.

For punishing me only when I fought sister. My only sin, for I could do no wrong in your eyes. Punishing me by making me hold my hands high above my head, feeling my muscles growing tired. And if I was really bad, you’d increase the weight by making me hold a hand broom. And if I committed the worst crime of being a terror to sister, you would ask me to roll up my pants and hit me on the back of my calves.

Even then, I knew this hurt you more than it hurt me. And as I felt the anger welling up inside my stomach, and tears rolling down my face, I knew you loved me in the best way possible.

And so, what is love? Love is work made visible, with every fiber of your being. To get to know the person that is the object of your affection. What do they like to eat? How do they want to celebrate their birthday? For breakfast, lunch and dinner. Taking the time to plan meals, buying ingredients, cooking, seasoning, serving, clearing, and doing it all over again. Love is mundane. Love is made up of the smallest gestures and actions. Love fills not only our stomach, but also our hearts and minds. Love is not strawberries dipped in chocolate. Love is not bags of potato chips and they do not unwrap conveniently out of pre-packaged boxes. Love is not fleeting. Love sustains long after you are gone. Love reminds us of the love that we once had, that we thought was lost.

Love is like this tear rolling down my right eye, as my stomach clenches and relaxes, as my heart swells with pride and appreciation for the love I received. To recognize it when I see it. When I receive it. When I feel it. When I give it.

Love is like the air we breathe. It is there, even when we don’t look for it. Without it we perish. All we have to do is breathe and be still. Surrender ourselves to what is. Let go of what is not. Love is not conditional. Love requires us to give without expectations, like this life we were given, the greatest gift of our being.

To love is to love myself and cherish every moment. This is the best way. The only way to repay you. Thank you for loving me.