A Summer Consciousness

Summer approaches like a runner from the bullet of a gun and the garden is an explosion of edible greens. I just finished reading “The Tracker” by Tom Brown Jr – a perfect segue into becoming ever more attentive to the growing things and hatching swallows and croaking frogs as the summer creeps along. I now begin to delve into “A New Earth” by Eckhart Tolle. Fighting within myself to express what I feel deep inside is always a challenge. I do what I know how. I speak and I write in hopes of articulating and thus reflecting upon the “deep down”. I use words (as I am now) and simple sounds produced by the vocal chords I was taught to use when I was young to convey the meandering development of my sense of self.

Tolle asks me, and in turn I ask you if “you believe some combination of such basic sounds could even explain who [we] are or the ultimate purpose of the universe or even what a tree or stone is in its depth?” To say the least, our words, as Tolle puts it, “no matter whether they are vocalized and made into sounds or remain as unspoken thoughts, can cast an almost hypnotic spell upon [us]. [We] easily lose [ourselves] in them and then become hypnotized into implicitly believing that when [we] have attached a word to something, [we] know what it is. The fact is: [we] don’t know what it is, [we] have only covered up the mystery with a label” (pg. 25-27). When two people learn about each other, bull-shit pushed aside, they undoubtedly recognize and experience something superior than words can express. Call it a connection of energy, a synergistic exchange, whatever you call it, in the process of sharing, you will inevitably have to confront your inner self and deal with it how you will. Through habit, through custom, through obligation or through enlightenment, some of us will have a ways to go.

Last weekend, I joined a flock of native English teachers on a beach bound fieldtrip to embrace an awesome display of culture presented in the Dano Festival. I asked our bi-lingual guide “우 리 무 엇 할 거 요 - u-ri mu-eot hal ko-yo?” (in English, “what are we doing?), as I followed a weaving tour in and out of museums and kiosks admiring the display of ancient hair washing, mask dancing and giant swing competitions. In Gangneung, Gangwon-do, not only did I gather a handful of new Korean phrases to express my wit, I also was acquainted with the history of one of Korea’s intangible cultural events as designated by UNESCO in 2005. The festival itself, and not just the budding green trees were in the mood to welcome summer. In the spirit of hoping for favorable farming weather, a whole seaside village prepared its welcoming festivities.

One particular fascinating demonstration of time-honored art was the Pansori. Pansori communicates the tradition of Korean satire and love-stories through the masterpiece of oral story telling in opera form. On stage, there is one signer and one drummer. They engage in an interchange of percussion and vocal acknowledgements that recognizes a story being told. As the singer becomes engulfed in the story itself, her passion and energy are expressed through emotional intensities. The performance I saw in Gangneung was mesmerizing and captivating in its ardor.

The patriotism of the Korean culture is more evident as traditional festivals are celebrated. Koreans are confident being connected to a culture unique from their Asian counterparts. They are proud of their traditions and observe them year after year with celebratory excellence. They are willingly excited to invite the 위 국 - wey-guks (foreigners) into their rituals as a way of showing off their cultural pride. I noticed again, not for the first time the ritualistic symbolism engrained in the hearts and mind of Korean people.

rastas gone, another day dawns

After 5 years the dreads come off in a fury of scissors and red wine. Only two bottles later and I am staring in the mirror contemplating vanity and a slew of history. Dreadlocks, in pop-culture are most closely associated with the Rastafari movement beginning in the 1930's in Jamaica and Bob Marley himself. They actually have lengthy accounts in different cultural groups throughout world history including ancient Egypt, Greece and India as far back as 2500 BCE with the Dreadlocked Vedic deity Shiva and his followers, from Christianity to Hinduism. Even King Tutankhamun's dreads are still intact to this day.

Old generation Rastafari people take non-violence, non-conformity, communalism and solidarity as a religious way of life. They believe that the late emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie I, later named Ras Tafari as the coming savior destined to lead the Rastasfari (hence the name) to freedom. The word "dreadlock" comes from the word "dread" or fear and horror. They were said to look “dreadful” while disregarding the general narcissism and vanity that infected conventional conservatism of the day and may still.

Somehow through the fashion police and modern day status symbols conjured by dreadlocks, us newbies have lost the true meaning in their representation. Seeing those who have dreads as herb smoking Reggae fanatics is a severe stereotype, albeit true in many cases.

Why me? Ever since a taste of freedom tickled my imagination, the lust for adventure began to cultivate in the folds of my training bra, not yet filled with the flesh of my innocent bosom. I felt a compelling urge to question why; to search for a light in the dark of a controlled suburban existence. My parents supported me unconditionally (and still do) in their hearts yet voiced (and still do) their fervent objections to my fast-paced, impulsive decisions. Still, out of respect, there was (is) no stopping me. Having the dreads in the first place meant for me a shunning of conformity and breaking down the stereotypes of beauty. We, as a western society place too much importance on physical appearance. We live futilely on the surface and miss the allegorical boat of life’s true meaning. 5 years is nothing in the complex yet insignificant history of human kind. But in these 5 years, I have in some small way begun to grow in my search. I do not consider myself to be Rastafari, as stated above, I do enjoy the casual glass (or bottle) of red wine from time to time. I do live in the present and although I tend to shy away from my privileged North American upbringing, I do not deny that I am a product of my surroundings. All the more reason to keep exploring, keep asking questions, keep learning and keep reflecting. Symbolically, the cutting of my dreadlocks signifies a new epoch of my life; an unmistakable feeling that has washed over me. This has not been a journey alone. Many people have influenced my life and thanks to those, I am beginning to see clearly now.

At least I am about 10 pounds lighter so I'll be able to climb stronger.

(This is my warrior making a joke)

Broken toe? What broken toe?

The injury is in the past and I am feeling stronger than before. Climbing offers residual spirits of passion to awaken conjured by action. Once again I take the sharp end. I was fortunate enough to travel eight hours on busses and trains to the rolling hillside of Korea's south-west corner again to meet and climb with one of the world greatest. Sharma and his equally gifted girlfriend, Daila Ojeda were promoting Evolv's new signature series designed by Sharma himself. Evolv shoes, made from synthetic materials are the most "vegan-friendly" climbing shoe on the market. As a company, they are making strides in sustainable designs paying respect to the environment. (as all companies should. Even if this wave becomes trend, no harm done).

In country life news, I am planting a garden in the highschool greenhouse. Being a little anxious, patience weans on the verge of hasty decision. Zucchini, Squash, Tomato, Snap Peas, Green Beans, Bell Pepper, Hot Pepper, Eggplant, Spinach, Dill, Parsley, Chives and Basil await in slumber beneath the fertile soil in anticipation of pokeing thier little heads towards the sun. Old Man Weather can be a tricky son of bitch. He teases us with sunny days and then takes it back like a spoiled brat.

I have finally updated my poetry blog. No sense mixing business with pleasure. Please, have a look.

www.picklepresspoetry.blogspot.com

Peace out for now.

A Sharma filled weekend

Thai Offerings

You know when something makes you so speechless and you fight within yourself and through your limited vocabulary to express the feelings conjured by this something? Well, Thailand and its energy is this something.

Elephant rides in grandious jungles dotted with Rubber trees that emit foul pungent scents; sand-in-hair and jelly fish stings; 1 dollar morning mango-coconut sticky rice from the Chicken Lady (locally doned); early morning beach front yoga sessions; gapped-mouth catfish desperately pileing on top of each other starving for brown-bagged 50 cent fish pellets; top-ropes necessary with one chaco and one shoe, splunking around in the pitch black underground, crawling out of grandiose caves peering upon endless sand 200 metres above the crashing salt water waves; hordes of monkeys playing whistfully in a playground of trees; listening to reggae beats as the orange and yellow setting sun slides down towards the horizon and blinks hiding its head once more. Thailand has only teased me with a corner of the country and is complex culture, I long for more.

The Mecca of Southeastern Asian Climbing. Ton Sai. (and broken toe torture)

I start my Thailand adventure with a 4 hour wait in the Bangkok airport. As per usual, my taste buds invite me to try some authentic Thai airport food and I opt for the Mushroom Tom Yum soup. The intensity of the spice steals my breath as I inhale the pungent lemongrass and hot-headed chili. I cough under my breath as tears burst out my eyes and run furiously down my face. On lookers gaze and issue a solemn "I've been there" sympathy glance. The lethal flavour teases me and I, with delicate effort, try to enjoy this war on my throat. At least this is the only war I have to personally deal with. Don't we wish it was the same with the rest of the world. In Korea, it is impolite to blow your nose at the table. I wonder if it is the same here?

While sitting in the airport shuttle on the way to Ton Sai peer, I had overheard a woman and her mother discussing the place of interest. Since I assumed they were headed in the same direction as me, seizing the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity, I shared my mutual interest in this mysterious place. Yori, her mother and her small baby boy, Kian, joined forces on the road to climbing paradise.

I sit on the beach because climbing has stuttered to a halt. Why? It seems unfortunate that the young lass has indeed broken her toe while preforming high wire slack line shenanigans. Sober and all, her wild balance, bereft of any fault, had oh-so dangerously snagged a toe on the way down. Yes, I fell off the freeking slack line. Now with not a single pitch climbed, I rest, ice, compress and elevate my foot as the back and blue purple swirls that call themselves bruises change and morph daily. In this climbing paradise, the walls of limestone grandeur taunt me. Their black streaks bleeding down over colossal caves and huecos perfect for a few fingers hurt my heart. Fortunately the crew that manifests itself here on the beach has sympathy, albeit with friendly teasing hand in hand.

I have been forced to hobble along slowly. This allows me to examine a side of nature once lost in rapid foot work. I am seeing the small details within dense jungle foliage and sun bleached white sand beaches. This makes me smile.

here i am, open.

rush foreward a calamity of adrenaline buzz.

fight backward illogical impulsive detriment.

delve into sentiments brooding on the banquet of niceness.

fire upon midnight hearts racing in anticipation of dreams soon to be realized.

A Foreign Circus Christmas

This year comes to a close and for many of us, the inevitability of change is the only thing that keeps our eyes on the prize whether that be freedom or some other distant hopeful. Finally the coined team name of "foreign circus" has officially been doted upon us adventure seekers slash English teachers living here in South Korea. After a cold snap that left us longing for nopales and daily avocados had passed, we were able to sneak in a daring mountain excursion. High above the friendly metropolis of Seoul, Suraksan mountain spared our souls and let us frolic upon its giant granite belly for the evening. My Mad-rock soles danced delicately on the 90 foot white washed run-out slab and furious crack fingering followed suit as we chased the shadow of the setting sun. Finally some climbing pictures worth sharing.

Christmas was spent in the company of some sweet folk and food was graciously shared. Although the recipe chosen, "Cashew Bake" called for the oven we just didn't have, our pan fried mock imitation was delicious just the same.

For the Roast:1 cup margarine2 large onions, finely chopped 3 cups unroasted cashews 1 1/2 cups white bread, crusts removed 3 large cloves of garlic 1 cup water or vegetable stock salt and pepper nutmeg 2 Tbsp. lemon juice For the Stuffing: 3 cups bread crumbs 1 cup margarine 2 small onions, grated 1/2 Tsp. each thyme and majoram 3 Tbsp. parsley, chopped

• Preheat oven to 400°F and line a greased 1-lb. loaf pan with a long strip of greased nonstick paper. • Melt margarine in a medium-sized saucepan, add the onion and sauté until tender. Remove from heat.• Grind the cashews in a food processor with the bread and garlic and add to the onion, together with the water or stock, salt, pepper, nutmeg, and lemon juice, to taste.Mix all stuffing ingredients together.• Put half the cashew mixture into the prepared pan, top with the stuffing, then spoon the rest of the nut mixture on top. Dot with margarine.• Stand the pan in another pan to catch drippings and bake for about 30 minutes or until firm and lightly browned (cover the roast with foil if it gets too brown before then).• Cool for a minute or two, then slip a knife around the sides, turn roast out, and strip off the paper. Makes 8 Servings

If you try this recipe with an oven, let me know how it goes...

Epic. Oh, I love that word!

Climbing this weekend was an epic adventure! Below that good old 0 centigrade line that regulates our freezers and our acute human temperature flexors, we were shocked into survival mode. Frozen puddles and light flurries didn't stop us from pursuing one last pull down on the cusp of the rock/ice climbing season. It is longish hike through Seoraksan park, albeit on primarily flat ground, to the little restaurant that serves as a climbers hostal throughout the year.

The rhythmic gong of a Buddhists' prayer echoed in the valley that surrounded us. It hypnotically called us near. High in a cave in one of the mountains only reached by a series of boulder sized stepping stones and metal staircases could we reach the mysterious hole. The trek was constant and just when our lungs were about to burst from the pulsing aerobic uphill, we reached the source of the chanting. A lone woman sat perched on her stoop over looking the sharp teethed rockies. At peace, she welcomed us with a modest head bow when she was finished. The air was faintly humid from our close proximity to the Sea of Japan (or as any and all Koreans will defend, "The East Sea of Korea". For Alec's sake, I will mention that apparently, Japan doesn't have any seas). As we made our way down, the sun was settling in a orange haze draped over the raucous peaks like a creamsicle in the summer.

Unfortunately when we arrived at the hostal, the kind yet unwavering owners mentioned how they were closed for the season and were by no means going to allow us to sleep there. (closed for the season means closed for one month. The only month when we decide to go... nice research). Oh what would any other hardcore dirtbag do... We weren't about to hike back again with our heavy bags so with no other choice, we decided to sleep outside. We found a nook in between some boulders with no wind. Because it got dark so early, we went to bed at around 7 and I froze until hypothermia shock treatment was necessarily employed.

The next morning after a soft suffered eyelid rest we needed to be stealthy and find ourselves a clandestine rock face to practice our obsession. Considering that the forests look very different in the summer with green leaves and well defined destinations, the fall gave us a run around blinding us and disguising the path ahead with its leaves coating the forest floor. Who doesn't enjoy a little "we are almost lost" hikey-poo jumping river boulders and circumnavigating the approach to the crag! Finally, just as Alec and I we were about to give up and bust open the wine, we heard Wes give a little whistle in the distance. As we met, he had his harness on and was ready to whip! Despite the late start, we each got in two routes (for the whole weekend!) and only Wes had to suffer a mild case of the screaming barfies. It is sad to admit that the outdoor rock climbing season is on hold until next year. Now, we just have to wait for the ice - bring on the mix!

Another mighty Seoul extravaganza!

As winter invades the evening sky swirling with soft white flakes, the first of the season, my tongue is the only one unabashedly protruding out of my mouth in childlike awe of a nostalgic phenomenon I used to take for granted.

With Hangul heartbeats pumping fiercely through surges of adrenaline that recognize good company, my entourage and I board the underground rip-around. We, the foreign circus, perform tricks of stealth and strength in the labyrinth of Seoul’s subway system. A quaint display of Western gregariousness, our near blistered hands hold on for the last chance pull-up party, makgeolli debauchery. Our Korean audience members steal corner of the eye glances.

Some sit on the heated metal seats, hands folded in obedience. Some smile and cheer on our ego busting one-handed lock-off showdown.

In the largest indoor Ice climbing wall in the world according to Mr. Guinness himself, I swing for my life. Pumped out and barely able to hold on to the leash-less ice axes that assist me up sheer frozen vertical ice slicks, I pray I won’t drop them on the kind belayers below! This giant-sized freezer reminds me of home. After spending almost 3 years in Mexico, I have forgotten the all- encompassing feeling of the snowsuit necessary, nose numbing cold as the moisture from my breath freezes and thaws on my jacket after each inhale and exhale.

I have been an Ice climber in a past life, but am only now just realizing it in this one. A taste of an often feared extreme winter sport has left me thirsty for more in near dehydration. Sorry mom.

Deserving a little downtime, Lila, Daphne and I share stories and coffee (and a bottle of wine for breakfast) on Sunday morning to appreciate that we can. They listen and give their blunt and honest perspective. They have travelled to the ends of the earth with me and make me almost pee my pants with laughter (or have made me...). I am so lucky to have these girls in my life!