YANGPYEONG IN THE FALL
When I was at Yangpyeong this past spring, I wrote, with joy, for the first time in my life. I was surprised that I could enjoy writing as much as I did. Surprised, because writing requires meticulous, diligent, consistent effort, which I painfully and royally lack. Surprised also, because I had assumed that writing was not within my ken and my calling was more toward apostolic action-oriented endeavors. Spontaneity, scattered interests, diffusive and unfocused mind, and curiosity are more accurate descriptors of me than a steady disciplined orientation. Nonetheless, joy certainly was. Apparently, it was evident enough that my wife noticed a change in me too. Robert Frost said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” To further paraphrase Frost, one can even say, “No joy in the writer, no joy in the reader.”
The Yangpyeong writing experience was almost as if something came over me and took hold of me. Certainly, I am far from hinting at the idea that I was so filled with God that God inspired me to direct my fingers. Ok, maybe so in some parts as I was deeply moved by what God opened my eyes to see. Even then, it was more of my latent inner self being awoken, for the “ground” was fertile for the first time in my life. Including the timing of both this trip to Korea being meshed with my life’s journey, the ground may be the well-cultivated ground with enough compost consisting of the garbage of discursive thoughts, turmoil (think tilling), and rest for life to grow. I realize this process is not unlike Henri Nouwen’s description of the movement from “the desert of loneliness to a garden of solitude.”
Looking back, there was a sense of childlike wonder of seeings and noticings, which coincided with and possibly unlocked my own childhood in Korea decades earlier. As I have been on a deconstructive and reconstructive journey, I can perceive my life more honestly without needing to puff up my ego or downplay my life's significance and meaning. The evolution of my spiritual and human journey, I would like to believe, is ripe with a more earnest appraisal of life and thus ready to engage my true worth and trust what I love and value.
I say all this because my wife and I will be back in Yangpyeong in about a week's time at the same Airbnb. (By the time this entry is uploaded, we will be in the air crossing the Pacific Ocean.) This time, it will be autumn. I can’t remember where I read it but to paraphrase what I read—In spring, we are invited to look down. In the fall, we are invited to look up. I cannot wait to “look up” to see the gorgeous fall Korea sky, lose myself counting the leaves dance and fall against the backdrop of heaven, and witness pinching myself waking up from the glorious fall foliage. That will be a treat for my monotonous Southern California eyes for sure. Overall, Yangpyeong remains glowy in my mind. Yangpyeong played a pivotal role in my soul recognizing a home that I had forgotten.
I am a bit cautious about Yangpyeong at the same time. I do not want to have the same expectations of the joy of writing this fall only to fall short. Maybe unbeknownst to me, it is a way to save and safeguard my ego, I do not know for sure. There are these measured and calculated expectations for this trip. I do not want to be in this state of mind, but I am.
Recently, I came across Jack Kerouac’s “Belief & Technique for Modern Prose.” Four of them stood out to me as I evaluate my time in Yangpyeong and anticipate what is to come this fall.
Submissive to everything, open, listening
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
No fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language & knowledge
What I have learned is this very notion of submissiveness while at Yangpyeong as I look back. It was a posture of humility, acceptance, and openness through listening and observing. How I listened and observed was a reflexive and reflective exercise of accepting what came to me every day with childlike wonder. Each day was an unexpected and exciting journey with no map. This posture unleashed my gifts of spontaneity and curiosity.
The next two techniques are similar in my mind. When I thought I was writing about the external realities of my days, I was actually excavating and discovering the deep interior terrains of my soul. I have learned that I have to remain true to who I am as I write, loyal to my soul. In this sense with no disrespect to Kerouac, “from bottom of the mind” falls short. It is from the depth of my soul. A shocking discovery for me was that the depth of my soul breathes the same air as God, a God who “breathed” into me to create me. I have experienced a very small portion of being in union with God through my journaling and writing, more than enough to desire more, to see what God would see, and to think what God would think.
The permission, encouragement, and thus rightful claim of the dignity of my experience, language, and knowledge is liberating not only as someone who wrote with joy for the first time but also in life. This is a sound liberating doctrine that there is no more fear or shame in the dignity of all our experiences. And the language with which we choose to communicate brings fuller and far more authentic and interesting expressions of the unrepeatable uniqueness of who we each are.
My hope is to write every day with joy again this fall. I want to discover more of who I am, who I am becoming, and what God is like through writing. All this in the mundaneness of everyday life, being submissive and present to what is Real, my life that is taking place in real and present time.