6 months

It's been six months, this life in Korea. I can observe evidence of it sinking into my subconsciousness, I see it in my actions.

Entirely by accident I've stopped eating bread.
My bathroom door is always closed.
I nod. Alot.
I nod to friendly faces, to new aqcuaintances, to my elders.
I nod to bus drivers who pull into pick me up at my stop,
to people in cars who allow me to cross the road.
I'm clumsy with forks,
I can barely even hold a knife,
and wooden chopsticks feel big and imprecise.
Other people's glasses are never empty if I can help it.
Sometimes I crave kimchi,
more often I crave roasted garlic dipped in spciy bean paste.
Foreigners catch my eye,
they just look different.

Some of these affinities came naturally and suddenly, some of them developed over time.

Over Christmas I am going to embark on a personal journey of epic proportions. I've never meditated before. I don't know anything about Buddhism. I'm going to stay in a temple for five days and I do know that I'll take myself head-on and reemerge a different person. It'll be difficult. Insanely difficult. But I need the closure. My two feet walk on: forward, strong, assertive, confident, brisk, ready to roll into a run. And yet my shadow straggles behind, not quite finished with old complexes, my worn-out patterns of behavior. Sometimes I can still feel it pulling, but in standing sill and sitting quiet I'm going to quicken pace and reposition my place under the sun.