Going, going, gone

After a lot of internal debate I am moving my blog here.

Actually, I've already moved it (and spent days yanking my dreads because it is, apparently, impossible to cleanly transfer old Blogger posts over to WordPress) but anyone who has an RSS feed to this site may want to know that I won't be posting content here anymore.

I feel bad. I mean, Blogger has been with me for a very long time. But times have changed and I have spent too much time wishing that it was something it never will be.

And now I have the resources to move along and build it better.

Keep it real!

Métier

The silence of the mountains was my only hope.

After reaching the pristine valleys of the Eastern Sierras, my one goal was to experience the stillness of Nothing for a stretch.

One can sit and stare out beyond the borders of civilization and watch the town creep across in the valley, spread beyond the gritty brown lumps of houses. Farmlands stretch from end to end, range to range, melting into the rise of foothills before blooming in year-round tips of white.

Yet somehow I never found a restful moment to spare.

Between the chitter of chipmunks and the crested birds, the act of feeding oneself and preparing for the chill onslaught of night, one is always busy. And when you have a 10 AM keynote address with the oldest of trees and a 45-minute commute, it makes for a very busy day.

An evening presentation at 6 PM by the Patriarchs. 30 minutes for break, and closing ceremonies with the rising moon.

Though I was miles from the office and thinking not of a single deadlined project, there is always work to be done. There are opportunities and stories in every step of life, in every reach of this Earth. I am indebted to craft something meaningful from our time together.

These ancient souls of wood have not withstood centuries for monetary gain, ROI, or for the interest of others... but they are no less worthy than anyone else who employs my time.

Beyond the White Picket Fence

Photo by Charlie Crane, from Welcome to Pyongyang

Growing up, SAT scores and mathematics were higher on my priority list than genealogy. I knew little about my family beyond my parents' own lives, that they were a city girl and a country boy brought together in Seoul's most prestigious university.

Now that I am older and my extended family has begun gathering more regularly, I'm hearing stories about Korea that seem straight out of a movie. It's hard to believe I am of their blood. 

My mother recently shared a very dark story about her uncle, my grandfather's brother. An aspiring political rebel from Seoul, he ascended to a position of power in the medical community in Pyongyang after World War II. Through the turmoil of the following decade (and a change in regime), he suddenly vanished without a trace. 

This is a typical tale coming out of North Korea, but inexcusable for any country with an ounce of respect for human rights. Should we be surprised?

It's bone-chilling knowing that if it were not for this, I'd have a bigger family. 

Moreover, my mother visited him with some regularity in the years before the division was final. She could have been trapped there; I could be witnessing the DPRK first-hand now, been executed at birth, or have never been born at all. 

You can sit around and mull over all the philosophical land mines (pun intended) in the "What if?" situations, but the simple fact is this: It's real. It's all painfully real and I've never been more aware that there's a big, nasty world out there. I only have the most distant idea of what it's like to have family stuck in the most treacherous country in the world, but this vague ghost of terror is so much more than I already want to feel. 

This is how I know that no matter what opportunities there are to travel beyond that border and take photos of a lifetime, it can never happen for me.

Perhaps my parents did the right thing not scaring their little girl with stories that don't have happy endings.

Notes of Language

Music is a powerful language of the soul.

Like language, the ear strains to understand, hearing familiar words in the unfamiliar rhythm. Words that you think you know. Words created from the context of your own life.

I listened to those notes and felt the rumbling shudder of steel, smelled the old stones of an old city, the tugging sea wind. I relived the creeping, cold uncertainty caused by confusion and distress.

The memories looped with each crescendo, drew breath with every pause.

Her story was different as she told it, but the beauty lies in the pictures that we see. They are all unique. They are all real.

What will you hear?