The Woman on the Beach

Wednesday 29 July, 2015
(This is a revision of something I posted to my online group last week.)

Today I was walking alone on Gwanganli beach here in Busan. An angry storm was approaching and the wind was whipping my unruly hair across my face. Not exactly ideal beach conditions, but I wanted to feel the sand under my bare feet, and something about the grey smoke of the clouds swallowing up the tall buildings struck me as beautiful.

Usually this beach is like a little sandy sardine can, packed with little sandy beach sardines; the Korean ones wrapped like mummies to keep the sun from damaging their skin and the foreign ones hopping about in skimpy pieces of cloth stretched together, welcoming any and all skin damage as long as it looks bronze in the meantime. For a bit of shade, umbrellas plastered with advertisements can be rented for $10. To bob about in the water, $5 will get you a raft shaped like a bright yellow doughnut. On any given sunny day, this beach is a sea of umbrellas and yellow doughnuts, mummies, and brown, near-naked foreigners.

Not today.

Today, with the clouds threatening rain, the temperature suddenly dropping, and the wild winds making the idea of staking an umbrella in the sand impossible, this beach was nearly empty. Here and there dark silhouettes of figures could be seen searching the water's edge for washed up things of fancy. An elderly couple could be seen staring across the water, almost wondering where it all came from. But for the most part, it was empty.

I tied the laces of my hiking boots together, tossed them over my shoulder, and walked from one end of the beach to the other. I let the sting of the cold water snap my thoughts back into now each time a wave crashed in. My mind followed the pulse of the ocean- back and forth. Before and after. When he was here, now that he's not. Things we did together in this city, on this beach, and things I'm doing alone now in the same place. There are always the waves.  Today's waves looked turbulent, but I was experiencing them as gentle thoughts.

It's ok. I miss him and it's ok. We were here and it's ok.

I was experiencing deep gratitude for this moment of acceptance, knowing it's not always so. But at this very moment, walking along the beach with a storm coming and my boots strung across my shoulders, I felt ok. I felt purely capable of doing this. All of it.

Then I heard her.

She was at first woven in with the sound of a wave crashing, and then as the sea silenced itself for a moment, I heard her clearly. It was the familiar sound of sobbing- no, wailing- no, of a world being smashed to pieces.

There, sitting alone in the sand, facing the water, was a woman in her late 40s, perhaps. Korean. And crying into the sky like only we know. This was the sound of great loss.

I passed by her, trying to give her the space I know I needed when I fell to my knees in a public space and out came the animal sounds. I knew these animal sounds.

I walked past and thought of how nice it is that in my little Tribe of After, my little online group of writers and mourners and beautiful people who have experienced great loss, we learn to be present without fixing. We bear witness without consoling. We are simply here.

I thought of how this sobbing woman, with arms stretched out to the sea, doesn't need to be told that it's ok. Because it's not. She doesn't need to have someone stop her from crying and make her feel better. Because she may not for a long, long time. I thought of how the best thing I can do is witness her pain.

I thought about how my lack of Korean would keep me from trying to talk over her grief, anyway, and what a blessing that is. Because suddenly there I was, crouched next to her in the sand, sliding a special bracelet of mine around her wrist. I was patting my chest and in simple Korean saying, "알아요." (Arayo. I know.) "이 아파요." (ee ahpahyo. It hurts.) "남자 친구 주겄어요." (Namja chingu jugeosseoyo. My boyfriend died.)

I know.
It hurts.
My boyfriend died.

She held my hand and looked at me in a way I also recognized. The "how the fuck did this happen when everything was ok?" way. It was the confused and grief-stricken face of somebody cast into the after. I knew that face.

I held her hand and closed my eyes, and I summoned the help of my Tribe. I guess I prayed. I prayed for this woman, touched by hurt so big that she'd set her reserved cultural ways aside and cry so publicly. I have never seen this before in Korea.

I knew that face.

I stayed that way for no more than a minute, touched the top of her hand, then her shoulder, then continued walking down the beach.

A storm was coming. The sky was ready to rip open and show this city what loss feels like. Wash over us, me and this woman, her knees to her chest, wailing like an injured animal. Drench us. Pelt our faces with liquid grey.

We can take it. In fact, we may not even notice.

I Am Here

For the month of July I am staying in the city of Busan, about 2 hours from where I live. It is a coastal city, and Korea's 2nd largest city (after Seoul). This is my first time back without Gareth. I've had first times back to other places. About a month after he died, I returned to Hadong for the first time. A first time to return to a place brings with it a whole flood of memories and then the grief that follows. All this gets unpacked or pushed aside while taking in and experiencing the actual events of here and now. It's a heavy load, really. Not impossible. Just heavy.

It's hard to return to places for the first time. Then it gets a bit easier. And a bit easier. And soon my own non-Gareth related experiences are painted right on top and over the ones I had with him. They're still there. But they're not what everybody sees anymore, including me.

Walking around Busan National University's area tonight, I was feeling the heaviness of my grief. It was a little hard to put my finger on what it was exactly, and then I saw this sign:

I am here.
The sign says so.
Here I am.
I am here.

I am in Busan.
We were here.
Four times.
I am driving past
the coffee shop near
Jalgachi Market where
you were impressed
with the sight of a single
tree below. You wrote
about it and how it
reminded you of
Christchurch. I am
driving past that
tree. I can see up into
the window where you sat.
I am here.

I am here.
I am walking along
the beach at night.
Weaving past couples
holding hands and
taking selfies. 
We were here.
I am sand in my toes.
We were sparklers
spinning and an old
man laughing while
we danced.

I am here where
Christmas lights
hung one December.
You photographed me
near a tree made of
bright white bulbs.
I was smiling, swinging
shopping bags full of
your presents. Your
presence. You were
here. I can see our
shadows where we stood.


I am here.
I am stepping on
and off subways.
I am climbing stairs
and turning corners.
I am city air and
swelling noise and
people pushing and
lights blinking and
ocean waves slapping.

I am still while
everything
else is moving past.
In this place,
I am still.

I am
still
here.

And you are not.

To Korea, in gratitude

For teetering on a small, unsteady
wall of dirt in the middle of a rice field.

For seeing an old man shuffle down a
country road in white wellingtons and

moments later seeing another old man
sitting outside his country house bathing

from a bucket in the late afternoon light.
For the moon reflecting on water so

still between rows of growing plants-
so still that I'm convinced I could lace

up a pair of ice skates and the water's
surface would hold me. For the hard-

wiring of frogs to croak into the night,
believing a mate will select their sound

over that of hundreds of others and
then go even further to find them in the

darkness. For hearing this John Cage-esque
piece of music when I walk home through

narrow paths tucked between farmlands.
For the perfectly tart, cold 매실 juice

served to me in a smooth piece of white
pottery by a woman in folded cottons

and a handkerchief that keeps her jet-black
hair from her face. For deciding to pull

off the wide road home instead to follow a
narrow one back and back into the thick

trees of a hill and for finding deep within
a path, a small waterfall, two traditional

structures, lifted straight from a folktale
about monks in the woods. For layers

of hills playing at India ink prints and for
large scooped valleys storing green for

the summer. For exploratory walks and
for allowing my curiosity to follow the

steps of an old man with a cart, down a
gravel road, and to a bush. For watching him

pluck several bright, red berries and, without
noticing me, watching him toss them into his

old-man mouth and walk away, cart and
all. For deciding to do the same after he

was out of eye-sight. For the tartness of
bright red berries never before tasted.

For pieces of once-white cotton tied to two
tall sticks pushed deeply into the mud of

someone's rice field. For driving past these
two sticks and noticing the wind whipping

the fabric wildly against the backdrop of
verdant green fields and achingly grey skies.

For an unexpected smile from an older
woman, snug in a wetsuit, fresh from the

sea, manhandling the shellfish and the
octopus she just yanked from their watery

homes. For all of this. And any of this.
Any of this that can for a moment, for

a brief and needed moment, allow me to
forget the heaviness on my chest, the

knot in my stomach, the missing in my bones.
For taking me out of this body, this mind, and

showing me the extraordinary in the ordinary.
A million gentle bows to you, Korea. In thanks.

To Date or Not To Date?

I joined an online dating site.

Wait.

Before you start cheering and calling me to congratulate me for "moving on" and telling me that "Gareth would want you to find someone else," let me say a few things.

This is an incredibly hard step.
Not a big step.
A hard step.
There's a difference.

A big step is when you want something but you're afraid to do it. Then you move an inch towards what you want and - oh! What a big step you've taken!

A hard step is doing something you don't want to do because you know it's probably the best thing for you in the long-run.

This? A dating site? Making a profile? Any of this?
I don't want it.

Anyone reading this blog knows exactly what I want since I've written about it until we're all exhausted, and what I want is not possible. He's not coming back. Period.

And I know that.

I also know that I won't find him anywhere out there on the internet. No matter how funny, how charming, how romantic, how poetic, how adventurous, how playful someone might be, they just aren't him.

So is it fair to go out there at all?
Fair to me?
Fair to someone I may chat with?

I have no idea. And that's the truth. No one gives out a little guidebook when you're hopelessly in love with someone explaining what to do if that someone suddenly dies and you're left with their absence and a life long enough to fit someone else (several someones, even) in it.

But I can't spend all of my time knelt down in the gristly dirt, staring at that gaping hole where he once was. Please. Don't congratulate me. Don't see this as a big accomplishment.

It's hard.
That's all it is.
Hard.

Here's how hard it is:
The first few profiles I wrote for myself talked about Gareth. This loss, his absence, is such a part of my everyday-ness that not writing it felt like I was hiding something big. Or like I was trying to pass myself off as something I'm not. I was not ready to venture into this alone. I wanted Gareth to come with me. 

It's not that I thought being in love with someone else is a selling point. In fact, I was probably secretly pleased if that kept people away. And it seemed to. Everyone but "junglepenetrator" and serial killer-esque "avioknight."

Turns out I was on the wrong site. What did I know? It literally took a bus-full of 20-somethings to clue me in to the better site for dating. I deleted my profile immediately. Goodbye, junglepenetrator.

I should also mention that it's probably not a coincidence that about 2 days after I made that first profile, I went to sleep crying until my bed was filled with snot rags and my pillowcase was like a Rorschach test. I woke up like a drunk person, dazed and barely able to get myself ready for work. I taught my classes, then promptly returned home to cry in bed some more. I canceled evening dinner plans with friends. I took one up on an offer to walk my dog, since I seemed unable to get out of bed.

I.
was.
for real.
hit.
with.
some.
serious.
grief.

It's not that I'm worried Gareth is angry. It's not I'm pushing myself and not ready.

It just became so clear what I already know: that I miss him. Not companionship.
Him.

I also had this wave of feeling incredibly flawed. Who- WHO- would want to go out with someone who not only is in love with someone else, but has periods of being completely incapacitated by sadness?

"But, it's not like you're like that all the time," my dog-walking buddy told me.

And that helped.

Because the (and I can hear my own sweet mother saying the words) "ANYONE would be CRAZY not to date you! You're SMART! And BEAUTIFUL! And FUN! And CREATIVE! AND! AND! AND!" words are just not helpful to hear. They're a nice gesture, made to make me feel hopeful, but all they do is remind me that all of those flattering adjectives are being wasted on someone who can't just get out there with that fun dating energy and play the game.

The game is not fun anymore.

So, post day-long cry and deletion of my account on the wrong site, I joined another one.

I edited my profile three times.
In the first, I talked about Gareth.
In the second, I alluded to him.
In the third, he was nowhere obvious to be found. But he was everywhere, of course.

And posting my profile on this new site was like the time I paid to dip my feet in a tank of little fish in Thailand. It will be good for you, they said. You won't believe how smooth your skin will be! Yes. Because 50 fish at a time climb all over you to get a tiny piece of your skin to nom on. It's gross. It's weird. And it kind of tickles.

Internet dating is exactly the same. It's gross. It's weird. It kind of tickles.

If anything, the distraction of judging people solely based on their selected profile photos or poor grammar was, dare I say, welcomed. I found myself scrolling through my "matches" and audibly saying, "Oh, NO! You can't say that..." or "Seriously. Ew. Come on, guy!" Once I yelped in disgust so loudly that my dog jumped from the couch. Usually this is from the pictures alone.

Photos with shirts off. No.
Photos with head on a pillow in bed. No.
Photos with camera phone reflected in mirror. No.
Photos with a face like a serial killer. No.
Photos with a face like, "Kill me now. I'm miserable." No.
Photos with flexing muscles. No.
Photos with self flanked by two ladies. No.

Then there come the messages, and there have been over 40 in less than 48 hours. These range from benign ones which garner no response from me like:

Hey.
Nope.
Hi.
Nope.
You there?
Nope.
Hi there.
Nope.
What's the weather like?
Nope.
How are you today?
Nope.
How was your weekend ?
Nope.

To too-intense ones, like: 

Meeting the person with whom you will wish to spend the rest of your life with is not so easy. And the only way to find out is to keep in touch by communication and spend time in learning more about each other. It needs to have mutual deep level attraction both physically, emotionally and intellectually. We need to feel the connection in many aspects. I know that you can't have high expectations from someone online, So, I just wait to be very pleasantly surprised by faith. I do believe everything can happen, as long as we have faith and focus our mind on things that we want to achieve.

Nope.

I have responded to very, very few. Most to say, "Sorry, I live in South Korea. Thank you for the kind words. Good luck."

I did just trade lyrics to "Good Times" back and forth with someone:

Me: Keepin' yo head above wa-taaaaaah
Him: Making a wave when you can
Me: Tem-PO-ra-RY lay offs!
Him: EASY credit RIP Offs
Me: my favorite part. gotta type it as it sounds when I sing it: skuh-ratchin' and suh-vie-vin'
Him: Lmao! You good..hangin in auh chow LINE!
Me: hahah Ain't we lucky we got 'em
Him: Good Times-eye-eye-eye imes...(deep voice) Yeaaaa!
Him: Whew!!!

and then

Him: Sexual chocolate!!

Nope.

Some messages sent to me were so off-putting that I had to make memes about them just to cope:

Then there was the moment that a co-worker popped up on there. A nice guy. But I squealed and nearly threw my laptop across the room. It was like walking around in your house with no clothes on and then looking out the window and seeing your nice but don't-want-to-do-it-with-him neighbor out there. *drop to the floor* Oh, sweet Jesus. Did he see me in here?

My other friend showed up as an 80% match. "Let's just get married and get it over with," I messaged him. I'll add that to the list of things I've said that have made him incredibly uncomfortable, no doubt.

This evening I had some very fun witty banter back and forth with a guy who is visiting Korea for a week on business. It's the kind of back-and-forth I really miss with Gareth.  This guy noted my reference of Steve Martin in "The Jerk" when I answered the prompt: list 6 things you can't do without. He was complimentary, but not creepy. And he was funny. That's enough to make me consider an evening out with someone- the humor.

I said I was not for any kind of visitor-coming-through-town hookup, and I told him about the elderly prostitutes selling vitamin drinks and carrying viagra in the park (true story). More banter and he said he'd still like to take me out because I seem like fun.

To which I reply:

I would go on a date, because I aim to try. But, I'll tell you, I am the suckiest choice possible if you want to get your doin' it groove on. Even your smoochin groove has no shot here. Hand holding is also out. Can't even brush my fingers when passing me some chopsticks. That's what I have to offer. Sound like fun?

A little more banter and then I do even more sexy talk:

I guess one could surmise that I'm not quite there yet. I'd suggest you don't test it, unless you want a show. And not a sexy sex show. The kind that makes you wish you were invisible. That said, if you want a completely sex-less in every way date, that's me. It will be like taking your mother out. 

Turns out that's not the way to accept a date offer.
Okay, you may have convinced me it's not the best idea, he wrote. Although my mom can be pretty funny, especially after a half glass of wine!

Mission accomplished? I convince someone not to take me out?
This could be how I start.
Slowly.
So, so very slowly.

And I'm sure, I'm absolutely sure of it, that Gareth is getting the biggest kick out of it all.

Aren't you, babe?

Fire-Starters

There's a fresh-faced boy
who works at the local Starbucks.
When I enter the store, he
bounces on his feet a bit.
His eyebrows go up in
recognition. It's been so
long, but I can identify it
as flirting. Gareth did that.

There's a new friend with
a wicked sense of humor
and an ability to mimic
accents. Sharp. Witty.
His subtle comments in
a group conversation
sometimes go unnoticed
but to me, bent over,
holding my side, and
laughing until tears
come out. Gareth did that.

I felt the smallest spark
of attraction while ordering
my coffee and later while trading
hilarious commentary with
my friend. I'm sorry, Gareth,
I found myself thinking.
I think I want to be kissed. 

I shared these things with
a girlfriend, my adopted
sister here in Korea. I felt
foolish. Taken aback. I don't
want a relationship. I'm not
even ready to date. But-ah!
To feel this part of me waking
up after a year-long sleep.
To look at someone and want
to step closer, into that space
where everything feels electric.

Of course!, my sister said.
These two are fire-starters.
You are a connector. Anyone
who knows you knows that.
And you are a sexual being.
You connect in many ways.
And for a long time you weren't
sure you'd ever feel that again.
These two- safe people- 
got the role of starting your 
fire. That may be all they do. 

And what good news that
was! What a relief! What a
cause for celebration! Not
only could I feel that "fire"
(as she put it) again, but I
wouldn't have to ruin a nice,
new friendship or creep on
the coffee boy who is almost
half my age. I could just
thank them (in my head)
for showing me there is
a spark in there to be flamed.

For a day or two a gate was
drawn back and I was allowed
to imagine things with someone
else. And they were such seemingly
benign things: being held,
late night talking in bed and
laughing, having my eyelid kissed,
being looked at as someone
desirable, someone who herself
lit a blazing fire in someone else,
reaching across the table and
touching fingers. A kiss to make
the legs unsteady and the heart
work hard for its right to beat.

And then. (And there seems to
always be an "and then") it hit me.

Gareth did that. All of those things.
I am imagining it with these
fire-starters because I miss it
so, so very much with him.

And, yes, the coffee boy is
ridiculously handsome with
a magazine-cover smile. And, yes,
my new friend's humor and
general easy companionship
work like a secret misting of
pheromones when I'm not looking.
The truth is the fire being started
is one that was already there.

It's Gareth's fire. It was lit
the moment we met and
exchanged the same type of
witty banter. It was fanned
each day that followed:
each walk, each movie watched,
each coffee sipped, each glance
exchanged. Each inside joke,
each finger stroked, each eyelid
kissed, each late-night talk.

This fire, our fire, my fire that
was started on that August
day while rounding the corner
and meeting this man- this
fire cannot be put out. Over
the past year I covered
it with ashes. His ashes. I
choked on the dust and the
embers of it each night when
I attempted to lay myself
down on top of it. I got it to a
bearable and almost unnoticeable
glow. And then came the fire-starters.

My guess is they each
unwittingly kicked across
the ash pile with no intention
whatsoever of checking for
sparks under that soot and
that ash. One kick. And two
kicks. And oops- whatdoyouknow
there's a tiny flame there.

And when the coffee is handed
to me with a flirtatious smile
and I exit the shop (*kick the ash!
up goes the flame!*) or the
friend makes me laugh once
more before turning to walk
home (*kick the ash! up goes
the flame!*) I am left looking
at the fire they both helped to
start, and I ask myself,

Who does this really burn for?