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Dear my visitors: Subliminally, I’ve been chasing the illusions of peace and beauty in all seasons of my life. Miraculously, I’m given a bouquet of poems, prose, a novel (Nayoung’s Journey), images and poem videos. The following are the links to the literary magazines that have published some of my works, as well as my YouTube videos. As a bilingual writer, my book in Korean, "천송이 목련화 (A Thousand Magnolias)," which is a collection of poems, stories, and images, has been published as of May 25, 2022. Thank you so much and the very best to you all! Therese

A Stranger’s Touch of Blessing

In the zenith of Manhattan midday hour, the air is thick with summer haze from bus fumes, yellow cabs, trucks, and whatnot, while the pedestrians are rushing down in all directions on the sidewalks. As I stand on the curb waiting for the light turn green, I hear a thin soprano from behind, “hello, pretty?”

I don’t turn around thinking that a woman is talking to someone on her cellphone as many do; besides, I am not a pretty one.

To my surprise then, I see a woman approaching and standing next to me. She is a tall, middle-aged lady in her spiffy white slacks and a canary-yellow jacket. Her honey-blond short hair looks neatly coiffed as if just done at a hair salon.

“Pretty,” she smiles standing like the Statue of Liberty and askes, “Can you guess how old I am?”

I look at her hiding my surprise behind my slow and gentle smile.

“Hmm…” I tip my head from one side to another, giving her a look of genuine consideration, remembering that she is the lady who just called me pretty.

“I’d say no more than fifty-five, Ma’am,” I offer a number less than my estimate.

“Thank you, pretty. I am seventy years old … Can you tell?” She beams and stands on her tiptoes, stretching her height.

Realizing I’m a year older than the lady, I say, “No, Ma’am, certainly not!”

“Thank you, dear.” She flashes a toothy smile. “I’m attending a geriatric health conference right there at Hilton Hotel. They want me to deliver a speech about my excellent health and longevity. I was picked from a handful of seniors with good genes!” She elaborates

with an air of justifiable pride.

“I am impressed. Congratulations!”

“You see, I was raised with five siblings, not drinking or smoking, only with a healthy diet! We all have kept the good habit, and it has kept me in great health!”

“Wonderful indeed, congratulations!”

“Thank you, dear! Oh, the light just turned green, but here, hold my hand! I’ll give you my good health and energy!” She extends her long slender fingers as if ready to throw a spell on me.

Surprised again and moved by her kind offer, I slip my hand into hers when she gives it a quick squeeze, not unlike a burst of blessing, and turns away waving a goodbye.

Too dazed by what just happened, I remain on the curb waving and watching her cross the Avenue of the Americas. Upon seeing how thin and frail she looks from behind, I strain my neck watching her, regretting I should have held her hand and walked with her; but thankfully, she is trotting on like a pro.

Relieved to see her roll away safely through the revolving door of Hilton I sink onto my heels, thinking, perhaps, only perhaps, the lady needed my blessing as much as she wanted to blessed me. At the changing pedestrian light, I start to walk, admitting to myself that we all can use the blessing, including those who are already blessed.

Written by © Therese Young Kim
Photo Credit: Konrad Monroe

"천송이 목련화 (A Thousand Magnolias)," a book of poetry, stories (in Korean except for three poems), and images.


A Thousand Magnolias book

Image provided by Daewonsa,

the publisher of  “천송이 목련화

(A Thousand Magnolias)”


Photo Credit: Konrad Monroe

Photo Credit: Konrad Monroe

© Therese Young Kim

Dear my visitors around the world:

     Subliminally, I have been chasing the illusions of peace and beauty in all seasons of my life, in the sun and moon rising from the East Sea and the lonely island of Dokdo of my old country, over the Pacific and the New World where rainbows looked more stunning and colorful beckoning me to come. I have journeyed through the age of innocence, delicious happiness, war-ravaged, toiling with work, fleeting romance, pleasure and pain of marriage and divorce, and now piled up with years of my age of an ancient woman with a mess of silver hair, impersonating an old pigeon.

     While studying in Seoul, Korea, I fell in love with English and French for their beauty of flexibility and fluidity. Although my French fell behind, it introduced me to sublime French impressionism of Monet, Manet, Flaubert, Emile Zola, and Baudelaire’s “Paris Spleen,” to name just a few. While studying English literature I discovered Hemingway, DH Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Chekov, Tolstoy, and Rainer Maria Rilke in English translation, as well as the music of Bach, Chopin,  Mozart, on and on. At the same time, I’ve retained my native language, Korean, with its purity from an archaic culture, in which I was born, raised, educated, and loved.

     Miraculously then, came the publication of  “천송이 목련화 (A Thousand Magnolias)” this May, which I humbly present here with my little figurines, including Korean ceramic vases and a mini bronze bell in celebration of this debut. “천송이 목련화 (A Thousand Magnolias)” is a bouquet of flowers I’ve gathered from the Garden of Arts and Literature indicated above, which also enabled me to write in English as well.  

    Referring myself as an “ancient woman” has a double entendre in that I remember the legacy of my Old Country where the world’s very first movable metal type was invented in 1234 in Heungdeoksa Buddhist Temple in Chongju City, known as the city of education and culture in South Korea.

    Thanks to this printing technology, numerous books of Buddhist teachings have been published for centuries, the first of which was called “Jikji,”  meaning straightforward and honest communication in the teaching of Seon meditation.  During the golden age of Korean Buddhism, countless artifacts and national treasures had been produced before they were looted and pillaged by Japan during their invasions culminating into the brutal annexation of Korea from 1910 through 1945. In September 2001 UNESCO formally designated “Jikji” as the very first manuscript printed in the world’s oldest metalloid type in Korea.

    As the author of “A Thousand Magnolias,” I owe profoundly to those voiceless and courageous Korean immigrants I met while working as a court interpreter in New York and elsewhere, for the resilience and grace shown in their plight for American dream. But first and foremost, I owe to the memory of my late parents’ undying love and sacrifice, which is the spirit of this book.

    I’ve gifted the book to my extended family and friends living near and far and donated three books to the Asian language acquisition department of New York Public Library, and I hope to gift more to Korean language departments in universities or libraries outside Korea, if opportunities come by.

    Dear cherished visitors, thank you so much for your kind attention given to this post, and let me close with a title poem, “A Thousand Magnolias,” sending you my endless blessings to you and your loved ones!

A Thousand Magnolias

Palms gathered onto my chest
I remember Mama holding me close
to her bosom.

When I became a toddler
papa gave me piggyback rides.

Now grown into a life of my own
in another time and place too far
to turn back,

I’m cradling a thousand magnolias
that have never been sent.

© Therese Young Kim
June 7, 2022

천송이 목련화

지금 내 두 손 가슴에 언고
어머님 젖가슴에 나 꼬-옥
품어 안아주시던 그때를 기억하네

나 좀더 자란 아기었을때
아빠등에 말태워 주시곤하던

이제 내 생활터전 잡아놓고
다시 돌아가기에는 너무나 머얼리
떨어진 이 싯점, 한 외지에서

아직도 보내지못한 천송이 목련화를
부등켜 안고 서있는 나.

Poem, translation, photo
© Therese Young Kim


The Diving Sun (Ember of Love) by Therese Young Kim

The Ember of Love - Meditation in the Sun

Dear My Distinguished Web Guests:

   It has been nine months since the Coronavirus pandemic took us the prisoners of epic tragedy around the world, which feels more like nine years.  But time rushes by as always and we are here like homecoming heroes from a war that is still raging. It makes us wonder what it is to have a normal life in the way we used to live, like breathing the air without thinking of it, or enjoy the sun shine on our bare faces, or walk around without distancing the strangers.

  A staggering number of deaths have occurred every day, patients dying all alone, separated from their loved ones.  Feelings of pain and grief are universal while it can be self-healing with passage of time, as the memory of love ripens as years go by.  I know because I was there once, albeit a long time ago, under different circumstances.
                
        ∞∞∞

   When the sun is golden, I, like a sunflower, would breeze out of my cluttered apartment for the day. After fussing over the breakfast, I would check the email, make a call or two before getting dressed. Then I would pack my oversized laptop in my wheeled luggage with padded layers to protect from the bumpy Manhattan sidewalks, together with a small bag stuffed with my leggings for a gym visit.

   My laptop holds the world of my poetry, stories, and a novel, ‘Nayoung’s Journey,’ that were written years ago and still being edited or rewritten on and off. Some were conceived while I was roaming around, listening to the rhythm and cadence of the city crowd and the melodious sounds of foreign languages brushing by my ear.

                                                                                 ∞∞∞
Therese in the Sunlight by Konrad Monroe

© Therese Young Kim
    After some forty-five minutes I arrive at my familiar sidewalk in Midtown behind the ivory-colored sidewall of a fashion store. The sunlight so toasty-warm, beaming down from above the skyscrapers before cascading onto this sidewall of a fashion store, I come to a full stop to embrace the sunlight whole and complete. I lift my face toward the sky with eyes closed, as if ready for a sun-kiss.

    I know I will be heading for a fast-food restaurant around the corner, where the lunch crowd will thin out by 2:30, leaving me a quiet space to sit down with my laptop over lunch, together with few remaining customers sitting like monks in prayer, solemnly staring at their smartphones well after lunch.

    As I bask in the sun with my luggage close by me, I see the sea of egg-yolk-pink reflected from the sun hitting my closed eyelids. I listen to the footsteps of the pedestrians passing me, or to their singsong chatting.

    In the sun, I remember my last visit with my umma (mamma) in my old country, S. Korea, when she was dying from a prolonged illness. She had been hospitalized for a few weeks before they announced they had done all they could and sent mamma home as she wished. We knew what it meant, but no one talked about it, except for surrounding her with love and care. The night before, a priest was called in for a prayer. As her pain turned worse, a priest was called in for a prayer and she was given a strong doze of a painkiller, which enabled her sleep through the night like an angel.

    The gentle rays of the early morning sun filled up the room where I was sitting at the foot of my umma, listening to her deep regular breathing as if she were making up for all those sleepless nights of pain.  Despite the damaged liver beyond repair, her delicate features still retained the elegance of a quiet beauty, like the chrysanthemum in the late autumn field.
Married at 20, she and papa lived for the love and sacrifice for their seven children, and now mama was dying at seventy-four years of age, my beloved umma!  Who is this martyr of love, who had given me the freedom to leave the cocoon she and papa had built, in search of my selfish dreams in the West.  But she waited with her undying trust for me, to be with her in her last moment that came all too soon.   

                                                                                    ∞∞∞ 

    I remember her being sick when I was nine-years old. I don’t remember why she was sick but determined to heal her I climbed up a cherry tree in the garden and picked the sweet dark berries and brought mamma a bowl of wild cherries. I’m not sure if mamma ate them, perhaps a few, but she was up soon and busy around the house, lighting up my spirit again and warming up the entire house with her loving energy. Gripped by a regret that I no longer believed I can cure mamma with cherries, all I could do is to be there and hang onto mamma’s dear life!
   
   Her breathing now starts to quicken, eyelids gently rippling over her closed eyes, as if the painkiller is starting to wane, stirring her up. I start to panic, terrified that she might get attacked by the unbearable pain again. Gripped by fear I whisper like a prayer, “Umma— if you’re going to suffer in pain again, please, gently fly away to heaven like a butterfly, umma—”  

   To my utter surprise, as if she had heard my plea and trusted my words, she slightly raised her feeble hands giving one long sigh and dropped them to her sides. Then her breathing stopped in the speed of light gone, into the stillness of air, into the silence of time frozen, her face draped in the veil of tenderness and peace divine. In that stillness, her spirit seemed to be floating away like a butterfly invisible.

   Gripped by a guilt for what I had said, I held her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze for her forgiveness. Why had I not asked her to stay one more day, one more week, or promise her I would take care of her if she woke up?  But would I? Could I? Her hand in mine felt silky warm, almost fiery warm like the last spark of a dying ember that would stay forever warm for me.

   Through her warm hand in mine, she seemed to tell me not to fear, for she is in comfort and peace in another world where pain is no more.  In that stillness, she was telling me that I have only one life to live, so I should never stop pursuing my dreams till I find a place in the world she has never visited, however a humble one it may be, as her brave child, her beloved one…. I knelt and started to pray for mama.
                                                                                  ∞∞∞

     After a three-day wake surrounded by the family, friends and relatives, mamma was buried in the sunny side of a hillside cemetery.  I then left my grieving papa, brothers, and sisters, to return to my job in America, fall in love, get married and divorced, all in the span of twenty-five years that followed, while papa and three brothers passed one after another to join mamma in heaven.

   Standing in the sun with a fresh sense of guilt for my selfish solitary existence, I close my eyes tight against the sun, which intensifies its warm rays onto my face, consoling me, like mamma’s warm hand in mine. Some seven minutes gone and feeling deliciously inebriated by the sun, I open my eyes and start rolling away my trunk for a warm cup of coffee and a paper plate of eggplant parmesan or a fluffy grilled cheese sandwich.  After lunch, I will open my laptop and start a silent discourse with my heroine, Nayoung.  

   Today I must tell Nayoung about mamma, not about her death, but about the maiden girl called Chinju (Pearl), whose life was paved by courage and resilience while she was persevering through the most brutal Japanese annexation and the tragic Korean War.  I must tell her story, for it is the only way to help Nayoung reclaim her lost American dream by remembering her roots and mamma’s ember of love.
                                                                                  ∞∞∞   

My Distinguished Web Visitors, we all have stories of pain, grief and love, each as unique as the other, regardless of nationality, color of skin, rich or poor, which is the beauty of one life we have on this planet.  It is why we should persevere through these tragic times, doing what we can to build better future together where kindness and humanity reigns!

GLORIOUS NEW YEAR TO YOU AND YOUR LOVED ONES!

December 2020 © Therese Young Kim


Dear Readers, your questions or comments posted here will be kindly honored.

Thank you.


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