Reflections Through Water
Reflections Through Water By Nimi Vachharajani, a first-year ETA One of the first Korean words I learned in my city was 물멍, mul meong. It’s a word that most novice Korean language learners are unlikely to have come across, and it roughly translates to the act of staring at water—any kind of water, whether it be in a fishbowl, a pond, or the ocean—and becoming fully immersed in its presence. My school is a marine sciences high school, and so naturally, there are always about three fish tanks in the teacher’s room where I work. Coincidentally, my school is also on a hill that overlooks the ocean, so being surrounded by all kinds of water all the time, I often find myself 물멍-ing without even realizing that I am doing something that is such a distinct part of the culture here, in the eastern coastal city of Pohang. Being made aware of the existence of such a term was like discovering the external manifestation of a concept that had existed within the realm of my mind forever. The more I thought about 물멍, the more memories 물멍 unlocked. Memories all somehow connected by water, resurfacing simultaneously. *** The waters of the Arabian Sea that line the city of Mumbai were warm yet turbulent, painted with hues of brown and gray. Reminiscent of complicated times—memories of eating corn on the cob with the sound of waves crashing in the background, the chatter of visiting crowds, the playful laughter of children and kites flying through the hazy polluted air. Moments of childhood. And later, memories of returning when I could no longer see the world the same way. The gray hues in the water evoked dread. The waves crashed onto the shore with a painful loudness that drowned out the spirited sounds that were mere echoes of what had once been. Sights, sounds, and smells that had once been so dearly familiar now operated with a profound lifelessness. What truly stood before me and what I saw in the visual of my mind’s eye were oceans apart. Things had changed and they would never be the same again. But, time heals. Water heals. *** Halfway around the world, the waters of the Pacific Ocean—waters that color the coast of Santa Cruz a bright turquoise blue—were waters of hope. From a time when the currents no longer retained invincibility, walking through tumultuous waters felt like more of a welcome challenge than fighting against the force of a thousand oceans. Allowing the cool, calm waters to tantalize my toes, I focused all my senses, inhaling the ocean’s salty notes and permitting the sound of crashing waves to soothe me again as it once had. *** Now, I find myself on the other side of that very sea. Since moving to Pohang, I have passed by the ocean on the bus every single day on my way to work. With every passing day, it only grows more mesmerizing. On sunny days with blue skies, the East Sea is a bright yet rich blue. Overcast skies transform the same sea into a beautiful blueish gray. With every prolonged gaze, I discover the water’s ability to evoke emotions intertwined with memories I had packed away secretly like a message in a bottle thrown out to sea, the memories that I had attempted to banish to depths I had desperately hoped were out of reach. *** I find myself facing the waters of the East Sea in a different timeline, as if my entanglement with the other, now faraway seas was an eternity ago, in another lifetime even. Pondering by the waters on the coastline of Pohang makes all my timelines, all my worlds, all my lifetimes collide in my mind. Yet when I look at it, all I see is a mirror. A mirror of growth. The touch of the seas of the past now shines in a nostalgic light that carries every memory and paints it a calm, collected blue. As I continue to 물멍 on a regular basis, my mind floods with an increasingly intensifying awareness of the impermanence of my stay here. And as turbulent as the waters of my mind may get—with the high tides and the lows, the soaring crests and sunken troughs—I wonder with the excitement of a pitter pattering raindrop which of the seven seas will give rise to a metamorphosis again.
the city of angel numbers.
the city of angel numbers. By Kamea Macusi, a second-year ETA The first syllable of this city’s name still catches in my American born‑and‑raised throat, unable to determine just how much space should be made, how slack my jaw should be, the placement of my too‑large tongue and grinded teeth. It’s as though every time its name slips past my lips, I’ve come across every iteration possible, except the true one. A year ago, over the course of just six weeks, time spent in sudden close proximity with strangers led to even closer friendships, nights of drunken laughter, days of endless banter, moments of quiet understanding. It’s amazing how the workings of the human heart can transcend the arbitrary rules of time and space—the rules of language and culture. I found myself in an unfamiliar space soon after, suddenly ejected into the corner of a car filled with overpacked luggage, school superiors, and a colleague‑turned‑friend. There, I learned how the city we were driving to was home to her. I only hoped that it would become the same for me. If the city was anything like her, I knew only beauty awaited me. I met a family that helped heal wounds of my own that I hadn’t realized were so deep. They showed me that a healthy dynamic could exist in spite of pain and trauma—that this was just something they would work through as best they could, time and time again. They saw my shortcomings and met me with a love that celebrated both our differences and our shared life experiences. They taught me that spoken language is secondary, for as long as you wish to understand the person before you, then understand you will—the building of bonds despite the brokenness of language. I met peers who made my everyday life so vibrant, like the red spider lilies that grew in our school’s garden, like the wisteria that hung above us on our way up the hills. People brilliant like the blinding reflection of light from the ocean below, well‑seen from the vantage of the cable cars warmed by the sun of a Saturday afternoon. Moments of warmth shared over cups of yuja tea, sweet compliments in the form of ripened watermelon, kind consideration in the opening of an umbrella over an already rain‑soaked head. I met students who gave me reason to keep going. Children who still hold such wonder for life, who are still trying to determine what it means to thrive in a system that barely hopes for them to get by. Children who still see the world in the full array of color before the beginnings of adulthood come and push them into the dreariness of black and white. But perhaps the shades and hues found in this city’s street corners and shorelines could keep them searching beyond the extremes. This place could show the children that between the ebb and the flow, there will be moments where the waves settle. When they can take the time to savor some 딸기모찌1 as tourists filter in and out of the turtle ship nearby, to race down blocks illuminated only by the streetlights leading to 낭만포차거리2, to ride the city buses labeled with angel numbers to guide their paths both home and away, to sit at any of the seaside cafes and watch the glistening water. I hope that when they see the waves catch the crystals of the sun, they realize that the beautiful sight before them can only occur when the sun and sea and moon work in tandem. Always together, never alone. They are my sun and I am their moon, reflecting the light that they shine. A mere push and pull is all I can offer, small movements to create rolling waves. But they are life‑giving, fiery and brilliant. And even when they become an echo of a memory, when time has long since clouded the clarity of once was, I will try to carry this light they’ve allowed me to witness, never forgetting what it meant to bask in their warmth. Farewell to this romantic city of mine. Farewell to the sand‑riddled socks discarded near beachside picnic spots. Farewell to the art‑filled walls of hidden gems. Farewell to the delicious foods that draw envy from all corners of this country. Farewell to the kindness of strangers, to the offering of snacks and of seats. Farewell to my beloved friends, colleagues, and students. Fare well.
Ode to Ochang Lake Park
Ode to Ochang Lake Park By Maya Nylund, a first-year ETA PSA traveling at the speed of pixels spelling balloons of trash, chemical spillage, I don’t look today. I know. It says: meters and meters of rain The runoff gushes into the ground, vortical— I walk here everyday. Old ladies flap walking sticks and fishermen’s hats, crinkle-faced as the apple dolls out of Amish country graceful sweeping in the Jinro‑bottle green. A family of ducks lives behind that bush, there, dinosaur nostrils and yellow enamel breathing— remember when the world was liquid swamp? This place was scooped from the dry earth, manicured marsh, an artificial lake; once there were lotuses, but now there are none. The benches are marked for lovers. They walk the LED moonlight while we talk at the pace of pixels, always orbiting, never nearing, and I remember—that everything is expanding and dissolving, the whole world tending towards entropy. The mold spores splattered across my gym’s ceiling, reeds mangling water, the home address I don’t know by heart— Remember? That to prune is to give attention to, but to disentangle is to love. A man shelters under a pagoda, head shaking, rueful with delay, knowing that to expand is also to evolve. The lake swells, roiling, swallowing the flood. The horizon may unsettle you, the neat and numbered apartments, but this place reminds. We must unravel to grow. My cuticles constantly fraying, the dampness always in the bathroom, the laundry in the corner and the dust bunnies at the doctor’s, spinning toward the dark…