Foreignness

I was walking the dog on the mountain today—both Maya and I are thrilled that there's a mountain across the street—when we heard singing. After we got closer, I saw a man walking through the woods, singing chants and bowing. It was moving to watch.

I finally put the pieces together about the wood chopping that goes on at Apsan. There are several burial mounds around. My employees occasionally take time off for family memorials, in which they visit and tend to their family graves. The people chopping trees are keeping trees away from their families' burial mounds, probably as part of the annual ritual.

Koreans have a religious attachment to the mountains. There are shrines and temples all over them, and there are the burial mounds. I have always found mountains inspirational—I think many of us do—so I'm not surprised.

Last Saturday while Bobby and I were driving across town, the sky became ominously dark. At the time, I was expecting a big storm. We have spectacular storms in North Carolina, but this was like nothing I had seen before. It became so dark that the street lights came on, and we only got a spattering of rain. Later, I discovered that the yellow dust levels were perilously high that day. Yellow dust comes from China, and in the spring and summer it blows into Korea. People are cautioned to stay inside and close all of the windows when the levels are high. I have been wondering what yellow dust looks like, and I think I just got my answer.
I guess we're not in Kansas anymore.


Burial mounds on the mountain