Main Street: Election Day

There is nothing more Main Street than Election Day. 

When I was young, I used to go with my mother Maggie Thompson when she voted. It was a very friendly place and they had a "voting machine" that kids could use. When I first started voting, it was on machines much like that one. Practice makes perfect. 

I have voted for some wonderful people and on some fascinating issues. My favorite vote was YES on keeping the Guardian Statue where the sculptor had placed it, in a park by the Bay in Berkeley, California. The statue's purpose is to protect the city. The referendum passed and the Guardian is there, keeping the city safe.                                                                                   

Berkeley Guardian Statue by Fredric Fierstein

Today a friend in Canada forwarded a message from his friend in Erie, PA.

My dad Ernie Thompson is depicted in a mural about international labor solidarity for women workers. He believed deeply in that cause and it occasioned some of his best work. It is a gorgeous mural and I love the idea that my dad is watching over Election Day there. 

I was up early to vote -- actually I was up at 3am surely because I caught the national anxiety disorder -- and it was fun to go early and see the polling place busy and bright. I chatted with people I know only because it's where I vote and I try to vote in all the elections. We were all glad for democracy. I got a sticker -- I do adore stickers! -- which I will proudly put in my notebook as a reminder of this day's voting. 

I voted Kamala Harris for President, and I'm praying for our country. She wants to be a uniter, and we badly need uniting. As Tiny Tim says in A Christmas Carol, "God bless us, every one!"

Tao of K-drama: Resolving the "When"

I just finished watching "When the Weather is Fine" for the third time. While some shows might lose their charm on re-watching, so far, every time I've seen this show, I've liked it better than the last time. This time, in addition to appreciating the implications of the "when" in the title, I thoroughly enjoyed the subtleties of the soundtrack. Kwak Jin-eon's "Like a Winter Dream" is so profoundly tender and haunting, it works to set the tone for this show about people carrying unexpressed troubles and longings. 

K-dramas move from unadulterated trauma to restoration of relationships. In this show it is quite clear that Im Eun-seop is the Taoist whose non-coercion permits others to find themselves. And as they find themselves, he grows into himself, pushing himself to say what needs to be said -- for example, to tell his adoptive mother that he loves her. This "non-coercion" is quite extraordinary. I tell people what to do all the time, so I found it remarkable to watch someone not impose on others. Similarly, it is instructive to watch the ways in which non-coercion wins the day. A favorite quote from the Tao on leadership says:

When the Master governs, the people are hardly aware that he exists.

This is the path of Im Eun-seop. Of course, his non-coercion is joined by his love and his intelligence. The show teaches us this by taking us to his bookstore/coffee shop, a place we'd all like to have in our neighborhoods. There, a group a friends meet regularly for their book group. The grandfather of the youngest member grills food for them. The others read quite arcane works on various themes. It is never Im Eun-seop who is driving the reading, but it is his place -- the place he has created -- that offers time and space for such an encounter. 

At the end of the show, two things happen. First, Muk Hae-won returns to the village and sees Im Eun-seop. He asks her how long she is staying -- that is to say, "when" she is leaving. She laughs with joy, obviously not leaving again. And Muk Hae-won is able to write to the friend who had betrayed her trust in high school -- the one she pushed away in the opening scenes with the line "when the weather is fine" -- and say, "The weather is fine." 

We know, then, that we have reached the point of restoration. People have said what needed to be said, made decisions about next steps, and gotten on with the business of living. And no one says, "Wow, Im Eun-eop did a great job helping us all." That is the point, the Tao says. 

 

Tao of K-drama: The Meaning of "When"

I play The New York Times' game Connections almost every day. I'm not that good at it. I like to think that this is because the connections require cultural knowledge that I don't have, like the names of music magazines. But I know that I'm not that quick at making connections, which is why my various research projects -- and certainly my study of K-drama -- have each taken so long. This is a long introduction to the simple fact that I'm watching When the Weather is Fine for the third time and just got the importance of "when." 

The first "when" is spoken by Muk Hae-won to a friend who abused her trust when they were in high school. She says she can't talk to her then but will "when the weather is fine." It is a curious statement. Later, her lover, Im Eun-seop, says to her, "You will be leaving in the spring," ie, "when the weather is fine." Shortly after that, her aunt asks, "Aren't you leaving in the spring?" 

Im Eun-seop, his adoptive family fears, might also leave, but when? His little sister screams at him in fury at the threat of his leaving. When did you start to love me so much, he asks her. "When I was born!" she shouts through her tears. 

The "when" is a marker of uncertainty, the possibility of loss, that one loves from that position of uncertainty. Muk Hae-won thinks to herself, "I wish you [Eun-seop] would say 'stay by my side.'" Im Eun-seop wants to say to his little sister, "I'm not leaving," but can't let the words go. And so the unspoken words come to stand for what might happen "when the weather is fine" or some other fearful moment that hovers in the future. 

"When the Weather is Fine" is not meant to imply "we'll see daffodils," but rather, "When the weather is fine, I will lose you." It is this spoken/unspoken terror that is at the heart of the show. 

Tao of K-drama: Building as Cousin

My colleague Margaux Simmons and I share a belief that EVERYTHING on Earth is related, including the soil and the bricks and the toxic waste dumps and bluejays. Everything -- we're all cousins. I wouldn't have thought that a K-drama about a Mafioso would have so much to say about this topic. In fact, I watched because of the fascinating analysis of the building and the show done by Professor Eunju Hwang of Sogang University. I have just finished watching that drama -- Vincenzo -- and there is so much to say about this story of a Korean adoptee who grows up in Italy and, following the murder of his Italian parents, joins the Mafia and rises to consigliere. 

At the top of the list is the building, Geumga, which is a vulnerable and lovable presence throughout the show and a place I had the opportunity to visit with Professor Hwang. It is a real building known as the Sewoon Cheonggye Shopping Center, built in the 1960s as an electronics center. Vincenzo helped a Chinese gangster hide money under the building. Because the gangster has died, Vincenzo wants to get the money as well as a file of incriminating evidence on top business and political leaders, which is also hidden there. The valuables are protected by an elaborate security system and much of the show is about getting around the obstacles for its retrieval. But in that process, what is valuable shifts from gold to cousins, among them, Geumga, which ceases to be seen as a disposable building and is recognized as a treasure. 

The transformation of the inhabitants follows closely on the heels of the transformation in the understanding of the building. The people who live and work there also understood themselves to disposable, easily pushed around, barely making a living in a building that was not meant to endure. Vincenzo -- the gangster with a heart of gold -- impresses them with his ingenuity, fighting skills and unflappable demeanor. They quickly come to count on him to show up at the right moment and change the outcome of events. But this also inspires their own fighting spirit. Over the course of the show, the motley crew emerges as a powerful fighting force, capable of protecting their beloved Vincenzo and their beloved building. A corrupt politician wants to know who stands in his way and they shout, "The Geumga Cassano Family!" Of course, once they identified as part of his family, Vincenzo, who seemingly has an unlimited supply of money, sends them shopping for designer suits, worthy of the Cassano name and image. 

K-drama in general, I have argued, features an arc of restoration. What is the restoration for Vincenzo, who starts out murdering people and ends up murdering people? This is third of many astounding features of this show. Recapper Ren Buenviaje describes a scene in the last episode in which Vincenze seeks the advice of Jeokha, Buddhist monk,who is part of the Geumga Cassano, to think about his future. The monk notes that Vincenzo can't be a Buddha because he has sinned too much. But, he says there is another character in the Buddhist cosmology.  

The monk likens Vincenzo to Vaisravana, who he describes as the scary face at the front of temples that protects Buddha’s ways and all ways human. Vincenzo might not find enlightenment, but he’ll get compliments from Buddha from time to time.

This allows Vincenzo to have a different vision of what he is doing with his life: fighting evil while protecting the innocent. Part of what has been so helpful to the Geumga Cassano family is Vincenzo's explicit naming of evit throughout the show. He names his own actions as evil, and is careful to get consent from the growing team for participating. The naming has helped to solidify their own sense of harms and perfidies of the opposition, pharmaceutical chaebols, loosely modeled on the Sackler family and its promotion of oxycontin. At one point, an intelligence agent who is undercover at Geumga to see what Vincenzo is up to, says in adoration, "He is not Mafia -- he is Che Guevara!" For all those of us who grew up admiring the feats of the Commandante, that is just a perfect moment. 

I think we shy away from naming Evil -- Vincenzo calls us to task. The last word of the show is that evil is vehement and vast. 

But we have also learned that we have the capacity to fight back -- and win -- protecting all who are considerable "disposable,." In these challenging times, that is an important message. And we have learned much about our cousins -- buildings, evil companies, poisons promoted as medicines, designer clothes, people who can stand up to injustice, people who love each other and one another. The list of cousins is, to riff on the closing of Vincenzo, encyclopedic and precious. 

Tao of K-drama: The Wisdom of Daisub Byunjeong's Garden

I am trained as a psychiatrist, and, as you might expect, "cities" where not in the curriculum of my residency program. When I realized I needed to understand the urban, I had to go back to school. I did this in two ways: studying with renowned architect/urbanist Michel Cantal-Dupart in France and getting a certificate in landscape design from the New York Botanical Garden. The two paths of study were interrelated, as Cantal fostered my love of gardens by sending me to gardens during our travels in France and explaining his own work in gardens, like Square Bir Hakeim in Perpignan. Under Cantal's tutelage I visited Givenchy, the wonderful garden created by Claude Monet and immortalized in many of his paintings. Thanks to other urbanists I have visited gardens in other parts of the world, of which I particularly treasure that I had the opportunity on two occasions to visit  Ryoang-ji, the Zen garden in Kyoto. 

I mention Givenchy and Ryoang-ji because I wish to place Daisub Byunjeong's garden in the constellation of those two.

Givenchy and Ryoan-ji taught me about the powerful emotional response I have when I enter such a unique place, one that calls on all my senses and emotions. These are unique experiences. The Zen of Ryoan-ji contrasts with the eye candy of Givenchy and I am asked to make sense of the place in a very particular way. Because I have been to so many gardens -- and I putter in my own garden at home -- I have some experience of the encounter that comes with meeting a new garden. I'm sure, however, that there is no "been-there-done-that" when it comes to gardens. And none of my previous experiences prepared me for what I felt on meeting Daisub Byunjeong and spending an afternoon in his garden. 

Like Monet, Daisub Byunjeong is a painter and his garden reflects that profound sensitivity to light, color and texture. Givenchy is expansive, and Monet created the effect in lush expanses of land and water. Daisub's garden is small and the power lies in intricate layers, each delicately and carefully curated so that the eye can is always interested and never satisfied. In a way, this effect is similar to Ryoan-ji, which cannot be taken in at a glance and demands that one sit quietly trying to understand the whole from its parts, which is, I think, the heart of all meditation and the true source of Wisdom. 

As I sat in Daisub's garden, I tried to take in the parts, but each was so profoundly complicated that it eluded my intention of grasping it. And there were so many! Daisub is a master of the gardener's art of mixing plants by color and texture and season of bloom. He adds to that his works of art, settled amongst the foliage as if it is natural to have a statue or some bells everywhere you look. 

Daisub is not only a remarkable gardener, but also a wonderful and nurturing host. He would disappear into his house and come out with food as beautiful as it was delicious. I loved the way in which he tended his garden from time to time, sniping a leaf or adjusting a pot. 

I was visiting with friends and from time to time someone would suggest that we should go somewhere else. I am so grateful that these calls to move could be resisted, and I could bask in that space for hours. I tried to photograph every inch of the garden. Daisub kept saying that I would love it even more if I could see it in full bloom, but I did not agree that would be better -- only different. It was clear to me as the sun passed over head that his garden was a place that eluded time, that made every second count because it would never come again. While gardens teach us different lessons, Daisub's garden taught that lesson of being in the utter splendor of the moment.

Daisub sends me photos from time to time and these teach me new lessons. In classical Chinese landscape painting, the smallness of people is placed in conversation with the majesty of mountains. Daisub achieves this effect by borrowing the mountains near his house. But he doesn't allow the hugeness of the mountains and our feelings of humility to dominate the photo. Rather, he adds a bit of his red umbrella in the foreground to remind us "Enter, rejoice and come in!" to quote a UU hymn I love. 

Daisub Byunjeong's garden is truly one of the great wonders of the world. And here's that photo:

Tao of K-drama: It takes a village to raise a dragon

The Flexner lectures that I gave at Bryn Mawr College in fall 2023 are over, The Tao of K-drama (the book) is drafted, retirement nears, and time opens up before me like the light at the end of a tunnel. I can watch K-drama without Serious Thoughts. In the past few weeks I watched Mr. Queen, See You in My 19th Life, and Welcome to Samdal-ri. They have in common being pretty light and starring the wonderful Shin Hye-sun. I just finished the last of this trio and the wonderful 15th episode -- "It takes a village to raise a dragon" -- lingers. 

The story centers around a old tragedy that has shaped village life in Samdal-ri, a village in Jeju, and especially the families of two young people, Cho Sam-dal and Cho Yong-pil, who would like to be together. This is intertwined with the massive setback experienced by Cho Sam-dal. As a young girl, she says that she heard that dragons rise from small streams and she wants to be a dragon. The variety show host who is listening to this wish says, "Oh, you want to go to Seoul?" 

She gets to Seoul, works hard to succeed, and then is betrayed by an employee. She returns home to regroup. My dad has a similar experience and he described it as, "Retreat to the ghetto and come back strong." The analogy really worked for me. Her community gathers around her, ready to protect her from further harm and wanting to support her talents. In the Episode 15, they put their intentions into action on several fronts, breaking out of the paralysis of the tragedy and launching Sam-dal back to the sky of her dreams.  

There is a brown-skinned man, Kim Man-su (played by Sazal Mahamud), working in the village convenience store. He suddenly leaves, giving the village a billion won gift. We later see him walking with his entourage. "Your Highness," one says, "where have you been?" 

"In a place with a warm heart," he replies, "Samdal-ri." 

What is so remarkable about the show is the careful manner in which the writers have shown has HOW the villagers worked out the set of problems they faced. It is not a process of grand gestures, but of the daily grind of two-steps forward, one-step back, trying to live in a good way.  

Understanding "the good way" of K-drama has been on my mind since I first saw Live Up to Your Name, Dr. Heo in 2020. At first I thought of it as a set of actions that could be defined, with saying "I'm sorry and chopping vegetables high on that list. I couldn't squeeze the process any of these three Shin Hye-sun K-dramas into a list. We might think of it as a tennis match, with our task to follow the bouncing ball as it goes forward and back, forward and back. Any metaphor will do, as long as we watch what I've come to call the "micro-process" of the action. Not the swoops, but the tiny discourse. 

An old woman with dementia has a moment of clarity. She puts her hand on that of her son-in-law, wrapped in mourning for his lost wife. She says, "Don't have resentment." He slowly gets what she's saying and is stunned. She is just one of the people pulling him out of his grief by sharing that they too are tormented by the loss. It is the repetition -- I too am suffering -- that gets through to him. He suddenly asks one of them, "When do you miss her most?" The woman he asked promptly says, "When I dive into the sea or see her son." He walks away without a word, but the challenges are accumulating until he see that he is not alone. His prison of grief breaks open. 

At the heart of this forward-back is Shin Hye-sun, holding it all together with her intensity and capacity for connection. She really looks at people, leaning into them to understand. She really feels hurts and slights, shriveling up with despair. And she is really liberated, raised to fly again by her village. As that is happening she says in a voiceover how good it was that she had a hometown at her back. My dad thought so, and my own turn came to need a place to regroup, I  knew where to go. 

The metaphor in the show is that haenyeos are taught not to be greedy and to return to the surface when they can't hold their breath any more. The headline of the trailer is "The big fish returns to catch her breath." How good to know this -- it is the other level of teaching in a K-drama -- the "big picture" message that we can keep close to our hearts.