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Farewell, Mr. Kim. The sweet old man who befriended us at Kouksundo. Who took us to an expensive vegetarian restaurant and made sure we were treated like "big shots." Who taught us about the Korean pride of growing and eating their own foods. Who would invite us weekly to slow down and sit down after Kouksundo practice and "have some tea." Who treated us to the Green World and then sat munching thoughtfully and quietly for a half hour while I always fumbled unnecessarily for something to say. Who received Scott's practice massages with pleasure and humor and slow "Don't break my leg"s. Mr. Kim died two days ago. He had been very sick, they explained. His liver was gone. The kouksundo had extended and improved his life, but only for a year. I gasped and tears fell. People aren't supposed to die when you're just passing through. They're permanent fixtures for memory. But they do die. And if you're lucky, you stay long enough to see people live and die. I cried for the gratitude of having crossed his path. Yogini Master comforted me. In her distress, she had meditated. She had a vision of him as a magpie in light, which had quelled any feelings she had of possible pain or regret. Kouksundo had given him quiet and peace and stillness in his last year. He had come to forgive and to let go. The magpie in Korea is a traditional symbol of hope and of welcoming a friend. Scott and I left yesterday and went to a valley coated in pink and white blossoms and watched a magpie jumping about near us. Thank you, Mr. Kim.
The Magpie, ck [2003-04-18]
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