Post #7:Losing my mind, I found my Seoul
It wasn’t until well into my adult years that I looked back and realized I was a child who grew up without a seoul. I had just assumed no one had a seoul. I did not even think one of the Korean-born members of my family might actually bear a seoul. I was merely “seoul-gnostic. I rejected the idea that a seoul could exist and lure me into allowing it a place in my life. I grew up Seoul-less. So, too, did most of the upper middle-class kids in my suburban neighborhood. I fit in, I thought.
Through the years my conscience detected a weak, fluttering thump, thump, thump of a Seoul’s heartbeat trying to awaken me to itself. Repeatedly, I ignored the sounds, the stories, and the stirrings that might force me to recognize a Seoul. It was not by race, or by place, or by face, as it were. Seoul was present. It drew me into communion, not at an altar, but at the table, with each passing bite a sense of home emerged. I was then united with my Seoul.
By the middle of 2017 I was lethargic, tired ALL the time. I had very little energy and
spent most days in my bed, sleeping, resting, watching TV, not television but watched programs on the computer. We learned that the lack of energy was due to a dramatic rise in my glucose levels, always kept in perfect control before THE EVENT, and only slightly higher in the months after had now jumped dangerously out of control. My sugars were high, my weight was plummeting, and I had no appetite or interest in eating.
One day I happened to watch the first episode of a Korean miniseries, not the kind of
thing I remember choosing to watch before. I quickly grew tired of the romantic plot lines but
learned more about food/cultural practices, wishing more would be revealed. I kept watching. I
wrote down questions, and terms I wanted to look up later, and names of dishes. I would go to
Youtube later to watch the dish being made. Some new pathways in my brain awakened. I felt,
once more, the hunger to learn.
The information I was learning about Korean food and cuisines had me yearning for
more “foreign” food––intellectually, that is. I wanted new habits, new flavors, new cooking
techniques, and new cooking philosophies. I filtered new ideas and information into my hands
and pans. I was teasing out the identity of the “new me.” I wanted to express my emerging self
on a plate, as a taste, as a gift to the ones I cared about––as a whole craftsperson, not as a
broken one--cooking made me feel in control, whole, and worthy.
Cooking helped me build confidence, helped me to look toward others and not just self, helped
me know myself better and more securely. My brain responded to my growing interest in food
and cooking by expanding the pathways used to learn new skills, needed to intertwine memories
in various ways, and to sharpen ways to process new thoughts and information. My brain fed,
too, on my cooking.
It wasn’t until well into my adult years that I looked back and realized I was a child who grew up without a seoul. I had just assumed no one had a seoul. I did not even think one of the Korean-born members of my family might actually bear a seoul. I was merely “seoul-gnostic. I rejected the idea that a seoul could exist and lure me into allowing it a place in my life. I grew up Seoul-less. So, too, did most of the upper middle-class kids in my suburban neighborhood. I fit in, I thought.
Through the years my conscience detected a weak, fluttering thump, thump, thump of a Seoul’s heartbeat trying to awaken me to itself. Repeatedly, I ignored the sounds, the stories, and the stirrings that might force me to recognize a Seoul. It was not by race, or by place, or by face, as it were. Seoul was present. It drew me into communion, not at an altar, but at the table, with each passing bite a sense of home emerged. I was then united with my Seoul.
By the middle of 2017 I was lethargic, tired ALL the time. I had very little energy and
spent most days in my bed, sleeping, resting, watching TV, not television but watched programs on the computer. We learned that the lack of energy was due to a dramatic rise in my glucose levels, always kept in perfect control before THE EVENT, and only slightly higher in the months after had now jumped dangerously out of control. My sugars were high, my weight was plummeting, and I had no appetite or interest in eating.
One day I happened to watch the first episode of a Korean miniseries, not the kind of
thing I remember choosing to watch before. I quickly grew tired of the romantic plot lines but
learned more about food/cultural practices, wishing more would be revealed. I kept watching. I
wrote down questions, and terms I wanted to look up later, and names of dishes. I would go to
Youtube later to watch the dish being made. Some new pathways in my brain awakened. I felt,
once more, the hunger to learn.
The information I was learning about Korean food and cuisines had me yearning for
more “foreign” food––intellectually, that is. I wanted new habits, new flavors, new cooking
techniques, and new cooking philosophies. I filtered new ideas and information into my hands
and pans. I was teasing out the identity of the “new me.” I wanted to express my emerging self
on a plate, as a taste, as a gift to the ones I cared about––as a whole craftsperson, not as a
broken one--cooking made me feel in control, whole, and worthy.
Cooking helped me build confidence, helped me to look toward others and not just self, helped
me know myself better and more securely. My brain responded to my growing interest in food
and cooking by expanding the pathways used to learn new skills, needed to intertwine memories
in various ways, and to sharpen ways to process new thoughts and information. My brain fed,
too, on my cooking.
