Between the wires (where current hums without memory) a paulownia stood— too near the measured lines of power.
It fell.
The stump was burned. Fire entered the marrow and left a hollow— a dark mouth in the earth breathing smoke long after flame.
Years accumulated. The place grew unsightly, a scar without explanation. So flowers were planted— small defiances of color around a charred circumference.
Along the boundary— four hundred yards of division— fifteen elders were taken down for the high voltage. Seventy rings each. Fifty feet of weather.
Cut. Burned. The fire descended.
Not upward into spectacle, but downward— into secrecy.
Roots, thick as history, refused surrender. Weeks of excavation: pulley and shovel, pickaxe and breath. We descended past stature, past certainty.
Three feet below— a living filament: passion still green in the underworld.
Thus the soil relearned itself. Ash became loam. The ruined ground prepared again for seed.
And memory turned.
Once, in another forest, I walked with Henry David Thoreau beside still water— learning the arithmetic of simplicity, the moral grammar of pine and pond.
Once, beneath a vaster sky, I listened with Wilhelm Reich for the pulse between breath and cloud— body and ether held in one invisible field.
All things rooted. All things breathing one breath.
Another root surfaced— buried in exile: Gao Xianzhi, descendant of a fallen kingdom, carried west when Goguryeo collapsed.
Across ice passes in 747— Darkot, the Pamirs— a thousand horsemen, each with two horses, ascending where air thins to doubt.
Centuries later Aurel Stein named that desolation Innermost Asia. Others named the general King of the Mountains.
History travels underground. It does not announce itself with trumpets. It endures in roots waiting the thaw.
Sometimes the individual diminishes— ash among ashes. Sometimes the individual stands at the still point around which the age revolves.
Conscience is subterranean fire. No government decree extinguishes it.
Beneath this Smoky Mountain clay (a mere two feet down) a mountain waits.
Easter approaches— not with spectacle but with pressure.
Passion will rise through soil. Stone will loosen. What was buried will breathe again.
And the mountain ballad— long muted— will return in another key.
Someone once said we are trains rushing headlong toward death.
Someone said we eat only to survive— fuel for a failing engine.
Someone once said sorrow is our native tongue, that you and I amount to almost nothing.
Someone once said our hands are empty— nothing to offer, nothing to leave behind.
But listen.
Before any of those voices, we were born into goodness— into laughter, into the bright astonishment of being. We were called precious before we knew the word for it.
Open your eyes.
Look at the colors ripened by our labor— orchards of effort, small shining stones of love resting in our palms.
Even now what we have outweighs what we lack. There are more cups waiting to be filled with hope than cups cracked by despair.
The hours move swiftly— too swiftly to squander on hatred, to dwell long in loneliness.
One day we will understand. When we arrive at the last station, we may finally see why we were asked to stay as long as we did.
Departing happens quietly. Not with the crash of doors, but in the almost-silence between one breath and the next.
A word spoken. Or withheld. An eyelid closing. A hand, once tightly held beneath a deep embrace loosening without ceremony.
For days now my heart has walked in fog— streets familiar, yet unrecognizable. I have misplaced my footing in the ordinary rooms of morning.
A son— forty years ripened— declares his freedom. As sons must. As fathers dread.
He has gone before, boomerang-bright, circling back to the porch light. But this time he says, This is final.
The last-born, third of three— the smallest shadow once moving along our walls— now steps beyond them.
And I, already diminished, enter the corridor of grief before the suitcase is closed. The heart rehearses absence with a thousand small piercings.
There is no keeping. Love does not cage. It opens its hands.
So we say the necessary words: Go, as you wish. Go with our blessing.
Though something in us folds inward, like a house after winter, like a door that will no longer turn with his returning.
May his wings find their measure. May anger not nest in his chest. May strain not harden his heart. May provision meet him like daily bread. May his long-held dreams ripen without rot.
Already the rooms widen with his absence. Already the air changes.
Goodbye, little son— not little, and yet always.
Rise. If I must lose you to the sky, then be a great bird. Circle high above our days.
And if the light is kind, let us glimpse you— once more— in flight.
As we walk through the thresholds of life, we encounter moments so heavy, so breathless, they seem impossible to face with human strength— no, not even with my own. These are what we call life’s crises.
They come in many forms: When a long-awaited child is born with a serious condition, When a business built with one’s entire fortune fails to take root, When a new home promises stability, only to be followed by sudden dismissal from work— Such abrupt turns visit anyone, at any time.
Yet those who have journeyed ahead in life tell us that these very moments can become the rarest of opportunities— even blessings in disguise.
Bernie Marcus, founder of the Home Depot chain, was born to Russian immigrant parents and once dreamed of becoming a doctor. But the cost of medical school proved too great, and he dropped out, eventually becoming a pharmacist. After graduation, he worked in small businesses and found joy in that world. While employed at Handy Dan, a modest “Do It Yourself” home improvement store, he began to dream: What if a large store combined hardware, paint, and building supplies, where employees taught customers how to replace toilets, install ceiling fans, or build decks—while selling the tools to do so?
In 1978, he shared this idea with his boss, hoping for praise. Instead, the next day, he was fired.
It was a crushing blow. He had two children, a newly purchased home, and a mortgage looming. But he remembered his mother’s words: “After hardship, good things always come.”
He later met a partner who shared his vision, and together they built over 1,300 Home Depot stores across the U.S. Upon retiring at age 72, he confessed: “The day I was fired was the beginning of the greatest moment of my life.”
Even when the greatest moment stands at our doorstep, do we not often fall into despair?
삶의 고비고비 길을 걷다보면, 인간의 힘으로, 아니 내 힘으로 맞이하기엔 숨조차 가누기 어려운 순간들… 이것들을 우리는 삶의 위기라 부르게 된다. 그 위기들은 여러 가지 양상으로 우리에게 다가온다. 새 생명을 기다리던 가정에 태어난 아기가 신부정증임이 밝혀졌을 때, 전재산을 들여 시작한 사업이 전혀 먹혀들지 않을 때, 새 집을 사서 가정의 안정을 찾았는가 싶었는데, 직장으로부터 사직을 당했을 때, 등 이와 같은 갑작스런 상황들은 누구에게나 찾아들어온다. 그러나, 이런 기회야말로
인간에게 둘도 없는 기회이자 축복의 순간이 다가오고 있음을 감지할 수 있는 시간이 될 수 있음을 인생에 앞서간 이들은 또한 말하고 있다.
홈디팥 체인의 창시자인 버니 마루쿠스씨는 러시아 이민자인 부모 밑에서 태어나, 의사가 되기를 원했었다. 그러나 막상 의대에 들어가고 보니, 비싼 등록금 때문에 자신이 도저히 감당 할 수 없음을 알게되어, 중퇴하게 되었다. 그러다 끝내 학과를 바꿔 약사가 된다. 졸업후, 그는 작은 비즈니스 상에서 일을 하면서, 그 방면에 재미를 갖게된다. 그러다가 당시에 작은 체인인 핸디 댄이라는 “Do it yourself” 홈 인프로브먼트 상에서 일을 하면서 자신의 이상을 꿈꾸게 된다. 만약에 철물 상과, 페인트상, 집짓는 자료상을 함께 합친 대형상점에, 종업원들이 손님들에게 변기를 바꾸는 방법이나, 천장의 선풍기를 다는 법, 덱을 만드는 방법등을 알려주면서 물건을 판다면 과연 어떨까? 1978년도에 그는 그의 아이디어를 보스에게 알려준후, 큰 치하를 받을 것을 기대하였었다. 그러나, 엉뚱하게도 그 다음날 그는 사직통고를 받고 말았다. 처음엔 참으로 기가막혔다. 자녀들은 이미 둘씩이나 되고, 새집을 산지 얼마되지 않아 몰게지는 밀려가고… 그러나, 그는 자라나면서 늘 하시던 어머니의 말을 생각했다. ”어려움 후에는 좋은 일이 있고 말고…“
그후로 그는 그의 이상에 동조하는 파트너를 만나, 미 전역에 1300여개의 홈디팥체인을 일궈내는 사업가로 변신하였으며, 얼마전에 72세로 은퇴하면서 이런 고백을 하였다. “내가 직장에서 사직 당하던 그날이야 말로, 내 인생의 최고의 순간의 시작이었지!”
몇 년전 여름 휴가동안에 우리 가족은 아이들과 함께, 미국의 역사적인 인물들이 거쳐갔던 현장을 방문하면서 역사를 공부한 적이 있다. 그 중에 우리는 평소에 존경하던, 제 2의 건국의 아버지로 불리는 16대 대통령인, 아브라함 링컨의 역사유적지를 찾아가게 되었다. 남북전쟁의 마지막 요세지와, 그 유명한 “…국민의 국민에 의한 국민의 정치”를 부르짖던 게티스버그에서의 연설문을 작성하던 작은 방과, 1865년 4월 15일, 죤 위킬스 부스로 부터 총탄을 맞고 쓰러지던 포드 극장들을 둘러보게 되었다. 그리고는 마지막으로 워싱톤 국회 의사당을 내려다보고 있는 아브라함 링컨 대통령 석상의 거대하고 근엄한 모습을 대하게 되었다. 그 석상의 위엄 속에, 세대를 오가면서 존경받고 사랑 받는 링컨 대통령의 건국정신이 보석처럼 빛나고 있음을 알 수 있다. 우리는 석상 앞에서 한 장의 가족 사진을 찍으면서, 코리안 아메리칸으로서의 자긍심을 갖게되었다.
요즈음 한국에서 고조선의 첫 번째 통치자인 단군왕검좌상의 목이 이곳 저곳서 잘려나간 사진 보도는, 이곳에 살고있는 나에게 답답함과 큰 충격이 아닐 수 없었다. 누구의 행동인지 알 수는 없지만, 짐작컨대 어느 종교의 광신자가, 종교의 교리에 어긋난다하여 저질러진 어이없는 소행으로 보고 있다고 한다. 나는 단군상 훼손의 처참한 모습을 보면서 몇 번씩이나 나의 근질거리는 목을 만지며, 기독교인으로서 큰 가책과 무지, 통분함을 느낄 수밖에 없었다.
역사란 한 민족의 뿌리이며 얼이 숨어있는 민족의 거울이다. 그러기에 역사를 매도한 민족은 21세기에 살아 남을 수 없는 부끄러움을 갖게된다. 역사가 있기에, 그 역사를 거울삼아 현재가 좀 더 나아질 수 있으며, 미래에 대한 희망과 꿈이 더 눈부실 수가 있다. 우리 민족의 첫 통치자였던 단군왕검이 있었고, 그가 다스리던 고조선 시대가 있던 일은 자랑스러운 일이다. 그 나라는 한반도와 만주 전 지역을 통치하는 큰 나라였고 매우 높은 문화수준을 갖춘 부강한 나라였다고 한다. 우리가 지금까지 알고있는 단군신화는 일본이 한국을 지배하기 위해, 민족정신을 말살하기 위해 만든 신화였음이 요즈음 역사학자들에 의해 밝혀지고 있다. 역사연구는 민족 자긍심을 일깨우는 귀중한 일이다. 그 역사가 자랑스러운 것이든, 수치스러운 것이든, 역사는 보존되어야 하고 자손들에게 가르쳐야 될 귀한 자료들이다. 역사를 알고 이해함으로 인해, 나의 정체성과 삶의 목적을 갖고, 나아가서는 역사의 주인이 누구인가를 알기 때문이다.
우리는 그 동안의 30여년의 군사정부 통치로 인해, 굶주린 배는 어느 정도 부를 수 있었지만, 잃어버린 것들이 너무 많다. 그 중에 민족의 가치관과 정체성을 송두리째 잃어버리다 싶이 하였다. 민족에 대한 자긍심이 없으니, 함부로 살아가고, 멋대로 정치하고, 마음껏 욕심대로 나 만 배불리고, 내가 믿는 종교로 인해, 남을 배타시하거나 천대시 하는 저속한 민족으로 탈바꿈하지 않았는지 나 자신을 돌아보게 된다. 성경을 보면 하나님은 이스라엘 민족의 역사 속에 거하셨다. 아브라함이나 모세, 여호수아, 다윗 등의 개인은 민족을 위해 쓰임 받은 인물들이었다. 우리 조상들이 특정 종교인들이 아니었다고 해서, 역사가 쓸모 없다거나 가치 없는 민족이 절대 될 수 가 없다. 오히려 그 척박하고 황무지와 같은 슬픈 고난의 땅에서 일궈낸 조상들의 민족정신과 해방, 평화를 위한 강인한 정신력들을 찾아, 정립하여 후세들에게 전해야 하는 사명이 우리에게 있는 것이다. 그러기에 역사는 더욱 더 연구하고 발굴과 함께 널리 알려, 민족의 긍지와 정체확립을 마련해야 만 될 자산이다.
어느 민족이든지 그 민족의 종교 속에 역사가 있고, 역사 속에 종교가 있다. 단군이 신화 속에 갇혀 있을 때, 사람들은 그를 신앙의 대상으로 섬기기도 하였다. 그러나, 이제 단군왕검은 신화의 문을 열고 역사 앞에 당당하게 서게되었다. 단군사상은 그 시대 우리 민족의 사상이었으며 정체였다. 그러나, 이러한 이해와 교육 없이 여기 저기 급하게 세워지는 단군 상들이 우상이 되어, 수난을 당하는 일은 실로 유감이 아닐 수 없다. 언젠가 우리 모국에도, 단군 상이 링컨 상과 같이 후손들에게 자랑스러운 건국의 아버지가 되어, 해외로 흩어져 나간 수많은 한 민족들의 후손들이 자긍심과 뿌리를 찾고, 그 풋풋한 역사의 향내를 마음껏 맡을 수 있는 날이 속히 오기를 그려본다.
A few years ago, during our summer vacation, our family traveled with the children to visit historic sites connected to important figures in American history. Among them, we visited the historical sites of Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president, whom we had long admired and who is often called the “Father of America’s Second Founding.” We toured the final battlegrounds of the Civil War, the small room in Gettysburg where he drafted the famous speech declaring “government of the people, by the people, for the people,” and Ford’s Theatre, where he was shot by John Wilkes Booth on April 15, 1865. Finally, we stood before the massive, solemn statue of President Lincoln overlooking the U.S. Capitol. In the dignity of that statue, we could see the founding spirit of Lincoln—respected and loved across generations—shining like a jewel. As we took a family photo in front of the statue, we felt a deep sense of pride as Korean Americans.
Recently, however, news reports from Korea showing the severed heads of Dangun statues—the seated images of Dangun Wanggeom*, the first ruler of Gojoseon**—brought me great frustration and shock. No one knows exactly who committed these acts, but it is suspected that a religious extremist, believing the statues violated their doctrine, carried out this senseless destruction. Seeing the mutilated images of Dangun, I found myself repeatedly touching my own neck, feeling deep guilt, ignorance, and grief as a Christian.
History is the root of a people and the mirror that holds their spirit. A nation that denounces or destroys its own history carries a shame that cannot survive in the 21st century. Because history exists, we can use it as a mirror to improve the present, and we can hold brighter hopes and dreams for the future. It is something to be proud of that our people had Dangun Wanggeom as their first ruler and that the era of Gojoseon existed. That nation governed the entire Korean Peninsula and Manchuria and is said to have been a powerful state with a highly advanced culture. What we have long known as the “Dangun myth” is now being revealed by historians to have been a narrative shaped by Japanese colonial rule to erase Korean national identity. Historical research is a precious task that awakens national pride. Whether glorious or shameful, history must be preserved and taught to future generations. By knowing and understanding history, we gain identity, purpose, and an understanding of who truly shapes history.
During the thirty years of military dictatorship in Korea, although hunger was somewhat relieved, we lost far too much. Among the greatest losses were our national values and identity. Without pride in our heritage, we lived carelessly, governed recklessly, pursued selfish gain, and allowed religious belief to justify exclusion or contempt toward others. I find myself reflecting on whether we have become a coarse people in this way. In the Bible, God dwells within the history of the Israelites. Figures like Abraham, Moses, Joshua, and David were individuals used for the sake of their nation. The fact that our ancestors were not adherents of a particular religion does not make our history useless or our people without worth. Rather, it is our mission to rediscover and pass down the resilient spirit of our ancestors—who endured barren and sorrowful hardships, who fought for liberation and peace—so that future generations may inherit it. History must be researched, excavated, and widely shared so that our people may regain pride and a firm sense of identity.
Every nation’s religion contains its history, and its history contains its religion. When Dangun was confined to the realm of myth, some people worshiped him as a religious figure. But now, Dangun Wanggeom has stepped out of myth and stands confidently before history. Dangun thought represents the worldview and identity of our people in that era. Yet without proper understanding and education, the hastily erected Dangun statues scattered here and there have become objects of idolatry and targets of attack—an unfortunate situation indeed.
I imagine a day when, in our homeland, the statue of Dangun will stand proudly like the statue of Lincoln—recognized as a founding father by future generations. I imagine a day when countless descendants of the Korean people, scattered across the world, can rediscover their pride and roots, breathing in the fresh fragrance of their ancient history.
— Yoon Wan‑hee, July 19, 1999
* “Dangun Wanggeom” – Name: 단군왕검 (Dangun Wanggeom), Role: Founder and first ruler of Gojoseon, Korea’s earliest recorded kingdom, Era: Traditionally dated to 2333 BCE, Status: A mytho-historical figure—central to Korean origin stories and national identity
** Gojoseon is traditionally said to have been founded in 2333 BCE by Dangun Wanggeom, a legendary figure born from a heavenly prince and a bear‑woman. This origin story appears in the Samguk Yusa and symbolizes the emergence of Bronze Age culture in Korea. The name “Gojoseon” means “Old Joseon”, distinguishing it from the later Joseon Dynasty (1392–1910).
Daily Sauntering 
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