Today
I complete my seventy-seventh year
upon this generous earth,

and I receive the day
as one receives morning light—

without deserving it,
yet full of gratitude.

Yet while I rejoiced,

another birthday
was unfolding beyond my sight.

Somewhere near Vladivostok,

an old Korean family
gathered wild dandelions,

not to celebrate life
but to preserve it.

After seventy years of exile
in Uzbekistan,

they had returned,

only to discover
that home itself
had become a stranger.

Others remained
in Central Asia,

while descendants of those sent

long ago
to the sugarcane fields

of Mexico
and Cuba

still carried Korea

as an invisible homeland

flowering within the heart.

I salute them all!

For every diaspora

knows what the dandelion knows.

Its root descends
into darkness

without complaint.

Its countless seeds

surrender themselves

to the free winds of heaven.

Its leaves heal

without boasting.

It asks neither fame
nor applause,

only another spring

in which to bloom

wherever it has fallen.

So let me also

be a dandelion.

Not seeking greatness,

but faithfulness;

but rootedness;

but the quiet grace

of giving life

wherever the Creator

has scattered me.

Water finds

the lowest place

and becomes the sea.

Nature is complete

simply by being itself.

So perhaps life,

too,

is simplest—

most perfect

in each passing moment:

the meal shared

with one’s beloved,

the child’s song

across the ocean,

the brother’s laughter,

the blessing of friends,

the ordinary day

received

with a little hand wave

and moments of smiling.

This is my birthday.

This is everyone’s birthday.

The birthday

of every exile

and every pilgrim,

every forgotten soul

and every hopeful child,

every wandering seed

carried across history

by unseen winds.

O Creator,

thank You

for these seventy-seven years.

Let me live

and die

as one small dandelion:

deeply rooted,

freely scattered,

quietly healing,

always turning my face

toward

Your everlasting Light.

— TaeHun Yoon, July 7, 2026 (Revised on 7/8/2026)