Don't Hold Your Breath, Five Days in Seocheon
My grandfather's house is in Seocheon, South Chungcheong Province. When my dad was young, the population was around 150,000, but now it's down to about 50,000, and it's a super-aged region with an average age over 65. Lately, I'd been exhausted by everything and felt no desire to do anything, so I wanted to go down to the quiet, slow-paced Seocheon house by the sea early and rest for a long time. I took the bus to Seocheon three days ahead of my family.
The first day, traffic was a bit heavy, so I arrived at the house around 8 PM. I briefly looked at the pitifully tethered dog in the yard and went to sleep early. Waking up the next day, I felt I should untie the dog. It was tied to a rope that was far too short, and the surrounding area hadn't been cleaned at all. I heard it was a dog that had always been let loose in the village since it was young, coming home reliably when needed, but they tied it up because it trampled the village crops. Still, I thought this environment was too harsh. I untied its leash when Grandpa wasn't looking and closed the gate behind me. Just running around the yard seemed to make the dog much happier.
After preparing Grandpa's breakfast, I made toast with sliced bread, cheese, and butternut squash mousse bought from the neighborhood mart. Brewing a delicious drip bag coffee from the local cafe and eating it while sitting in the yard brought a sense of peace. Thinking back, I'd come down to Seocheon alone several times before, and each time had been a difficult period. Like the winter when I was twenty, exhausted after finishing college entrance exams, or that winter when I had a huge fight with Dad and, not wanting to go home, packed my bags and headed for the terminal. Thinking back, most of the times I fled to Seocheon because things were tough were in winter. And after visiting Seocheon, it seemed like my troubled heart would ease up for a while. Could that happen again this time? I thought about it, sipping warm coffee and watching the dog sitting in the yard.
Seocheon Grandfather's house is in a fishing village where the sea is just a five-minute walk away. Being the West Sea, the ocean's appearance changes dramatically depending on whether the tide is coming in (high tide) or going out (low tide). Back in the day, we used to drive my dad's car (a Galloper) onto the mudflats to dig for clams and catch cockles. But at some point, people started saying there were no living creatures left in the sea. Then, after some discussion within the fishing community, they decided to stop fishing for a while, and the villagers took turns guarding the sea. My grandfather, now 90, insisted on going to guard the sea several times a week a few years ago, probably when he was in his 80s. By keeping their promise and protecting the sea, the villagers restored it. Now, life thrives again on the tidal flats. Though not crowded, several people were seen fishing.
I searched 'Seocheon tide times' on Google and found high tide was around 2:30 PM. Though I still needed a walker, I could now walk slowly, so I decided to take a seaside stroll around high tide. I left home with just my phone, a notebook, and a pen—no earphones. My dog followed me closely. Neighbors recognized the dog. "Daebak-ah~~" (the dog's name) many neighbors called out. Daebak happily greeted every dog in the neighborhood, scampering around the area. Seeing him so happy lifted my spirits. I'd glance at Daebak, then look up at the sky, then pause briefly because my feet hurt. It was a stroll as slow as Seocheon's own pace.
The sea was the most beautiful I'd seen in Seocheon since I was a child. The weather was clear, the puppy was adorable, and my heart felt peaceful. I sat on a rock and just stared off into space. I breathed in, then out, repeating. I felt the cool yet warm breeze, and by my ears came the gentle sound of the sea and the puppy's breathing. And the rustling of the trees. The sunlight was warm, and when I opened my eyes for a moment, the sky and sea filled my vision. There were no people, no noise. After staring blankly for a while, I opened my blank staring notebook. Seeing the question, 'How's your breath?', I suddenly realized I'd often been holding my breath in daily life. When things felt overwhelming, I held my breath. When I felt stifled, I held my breath. It seemed I'd simply thought, "I don't want to breathe." Why hadn't I done something as simple as breathing in and out? Life must have been very hard. I decided I needed to learn how to breathe properly during my stay in Seocheon.
After walking Daebak along the beach and taking a nap, the extended family arrived. While they went to rent a lawn mower in Seocheon town to trim the yard grass, I washed the yard floor. I cleaned up the spot where Daebak had been, which had been left messy and neglected. After washing the bowls and scrubbing the floor several times with water, I felt both exhausted and refreshed. After finishing the cleaning, I filled a large basin with water, soaked my feet, and gazed up at the sky. Because of the constant accidents, both my body and mind had been in bad shape, so I hadn't been able to take a proper summer vacation. But sitting in a comfortable chair with my feet in the basin, feeling the breeze, eased some of the regret over the summer vacation I hadn't taken.
Cousin Brother 1 returned from Seocheon city and lit a fire in the yard, suggesting we have a barbecue. We just ate dinner without a care, drank beer, and watched the fire.
The next afternoon, I took Daebak for a walk along the coast again. We went a bit later than yesterday; the tide was high, and the wind was strong. It felt like the wind was strong because rain was coming, but sitting still, facing the sea breeze, was truly blissful. I thought I could draw strength to live again from the memory of this moment. What was even better was that whenever I turned my head, Daebak was sitting right beside me.
As I walked, sat in the yard, and gazed at the sky more often, I wondered why I'd been staring at all these small screens instead of the vast one before me. The watch screen, the phone screen, the laptop screen, the screen created by the beam projector—hadn't I been confining my vision to a world no bigger than a single room wall? Even in the midst of the pandemic, even with my injured leg, opening the window and gazing at the sky outside should have been entirely possible. I realized it wasn't my body that was trapped, but my mind. Even if my body is confined to a low place, I must live with a lofty spirit. I pondered the lyrics once more.
On the fourth morning in Seocheon, my family finally arrived. My mother, sister, and father came through the pouring dawn rain. We performed the ancestral rites early in the morning, ate our fill, and then picked persimmons. In front of Grandfather's house stood the large persimmon trees planted twenty years ago when this house was built, and this year too, they were laden with sweet persimmons. We used a tool to pick the persimmons. When we extended the tool too far to reach a persimmon, the joint cracked. Dad fixed it by wrapping it with wire, and it seemed to work fine for a moment, but it didn't hold properly. Still, we managed to pick a lot of persimmons in the meantime. We ate the freshly picked persimmons right away, and they were delicious. Is this the joy of harvest?
In the afternoon, we all rode in Dad's car to Dasa Port. It was a very nearby harbor, but the waves were incredibly strong, making it fun to watch. Family is a being that holds all aspects of happiness and unhappiness when together. I wondered if constantly reaffirming this known fact is also the driving force of life. Though I felt complicated emotions, the sunlight and the sea where the waves crashed were beautiful in their own way, so I gazed at the sea, lost in thought.
At night, I watched the full moon with Mom while looking at Daebak sleeping on the broom. We sipped Hansan Sogokju and chatted quietly. It had been a tough time lately, and I prayed this moment would be warm for both me and Mom. The full moon hung large and beautiful, so I made a wish. I filled it to the brim, packed to capacity, and sent my wish flying. Dear Moon, you'll grant them, right?
We were enjoying the moon outside when the cold drove us back inside. The moon was visible through the living room window too. The four of us lay there gazing at it for a long while before drifting off to sleep. It was the first night I slept warmly in Seocheon.
The next day, we sorted the chestnuts Mom and Dad had gathered. The bug-eaten ones were lucky enough to become food for Grandpa's goats. Sorting the chestnuts was fun because they were so cute. Chestnuts stored in the fridge get sweeter over time; we were happy with an overflow of snacks this autumn.
I took Daebak for our last afternoon walk. With his fox-like tail, cat-like sleeping habits, and rabbit-like body, leaving such a cute doggie behind was sad. Still, having Daebak around had healed my weary heart so much. That final evening, I sat in the yard with Mom, sipping soju while watching Daebak. I decided I needed to buy a small used car soon, partly to practice driving. I'd looked into it before when I wanted to volunteer at an animal shelter, but most shelters are in outlying areas, making them inconvenient to reach without a car. I resolved that once I bought a car, Mom and I would volunteer together at an animal shelter. I felt myself starting to recover. And so, my fifth night in Seocheon came to an end.
The next day, I left early in the morning. Goodbye to cute Daebak, goodbye to the 90-year-old grandfather who still cuts grass for his goats, goodbye to the sturdy persimmon tree, goodbye to the little seaside that taught me how to breathe. If a day comes when my heart grows heavy again, I must return. It was a grateful autumn day of rest.
