I arrived in Korea on August 9th, 2010. I came to work as an English teacher in a private language school, or hagwon. Having done a bit of preliminary research before the trip, I had packed the recommended essentials for a foreigner making an extended stay in the Land of the Morning Calm: several large towels, a six-month supply of deodorant, and some comfortable hiking shoes.
I also carried a bit of advice that has proved infinitely more useful than any of the aforementioned items, even considering the sweltering late summer heat (and excellent mountain trails) of this land. Before leaving Minnesota I exchanged a series of e-mails with my uncle Tak, a man whose insight, creativity, and curiosity impress me more with each conversation. He offered the following words of advice:
"You may not choose to or can do all the things I recommended with the given time and money restriction, but I feel any preparation you make this time is part of a bigger preparation for you to become INDEPENDENT. By INDEPENDENT, I do not mean INDEPENDENCE from your parents or financial INDEPENDENCE. I mean the INDEPENDENCE to create your self-sufficient (thinkingwise) life environ (not to retreat from the world but in fact to have more active and engaging connections WHEN and WHERE you wish) where you can be yourself AND AT THE SAME TIME you are connected with the world."
To me this seems like quite a radical definition of independence. After all, most young people (and old people, for that matter) view independence in exactly the light that Tak dismissed. We see independence as freedom from something: financial worry, familial influence, social pressure, and so on. We rarely consider independence as a mind-state that bestows freedom regardless of whether or not those factors are in play.
In January 2010 I had the good fortune to discover a community that does cultivate such an unconventional notion of independence. Like hundreds of people before me, I stumbled into Common Ground Meditation Center with little understanding of what "meditation" meant, and even less understanding of how to practice it. Luckily, Common Ground is home to a remarkable teacher and a remarkable group of like-minded practitioners, or sangha.
Mark Nunberg, the co-founder and guiding teacher of Common Ground, has been one of the most powerful (and positive) influences in my life. Mark's simple, direct words and unwaveringly kind spirit helped me realize the ultimate goal of any human pursuit or activity: happiness. More important than blissful metaphysics, though, were the practical instructions he gave for achieving a first-hand understanding of this seemingly obvious yet surprisingly subversive truth. He continues to educate and inspire me, even from thousands of miles away, thanks to the wonders of the Internet (big thanks to Al Gore). His weekly dharma talks can be found in podcast form here; they're incredibly informative and easily accessible. But in the words of LeVar Burton, "Don't take my word for it..."
The sangha of Common Ground has been no less influential in my journey thus far. Sunday afternoons, Wednesday evenings, Friday mornings...each time we gathered together, the feeling of love and trust was tangible. Which isn't to say we were all enlightened saints - far from it! Every day we brought a fresh batch of problems to the zafu: anger, grief, desire, jealousy, doubt. But there was a quite confidence that we were on the right track - no matter how many times we wandered off the path, we would never completely lose our way. All it took was a willingness to start again.
When I think of the people who make up the Common Ground community, I can't help but smile. Matt, Julian, Rebecca, Nancy, Dick, Mike P., Scott, Butch, Gail, Merra, Anya, Aaron, Susan, Wynn, Stef, Paul, Danny, Ann, Mike C,, Nick, John, Shelly, Tom, Rosy, Evelyn, Silke, Melis, and so many more whose names are in my heart, if not my fingertips. Metta and all good wishes to you, wherever you are and whatever you do.
As I've been writing about Common Ground, its teacher and its people, I've felt a certain tranquility that I can only describe as deep happiness. Of course, it's much easier to feel this way sitting in half-lotus on the bed than in a classroom full of over-excited kindergarteners, or in a hectic subway station, or surrounded by the pulsating neon lights on a Saturday night in Seoul. Too often in my brief tenure as a teacher in Korea have I been swept up in a cyclone of distraction, falling into old, unhelpful patterns of thinking, speaking, acting and reacting.
But maybe that's the beauty of an experience like this one. Maybe the only place to develop the kind of independent mind that Tak described is out and about in this mad, too-huge world. I love Korea - I love ordering a meal at a restaurant and not really knowing what I'll be eating till it arrives; I love the bemused stares of toddlers as we pass each other on the street; I love walking into a train station and seeing a hundred possible destinations for the adventure of a lifetime.
I love the dhamma, too. I love the calm and contentment of a peaceful mind. I love going to sleep at night knowing that I've done my best to treat every living being with kindness and compassion, and that any lapses in this attitude are exceptions rather than the rule. I love the quiet joy of feeling connected to all people near and far, known and unknown, weak and mighty, in gladness and in sorrow.
So how do these two loves co-exist? How do you combine the joy of adventure/exploration/unknown with the joy of peace/calm/understanding? How does a dingledodie practice the dhamma?
That's what I'm hoping to discover here. If you've got any insights, let me know.
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