Many Buddhist teachers speak about the countless little deaths we die each day. Pema Chodron is the first one that comes to mind - I'm thinking of her excellent book When Things Fall Apart. She describes the death of each moment as it passes from immediate experience, never to return again. Chodron explains that it is important to allow that death to happen, that holding on to the past {and our ideas/opinions of it, whether positive or negative} causes suffering that could be avoided by the devilishly simple understanding that all things eventually come to an end. Then other things begin, which then also end, and so on...
These little deaths happen in every home, workplace, city, continent, etc. Sometimes the process can seem awfully slow, however - usually in the sense that things we would like to see "die" stubbornly refuse to do so. Obnoxious co-workers aren't transferred, toddlers scorn conventional toilets, sports teams remain frustratingly inept. In certain environments, however, the life cycle of everyday experience is accelerated. Not to mayfly-extremes, but certainly more rapid than poor Solitario Jorge. Korea is one of those environments.
There are many foreign English teachers who choose to remain in Korea for two, three, or four+ years. There are many more who bounce after a single tour of duty. For those of us who stick around, this means we have dozens of opportunities to watch our friends depart from our daily consciousness {and often from our lives altogether}. The degree to which this bothers us is largely dependent on the connections we feel to those who leave, and whether or not they owe us money.
I have been in Korea for about fifteen months, and I've lost a handful of close friends. I've also lost a lot of acquaintances, affable semi-strangers, and people who are fun to run into on weekends. I still have the phone numbers of at least twenty people that are no longer here. When I see some of these numbers, I am tempted to purge my phonebook. Others inspire me to look up old Facebook photos. There's really no rhyme or reason to it - some of the people who conjure the nicest memories are the ones I barely knew. Sometimes the name of a close friend just reminds me of the time they crashed their paragliding apparatus into a clump of trees and cost me a chance to fly off a mountain. So there are more variables at play here than a relationship's degree of "closeness". But the point is they are gone, dead in a way, and there's really no option other than to move on. I can't afford plane tickets to twenty different cities on four different continents.
Recently, one of my good buddies left Korea for the balmy shores of the Upper Midwest. His departure was less bittersweet than most because he seemed genuinely happy to leave - unlike many ex-expatriates, he had a proper job lined up once he touched down in the U.S. Let me clarify - it was probably less bittersweet for him, but it was still a bummer for me. Mainly because I liked and respected him a lot - as happy as I was to see him excited about blazing new trails or whatever, it was disappointing to know that we'll never get to climb Jirisan or sing in another noraebang or gag at the smell of dried squid again. Those moments are gone. Dead. Sad.
I suppose this is practice for another departure that is coming soon. My closest friend in Korea, a guy who I consider a brother in all of the beautifully cliched ways that our generation is programmed to express, is leaving. Dying from my life, at least for the foreseeable future. This dude has been right next to me for some of the best experiences of my adult life. We've taken photos with hordes of English-speaking Korean coeds between the garish souvenir shops of Insadong, spent countless hours philosophizing outside cheap convenience stores {Family Mart being the unequivocal favorite}, been chased down by the Sihanoukville tuk-tuk mafia, see the first sunrise of the New Year at Angkor Wat, rode speed boats in the Celebes Sea, eaten fried noodles at midnight on the streets of Kuala Lumpur's Chinatown. I love this guy, and he will be dying soon. He'll still be in this world, of course, but in much the same way as Grandpa's ashes in the old urn on the mantelpiece. Pictures, disembodied words, memories - but not a physical being whose socks I can borrow anymore.
At the same time, there is life. For every person that leaves Korea, one arrives {sometimes the ratio is skewed upwards, as recruiters are fond of reminding us; English-speaking labor is plentiful at the moment}. Miraculously, these newcomers are often pretty neat human beings. Plenty of opportunity to make new friends, and therefore plenty of chances to create wonderful new memories with aforementioned humans.
It's impossible to replace Old Yeller; comparing grief-assuagement puppies to old legends is hatefully unfair and has not, in my understanding, ever worked out well. But life and death goes on in Korea, and it makes sense to embrace those who have just been "born". We'll hopefully be sharing a lot of time together before it is our turn to die, and in those doddering last days I hope they will be kind enough to buy me dinner and maybe store a few small boxes of unwanted bulk goods. It will be my turn to die in Korea, and some other poor bastard will be born into my disorganized desk and moldy shower.
End note - the other day I found out that an artist, gentleman and true mensch has somehow cheated death and and will be returning to Korea in less than a month. It's a much-welcome slap in the face of the laws of Korean-teaching-thermodynamics. If you're reading this, welcome back good buddy...
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