The River, the Sound of the Current – In Memory of My Mother-in-law

 

 

The River, the Sound of the Current – In Memory of My Mother-in-law

---

When was the first time I encountered death?

Perhaps it was before I entered school, when I was being raised by my grandparents.
I vividly recall a moment when, out of nowhere, I asked my grandmother:

"Grandma, what happens when I grow up?"
"You'll get married, have kids, and live your life."
"And what happens when I grow older?"
"After that, you die."

The thought that my existence would one day vanish overwhelmed me with sadness and a piercing pain.
I hid under my blanket and cried, carrying the weight of grief that only a child of that age could understand.
Yet, back then, my understanding of death was merely abstract, a conceptual idea.

It wasn't until high school, during my second year, that I faced the reality of death.
During a class, I received the news of my grandfather's passing, the one who lived with us.
I don't remember the details clearly, but I heard from relatives that I "cried so bitterly" in front of his body.

Later, while serving in the military near the frontlines, I learned of my grandmother's passing.
I reported to my superior that I needed a few days to attend her funeral, but my commander and the personnel officer hesitated and delayed issuing a leave permit.
By the time I finally received the permit and rushed to Gangwon Province's Yeongwol, where she was laid to rest, the funeral was over, and my family was preparing to return to Seoul.
Strangely, I felt rather detached from the death of my grandmother, who had raised me as a child.

My mother, who gave birth to me, passed away in 1999.
To be honest, I did not feel overwhelming sorrow at her death.
Instead, I felt deep compassion for the time she had to live apart from her young children.
That sense of empathy outweighed my grief.

My father passed away in 2013. After the funeral, I returned home and recited prayers for his soul every morning for three months.
During those months, I cried a lot, reconciled with my father, and finally came to understand him.

On the 15th of this month, my mother-in-law passed away.
She showered her husband and children with boundless love and was deeply respected and loved in return.
Her passing made me think that she had gracefully moved her place of life to another, beautiful world.
Through her death, I realized that if the transition of the soul could be natural and beautiful, then death itself could be seen that way too.

A few days ago, I came across a piece of writing by Kahlil Gibran, a passage from his The Garden of the Prophet about fear:

---

"It is said that before entering the sea, a river trembles with fear.
She looks back at the path she has traveled, from the peaks of the mountains, the long winding road crossing forests and villages.
And in front of her, she sees an ocean so vast, that to enter there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.
But there is no other way.
The river cannot go back.
Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.
The river needs to take the risk of entering the ocean because only then will fear disappear, because that's where the river will know it's not about disappearing into the ocean, but of becoming the ocean."

---

This passage touched me gently yet deeply, resonating in my heart.

Around thirty years ago, my family moved from Brooklyn to Harrington Park, New Jersey.
Not far from our new home was a place called Piermont, which I often visited whenever I had time.
Walking along the paths between the reeds, I would arrive at a pier that jutted into the Hudson River.
Amid the rustling sounds of reeds and the deep murmurs of the river, I often felt my weary soul being comforted.
I came to call Piermont my "soul’s home on earth."
Each time I visited, I tried to listen to the sound of the river, like the protagonist Siddhartha in Hermann Hesse’s novel.
But the river always remained silent.

I vaguely recall the scene in Siddhartha where the protagonist listens to the sound of the river:
"The river contained all sounds: the laughter of joy, the weeping of sorrow, the screams of a child, the sighs of a man and woman, thunderclaps, and soft whispers. The sound of the river converged into one single word. That word was 'Om,' signifying perfection and completeness."

Yet, I had never heard the sound of the river that Siddhartha heard.

However, witnessing my mother-in-law bid farewell to this world, I feel as though I might finally begin to hear it.

As rivers approach the sea, they deepen, and with that depth, they grow quieter.
The Hudson River flows silently into the Atlantic, without struggle.
Perhaps, over the past few months, my mother-in-law heard that profound silence of the river as it neared the sea.

One day, when I visit Piermont again, I hope to stand still and, as Gibran expressed, listen with the "ears of my ears" to the sound of the river’s "mouth of mouths" – the profound silence it speaks.