A Mountain Journal — Day Two

A Mountain Journal — Day Two

The night I returned from Korea,
sleep would not come easily
in the condo at Rockaway.

Partly, it was the unfamiliar air—
my body, slow to belong.
But more than that,
it was the life ahead,
already settling in my mind
like a thin mist over water.

At my in-laws’ home,
fatigue granted me a gentler rest.
And then, at last,
the first night in the mountains arrived.

A house without electricity,
without running water.
And on that first night,
spring rain came to visit—
so shy,
it was almost inaudible.

I lay down around ten.
Woke, thinking I had slept long—
only an hour had passed.
I closed my eyes again,
but they opened of their own accord,
as if wakefulness had its own will.

I left the bedroom
and went into the living room.
The stove, lit earlier,
still held a quiet breath of warmth.
I added a single log—
and the fire leapt awake,
suddenly fierce.
My body, too,
began to loosen.

I moved into the sunroom.
Rain tapped softly
against the glass above—
a pianissimo murmur,
as though careful not to wake
those sleeping inside the house.

For a long while, I listened.
Then back to the stove.
Fire, then rain—
again and again.
By the time I noticed,
the clock had drifted
to three in the morning.

I lay down once more.
This time,
sleep came—
as gentle as the spring rain.

“Will you sleep more?”

My wife’s voice woke me—
soft, like that same rain.
It was just past six.

“I should get up.”

Though I had barely slept,
my body felt strangely light,
clear—
like clouds resting
on distant mountains.

That morning,
electricity was to be connected,
and the internet installed.
The day unfolded
into a quiet busyness.

My wife lit the picnic burner
and set water to boil.
The first morning in the mountains—
coffee felt less like a habit
and more like a rite.

We had beans,
but no way to grind them.
A moment’s disappointment—
then, unexpectedly,
we found ground coffee
left over from last Christmas.

We brewed it
in a French press.
The taste was unfamiliar,
slightly off—
but in that air,
in that moment,
it became something singular.

A flavor
that would remain
for a long time.

Watching clouds spread
across the mountain,
I thought—
this must be
a secret kind of happiness,
granted only
to those who live in such places.

Just past eight,
the power came on.
Lights bloomed.
The refrigerator began to hum.
The boiler stirred to life.

The heaviness of the day before
dissolved in an instant.

When the internet connected,
we reached out—
to children, to friends.
Invisible threads,
binding hearts—
I felt their grace
more deeply than before.

After a simple breakfast,
my wife tidied the kitchen,
and I set up the audio system.

The first music
in this house.

I placed an LP on the turntable.
As the needle touched,
there flowed
Yunchan Lim’s performance
at Carnegie Hall—
Johann Sebastian Bach’s
Goldberg Variations.

Like a lamp
lit in darkness,
the music quietly illuminated
the beginning
of our new life.

It was a recording
my wife had longed to hear in person.
Circumstances had turned us away,
but the longing remained.
So that day,
in a bookstore in Jongno,
I picked up the record
without hesitation.

The music was not merely heard.
It felt like a small ritual—
opening another door
in our lives.

The anxieties of the first day
vanished,
as if they had never been,
by the morning of the second.

After tending to small tasks,
we walked to the village post office.
In that modest space
sat a man about my age.

I handed him the application—
he gave me a key,
without a word.

P.O. Box 152.

From now on,
our news will gather there—
joyful or difficult alike.

And suddenly I wondered:
are the keys to our lives, too,
entrusted somewhere
like this?

In one corner of the post office,
books and CDs
were laid out freely—
and eggs,
brought by villagers to sell.

Even in a place that seemed
so set apart,
people continued
to connect their lives.

Ours would be no different.
Though in the mountains,
we would remain
bound to others.

That day,
clouds hung low,
and rain came and went.

But the heart—
like a single lamp lit—
was warm,
and quietly bright.

Perhaps life is nothing more
than this:
to go on,
lighting one small flame
after another.

 

My space for music

New Kingston Post Office