One day, it suddenly occurred to me: why was I such a poor student as a child? I found memorizing things difficult and dull, so I didn't even try. I doubted the value of clinging to things that wouldn't stick. I felt that if something didn’t instantly plant itself in my mind, it wasn’t truly mine anyway.
Instead, I was wholeheartedly dedicated to playing. I would be so caught up in the fun that I wouldn't notice the white collar of my navy school uniform falling off. Once, while playing a game called "Cross," my friends grabbed my arms so hard that my sleeve ripped right off. I remember running down the darkening alleys after school, waving that detached sleeve like a flag. I can still smell the spicy-sweet scent of tteokbokki wafting from the snack shops.
Because I was so distracted by playing, I was often scolded by my teachers and had to write many reflection letters. One warm May, while sitting in the classroom after school writing one, I looked out the window. It looked like it was snowing. I jumped up and ran outside, only to find that it was actually acacia petals falling like snowflakes. Intoxicated by the scent, I ran around the playground like a puppy, mouth wide open, trying to catch the petals. Of course, my teacher caught me by the ear and dragged me back inside, and my reflection letter continued into the next day.
The reflection letters I wrote so often as a child eventually evolved into a habit of writing letters to my father once or twice a week while I was studying abroad. Even after he passed away, my writing continued. When I sit down to write, painful moments from my past often resurface. By putting these hidden wounds into words, one by one, the pain seems to wash away—much like draining a wound to let it heal. Through this process, I find myself slowly changing and gaining a sense of freedom.
In between playing, I also read many novels. Once I picked up a book, I would forget to eat. Seeing me so absorbed, my mother would hide the books, telling me to go play and eat at a friend’s house with many siblings. My mother had been bedridden since I was five. Perhaps books were my playground because I could share the pain of watching her with the characters in the stories.
My playful habits followed me to college. For some reason, I just wanted to dance. I once shook my body so hard at a disco that I almost had to be taken away in an ambulance due to a twisted intestine. Even now, when I hear music on the street, my body moves instinctively. My husband pokes me and tells me to "behave," but my childhood dream was to be a backup dancer. My other dream was to be a bartender. I gave up on being a dancer because of my physique, and I kept putting off being a bartender until I eventually settled into being a "home bartender" serving my husband in our kitchen.
During my college years, I often skipped classes, but I still managed to read two books a month. By graduation, I had reached my goal of 100 books. After that, leaving my parents and trying to make a living, life became a struggle. Before I knew it, I was well into my fifties. Just as I began to feel skeptical about why I was living such a frantic life, my body started to ache. A doctor told me I had signs of depression and encouraged me to exercise and take time to care for myself.
While raising my children, I grew distant from books. I was afraid that if I got too absorbed in reading and neglected them, I would regret it for the rest of my life if they got hurt. Once they grew up, I wanted to read again but didn't know where to start, so I began lingering around a local library's book club. When I grew tired of listening to the seniors' reviews in English, I found a Korean book club. Communicating in my native language was like an electric shock that woke up my tired, "English-exhausted" soul. I initially joined just to hang out and read casually, but my attitude soon became serious.
"Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure." This first line from Camus’s The Stranger struck me deeply. Watching my mother go in and out of hospitals my whole life, the anxiety that she might pass away at any moment had weighed on me like a death sentence. I only found out about her passing two months after it happened while I was studying abroad. Because I had lived with my pain buried deep, too afraid to remember or express it, I was profoundly drawn to Meursault, who never offered excuses.
In Camus’s short story The Guest, the conflict of a protagonist guiding a killer through a desolate wilderness toward either life or death happens in a single day. Yet, to me, the agonizing time they spent trying to find their own path felt as long as thousands of years.
In the marathon of life, rather than anxiously chasing the back of the person in front of me, I wanted to stop and find the meaning of my existence. I delved into Buddhist and philosophy books and finally understood why my father told me, "You should do art rather than philosophy."
"Who am I? How do I want to live my life?" I ask myself these questions from time to time. To find the answers, I read. Sometimes the knowledge I gain goes in one ear and out the other. It can be frustrating when I can't recall specific facts while talking to people, but I don’t feel a desperate need to say everything. Luckily, Google is there for what I can’t remember. Still, since I spend so much time reading, I want to gain something. When I think deeply about what an author is trying to say and apply their wisdom to my life, life becomes truly interesting and joyful.
If I were alone, I would have been lost in the vast sea of books. President Mi-yeon Kim of the "Soo Book Club" works tirelessly so that members can focus solely on reading. Just as a swan looks peaceful on the surface while paddling frantically underneath, she works hard behind the scenes.
Encounters are vital in life. Our happiness or misery is often determined by the people we meet. I was blessed with wonderful parents, my husband is not too bad, and I was lucky to have great children. I am always grateful to them. If I am truly grateful, I shouldn't cling to them just because I feel bored or lonely. Instead of draining my family's time and energy, I must create and live a creative life of my own.
Meeting the president, the instructors, and the members of the Soo Book Club—who push and pull each other toward growth—is an unexpected gift. Once a month, I encounter a new world, like unwrapping a carefully packaged present. I reflect that world into my own life and eagerly wait for the next book. That anticipation alone makes my heart flutter.
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