The Lowdown: My Period

I came to Iyengar Yoga through a side door: dance. I started doing yoga, casually and randomly, in my late 20s and early 30s, as something to do when I couldn’t make it to a dance class. When I experienced Iyengar Yoga and its rigor and precision, I realized it was worthy of study on its own, not just to supplement my dance ambitions.

As I started going to weekly classes, my Iyengar Yoga teachers instructed us to let them know if we were menstruating. I had no idea why, and I never bothered to tell them. I was already habituated to tucking in that tampon and throwing my body around in dance classes for years. It never occurred to me to do anything less.

However, as I became more steeped in the yoga practice, I started to notice a few things:

• I always assumed that a menstrual period lasted 5, 6, or 7 days. It was just something you put up with. But when I learned Geeta Iyengar’s menstrual āsana sequence, my period shortened to 3 days.
• I would sometimes have cramps, headaches, and bloating. But doing certain āsanas alleviated or even eliminated these conditions.
• The menstrual sequence felt good on my body and mind. Was I just being lazy? What was happening, really?
  

Geeta Iyengar referred to menses as a mini-childbirth. At first, this struck me as odd. But as I pondered it, this comparison started to make sense. By this point in my life, I was already a mother of 3, as well as a natural childbirth instructor. So I knew about the reproductive cycle, childbirth, and postpartum. I just had not connected it all to the non-pregnant state of menstrual cycles until I started reading and learning from Geeta Iyengar.

Let’s say a doe is in the woods, about to give birth. If she is startled, she will get up, start moving, and her labor will stop. She will seek a safer location, then return to laboring. Not until she is safe and relaxed will she give birth. Humans are the same. What I realized is that the reason why my periods lasted nearly a week is because I was so active during it. The bleeding stopped and started according to my activity. When I started practicing the menstrual sequence, I supported my body’s natural rhythms and functions. I refrained from exertion and strenuous activity for a few days. For 2 days, I seemed to bleed profusely. Wearing pads instead of tampons helped me better discern the state of my flow. By the 3rd day, I was lightly spotting.

I noticed that the supine poses in the sequence helped me to relax and sometimes even doze off. If I had a headache, 10-15 minutes in Supta Baddha Koṇāsana, supine “butterfly” pose, with a bolster under my back, and blankets supporting my thighs, seemed to cure it. I learned that during menstruation, due to the exertive uterine contractions expelling the endometrial lining, our body temperature slightly elevates, and Supta Baddha Koṇāsana, with its aeration of the armpit and groin regions, cooled off the body.

Supta Vīrāsana helped to lift and tone the uterus: two effects I had never heard anyone mention. The uterus is comprised of layers of muscle as one of the strongest organs in the body.  I found this pose impossible and painful at first, after years of building up strong legs in Afro-Caribbean dance. But with the help of bolsters, blankets, and repetition, the easier it became.

Ardha Chandrāsana, half moon pose, with the support of a wall, a counter, or dresser, immediately alleviated the feeling of heaviness, bloating, and cramping. Utthita Hasta Pārśva Padanguṣthāsana, extended leg to the side, had a similar effect.

The forward bends, done with plenty of support, were mentally restful, and taught me how to hinge from the hips while keeping my abdomen soft. Janu Śirṣāsana, seated pose with one leg bent out to the side, seemed to encourage my flow. In fact, afterwards, my flow would become quite heavy, and then the next day, dry up.

My last period was February 2014, when I was 50 years old. So why am I writing this article now? We continue to live in a misogynist society. I continue to meet menstruators who neglect menses, who have never learned anything about their cycles except that we should engage in normal activity, and nothing should stop us from doing anything non-menstruators can do. At the same time, it seemed like, especially during the stress of the pandemic, almost everyone was having more than usual menstrual discomfort. Furthermore, even among yoga practitioners, there seems to be an enormous disparity in what folks believe and practice regarding menses. Some do no āsana at all on their moon. Some do everything except inversions. Some do everything with no exceptions.

The proof is in the pudding. I suggest you try Geeta Iyengar’s menstrual sequence for at least 2 days, when your flow is heaviest. There are many versions, ranging from the full 2-hour sequence, to shorter 60-90 minute versions, and special poses for specific issues. Here is a common 90-minute sequence. Meanwhile, refrain from strenuous activity, including heavy lifting, running, and swimming. Use your heavy days as rest days. Consult with a trusted certified Iyengar Yoga teacher to learn the set-ups and particulars of each pose. At Iyengar Yoga Detroit Collective, we have a Tuesday evening Uterine Health Class offered online and in-person.

I taught in the Dance Department at Alverno, a women’s college in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for many years. I always covered menses and taught the menstrual sequence. Every week, I’d reinforce it and give modifications and alternatives for menstruators. In the end of the semester assessments, many students reported that learning about menses and the menstrual sequence was their favorite part, and testified to the benefits they received.

Not only do Geeta’s recommendations make sense and feel good, practicing the sequence taught me how to slow down, and counteract the grind of capitalism and the incessant pressure of productivity. The tasks would just have to wait. I learned how to prioritize my health, and ask for what I needed. It gave me time for introspection to deal with emotional ups and downs. In white supremacist, patriarchal capitalism (thank you, bell hooks!) all these practices are deemed unimportant, so practicing the menstrual sequence becomes an act of political resistance.

At first, I forced myself to do the menstrual sequence. Later, I craved it. Now, post-menopausal, I miss it, and practice it once in a while anyway. I still have organs down there, and the physiological and mental effects still carry benefits. Many non-menstruators, including men, sing the praises of the effects they receive from the beautiful sequences designed for menstrual health.

I’ve not yet mentioned the post-menstrual sequence, a fantastic, inversion-centered sequence, which helps to dry out the uterus, restore energy levels, and balance shifting hormones. I love and value this sequence as much as the menstrual sequence, and continue to practice it. The depths of Geeta Iyengar’s revolutionary teachings continue to reap benefits. All I can say is try them out, preferably with the guidance of a CIYT. Consult Lois Steinberg’s comprehensive book on menstruation. Gather your basic props and improvise as needed.

Let me know what you notice. Be attentive to the more subtle effects. May the menstrual practice be a balm, refuge, and healing for us all.
 

Crying at Costco

Sunset over Honolulu from my 10th floor window

In an effort to stock a kitchen from scratch, I borrowed my son’s Costco card to buy staples: olive oil, vinegar, flour, and more. I resist these big warehouses because the size of the store and the quantities overwhelm me. Living alone, it would take me a year or longer to go through these products. However, I was heartened to see that prices were not much higher than on the mainland, as opposed to grocery stores where prices seem to be doubled. I figured I could freeze or share what I could not use.

Unlike other Costcos, I found myself happily wandering the aisles, surrounded by Asian folks. There were many intergenerational group shoppers, and my ears caught many Korean conversations. The aisles were well-stocked with shoyu, gochujang, and lots of other Asian staples. I felt affirmed, mirrored, and blended in: a new feeling for me after so many years on the continent. This is what it must feel like to be white, I thought, or to be Black in a city like Detroit. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

But I got to the checkout, only to be rejected.

“You’re not on this member’s account. You’re not allowed to shop here.”

“Can we call him?” I asked. I had just spent nearly an hour picking out what I needed.

“No. This card says ‘non-transferable.’ You cannot use it.”

A team of us routinely shop for Baba Baxter in Detroit at Costco and had never encountered a problem. I was sure there was some way to get around this. Now there were two staff members, insisting on the same thing: NO.

Damn, it’s just some fucking groceries! I wanted to say. I was also tempted to ask the next person in line if they could buy my food and get reimbursed. Instead, I accepted the rejection and left the store.

In the shelter of my car, I wept.

A waste of tears! Costco? How petty could I be?

What came up for me was a feeling of being trapped in the capitalist consumerist machine. Being forced to spend money I’m trying to string out as long as possible. A rejection of the cooperative way of life I have been cultivating for so long. In Detroit, we share everything. My friends and I are all trying our best to hack the system, not get stuck in unfulfilling jobs, DIY, skill-share, live abundantly on less, practice interdependence, and reduce our carbon footprints. One Costco account can support several households. Living on less means we have time to grow food, take care of each other, and be available as needs arise. Now here I was back in the matrix. I felt forced to capitulate to the oppressive, exploitative, materialistic machine.

After I got a chance to regain my equilibrium, I decided to go to my neighborhood food cooperative. I had been meaning to join and volunteer anyway. Even though the prices would be higher than Costco, I could get a worker-member discount, as well as build community. After the feelings of dejection faded, I was able to remember, and act on, my values. On my way over, I got a call, which I ignored because it was an unknown number. But they called twice, then texted me.

Before I’d left home that morning, I had handwritten 3 notes. I slipped them under the doors of my next door neighbor, and the residents directly above and below me. The note read:
Hello, neighbor! This is Peggy, in #1004. I’m wondering if you would like to share wifi with me? We could split the cost and each save money. Let me know if you’re interested.

Who is “Peggy”? For the past 6 years, I’d been training my communities to use my Korean name, Gwi-Seok, instead, as part of my process of reindigenizing and decolonizing. But I’ve noticed something here in Hawai`i. Because I blend in so easily here, I don’t feel a need to assert my Korean identity. For the first time since childhood, I feel a sense of security about my racial identity. I don’t feel othered, exoticized, or like an outsider. I don’t feel like the people around me are whitewashing me; they are yellow-washing me, actually. As such, I’m as comfortable with “Peggy” as with “Gwi-Seok.” My family calls me Peggy and that feels fine. I introduce myself to casual acquaintances as Peggy because it's just easier.

The phone calls and text turned out to be from my downstairs neighbor, an older Black woman, who was happy to share her wifi with me. She came up to talk to me, and we had a beautiful neighborly conversation, resulting in both of us saving $40 each month! I promised to invite her (age 75) and her husband (age 85) up for dinner once I got settled.

Kokua Food Co-op also welcomed me with open arms. It’s a small neighborhood co-op and deli. The volunteers seemed to be mostly senior citizens. In the past, I have typically veered toward younger friends, because it seemed I had more in common with them than with people my age or older. Often I have found progressive white boomers exhausting and exasperating, because they are often entrenched in white saviorism and unconscious white supremacy, without an adequate analysis of patterns of power and harm. But here, in Hawai`i, many folks in their 50s and 60s+ seem to be a lot like me. Of course, the capitalism that defines our society still painfully prevails. But here at the co-op, I’m hopeful I can find folks who prioritize community over profit.

Today I went to the People’s Open Market, just 2 blocks from my home. These markets were started in the 1970s as a way to promote healthy local eating, and support local farmers, while selling discounted fruits and vegetables. I picked up some inexpensive daikon and papayas, and plan to make ggakdugi later this week. Also, I found the compost bin at the local community gardens. Even though I am far down on their waiting list to get a plot of my own, I can certainly contribute to their beautiful compost pile.

Another small victory resulted from my ask to the Facebook “Buy Nothing” group, listing the household items I am seeking. I don’t want to fill my apartment with new Walmart and Target shit produced overseas. I’d rather re-use and re-purpose what others no longer need, and spend my dollars somewhere it can support local community. One person is offering a batch of mason jars, another a small rug, someone has 50 clothes hangers to give away, and another person has pots and plants.

I feel encouraged that I will be able to create a healthy, sustainable life in this new/old city. Fuck Costco. Hello, neighbors!

An Apprenticeship with `Aina

Ha`ena Beach, Kea`au, Hawaii

 

I left my home city of Detroit with nothing on my keychain. No house, no car, no keys. Modernity made it relatively simple to journey across a continent and an ocean. Instead of taking months or years to travel by foot and boat, I simply shelled out the money to jump on airplanes, and my belongings will be flown over later by the US Postal Service.

My first initiation into this new stage of my life was shedding of my belongings, giving everything away that I could possibly part with. This took months, and still I was left with 18 boxes of drums, yoga props, books, and clothes. I still have not completed going through photos, and seemingly endless files, the bane of a writer’s life. Not only did I have to shed material belongings, I had to bid farewell to many loved ones, dear friends, teachers, and students. I had to cut short my apprenticeship to Detroit, with so many lessons still remaining, and so many projects left incomplete. My long journey from Detroit to Chicago to Los Angeles to Hilo was devoted to emotionally processing, grieving, and simultaneously closing and opening doors.

My first morning on the island began with rainfall, as it typically does. I borrowed an umbrella and ventured forth. My senses opened up to receive the overwhelmingly lush stimuli, such a far cry from the dormant winter landscape of upper Midwestern North America. Bird calls I did not recognize, plants I am just getting to know, unfamiliar fragrances, a different rocky soil under my feet.

Even though I lived here as a child, and I have been back numerous times to visit my children and grandchildren, I felt like a newcomer to the land. I brought tobacco from Waawiiyaataanong, my former home. I sprinkled it at the roots of trees as an offering, I walked across volcanic rocks and gave it to the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean.

To the spirits of the land, the trees, the animals, and the ocean,
Greetings from Waawiiyaataanong.
I come in service and goodwill.
I ask to be in relationship with you.
I ask you to receive me.
I ask you to teach me how to be your faithful student.
I ask for your guidance.
I promise to take care of you, and ask you humbly to take care of me.
I hope to live out my earthly time on these islands,
and I gently ask for your permission to be here in intimate relationship.
Please teach me how to be a loving servant to the `aina, and all living beings of the islands.
Please teach me how to honor the indigenous people of this land.
Please teach me how to tread lightly on the land, and be in loving service.
I know I will make many mistakes, and that my presence will inevitably be harmful.
Please help me learn how to minimize harm, and live harmoniously with the land, water, people, and all beings.
I ask you to nourish me, and teach me how to sustain myself, lovingly giving and receiving.
May it be so.

When I arrived in Detroit in 2013, Grace Lee Boggs asked me, “Why are you moving here?” I answered, ”To join the revolution.” White folks, entrepreneurs, and artists were bombarding the city, often to the detriment of communities. Many were coming for cheap rents or to purchase property or to start a business they couldn’t afford in their former cities. Instead, I made a commitment to be part of the fabric of community already here, and not to come as a colonizer. But old habits die hard, having grown up in imperialist white supremacist patriarchy, and I had my hand slapped a number of times when I did not adequately wait, listen, and respect the will of Detroiters themselves.

Detroit taught me how to be in community, how to apprentice myself instead of coming with answers and solutions. Detroit taught me how to consult and listen to elders, and what it means to be an elder. Detroit taught me how to be part of the land and water, how to share it, how to listen to it, and nurture it. At the energy vortex of several Great Lakes, and a national border, Detroit is a hub and crossroads for every type of being and interaction. Detroit paved the way for me to move back to the islands, as an adult, this time.

My second initiation back to the islands occurred three days after arrival. My daughter, Katja, and I decided to walk to the nearest beach from her house. The maps app told us it would take 1 hour, about a 3 mile walk. No problem. I put on my swimsuit, a wrap skirt and tshirt over it, and my sturdy walking “slippahs.” My daughter said, “It might be muddy, you might want shoes.” But I didn’t own any hiking shoes and I said, “I’ll just wash off in the ocean.”

Ha. Famous last words. Midwestern mainland mud doesn’t even begin to compare to Big Island mud. Not to mention the wildly uneven terrain of volcanic rock and roots of trees in the dense rainforest. I felt ridiculous holding up my skirt, skipping from rock to rock and over roots. Several times I miscalculated and sloshed down into mid-shin mud. Several times I lost a slipper and had to drag it out of the mud. I won’t even mention the mosquitoes. Any number of times I could’ve slipped and fallen. It’s only by the grace of the gods I made it through the rough trail.

Finally the trail opened up to a remote, empty beach, with breakers slowing down the waves to a gentle ripple at low tide, and a narrow strip of black and gray sand. My feet practically cried stepping into the soft yielding warm sand. The tiny bay was the meeting place of a river and the ocean, and the water currents flowed between the warmed ocean water and chilled mountain spring water.

I laid down on the sand and looked up at the cloud-dappled sky and the waving palms. “This is what it must feel like to be dead,” I announced to Katja: unbelievable beauty, calm, and ease, having gone through an ordeal, probably much more harrowing than my short hike, and a feeling of joy mixed with the grief of having left behind so much that you love.

After a swim and a delicious meal of leftovers, chips, and sliced mango, we decided to make our way back home before the predicted rain started. As we retraced our steps, each footfall became a prayer. Instead of shit, damn, fuck, I decided to say yes, thank you, please, I am here, I am listening, I am receiving. After a while, I started to use each step to bless the earth, to caress the stones, to send love to the `aina. It was still arduous, and I still fell in the mud once or twice. One false move and an injury could have required an airlift rescue, which happens frequently in Hawai`i. Thank god for my yoga practice and the moderate strength and balance I’ve managed to maintain.

When we got home, I had to wash off my slippers several times, scrubbing them with gravel and rainwater. Even after soaking in the bath, I could not get all the mud off the cracks in my feet and in my toe cuticles.

I asked the `aina to teach me. I am receiving my lessons. There will be many more to come.

#####

For those who’ve expressed a desire to come and visit me here, here are some recommendations:

• Right where you are, honor your own land, and seek to be in harmonious relationship with all the beings of your land.
• Learn as much as you can about your desired destination: history, politics, flora and fauna, language, etc. Read articles and books, listen to podcasts, ask questions.
• Create an altar of images or symbols of the desired destination. Consult with the spirits of this place, and request consent to be on this land. Express your intention for this journey. Wait and listen.
• If you feel a resonant “yes,” make plans to come in a responsible and respectful way. Bring with you an offering for the `aina. Include an offering for the indigenous people of the islands.
• When you arrive, make a point, as soon as possible, to engage intimately with the land and waters. Create your own prayer and ritual of exchange.
• Create opportunities to be in community, and to contribute your time and energy, which could include financial reparations. Come to be in relationship and reciprocity.
• Whenever possible, support the local economy and local people. Do your best to avoid exploitative, tokenizing, racist businesses, institutions, and platforms.
• Be humble and modest. Come to learn and to serve.

Thanksgrieving

 
THANKSGRIEVING

i am just beginning to dip my toes
into the ocean of grief
my parents tried to protect me from

no longer here to shield me
no children i have to tend
i peer into the waters
and begin to wade in

mmmmm, with cross-lateral arm strokes
forward and back
the water is ice-cold
but underground springs spurt volcanic hot currents

this is the suffering i have put aside
in order to proceed
chopping wood, carrying water
ever mouths to feed
gas tanks to fill
compost to turn over

i have listened to your stories of suffering
and held them in my body
believing they took precedence over mine
as if grief is finite
i used up my quota of grief on others

but now
waking from sleep
or chopping vegetables
or humming on my exhales
my own ancestors peek through
lifting the curtain to enter

true grief is abundant
wraps around us like river currents
grief begets more grief
like rivers flow into oceans
and oceans flow into other oceans

grief tenderizes rage
keeps me on my knees

healing has become commoditized
sold to the highest bidder
as if reparations can satiate my grief
as if the brittleness of justice is adequate

give me the temporality of justice and repair
but let me stay here
in my ocean of grief
knowing it will never be commercialized
nor subjected to the ravages of capitalism

grief is an elder to healing
we cannot heal until we have wept each other’s tears
i absorb your grief and mine
like the wetland absorbs the hurricane
like the willow tree flails and dances through the storm

no one has exclusive rights
or a trademark for grief
no one queues for grief
all our ancestors call through the ether
in many tongues that i have come to understand

may it wash over me
may it flow through me
may we weep oceans
may we bathe ourselves in one another’s grief
and hold each other with tenderness

A Humble Request

Beloved Iyengar Yoga Detroit Collective Community,

I have been unspeakably blessed with our beautiful community. I am so deeply grateful to each person who has helped to build and evolve it. I will be departing in 1 month for my new home in Hawai’i. I will continue to teach weekly online, conduct study groups, and continue to be a worker-owner from afar. I plan to return to Detroit twice each year to conduct study intensives and daily classes.

Here is my tentative teaching schedule as of January 3, 2022 in Hawai`i Standard Time (UTC-10) unless otherwise noted. Convert to your time zone here.

Sundays, 7-9am HST, Level 2
3rd Sunday, 3-4pm ET, IYDC Yoga Philosophy (Iyengar: His Life and Work)
3rd Sunday, 7-8:30pm ET, IYDC BIPOC Study Group (My Grandmother’s Hands)

Mondays, 4-5:15pm HST, Level 1B
Mondays, 5:30pm HST, Level TBD

Tuesdays 7-9am HST, Led practice

1st/3rd Wednesdays, 8-9pm ET, BIPOC Apprentice check-ins
2nd/4th Wednesdays, 8-9pm ET, Mentee assessment prep check-ins

Thursdays, 9am HST, Level TBD
Thursdays, 6:30-8pm ET, IYDC Common Ailments (formerly Yoga Therapy)

2nd Fridays, 7:15-9:15pm ET, IYDC Pedagogy Study Group

2nd Saturdays, 11am-2pm HST, Monthly Āsana/Prānāyāma Workshop
4th Saturdays, 6:30-8:30pm ET, IYDC Yoga in Society Study Group

I have been happy to teach, especially since the pandemic, for nominal pay. I have thrived with a strong roof over my head, an abundance of nutritious and homegrown food, a generous community of friends, and none of it has required very much money.

However, to be perfectly honest, I will be needing a much stronger flow of income once I move to Hawai’i on December 14.

I have gladly led study groups, taught workshops, taught Community Gift classes, participated in committees, held office hours, provided consultations, and mentored teachers and apprentices for little to no pay. My particular skills, honed over many decades–teaching, writing, caregiving, holding space–do not translate to high pay under capitalism.

As I transition to life in Hawai’i, I come to ask you to financially support me to any degree that is right for you. I will continue to follow my dharmic path no matter what, and give all I can to our community. Your financial support will not define my relationship with you, nor will it determine my teaching and mentoring commitments.

Some of you already support my work monthly as Teacher Education Subscribers. Thank you! I appreciate your continued and/or increased support as I relocate.

If you can offer dāna each month, beginning in January, that will make it much easier for me to devote myself to the yoga path and continue my work. As a full-time teacher over the past 20 years, I have sometimes taught up to 12-13 āsana classes each week, and I am prepared to do so once again if required. However, if financially possible, I would prefer to teach 6 or fewer āsana/prānāyāma classes/week, while continuing the monthly workshop, study groups, BIPOC Apprentice Program, mentoring, and continue to serve as an IYDC worker-owner on several committees.

If possible, I would prefer not to open a separate Patreon account for myself. Instead, I prefer to ask you, as a practice of sovereignty, to take it upon yourself, if you choose to donate, to use the payment method of your choice and give monthly (Venmo @PeggyKwisuk-Hong, Cash App $gwiseok, PayPal to friend at paypal.me/gwiseok, Zelle kwisuk63@gmail.com).

If it’s easier to conceive of paying me as a transaction for services provided, here is an itemized budget:
 

Teacher Education Subscription: Community Gift $50-200/month

• Pedagogy Study Group, 2 hours monthly, $20-40/session
• Yoga in Society/Philosophy Study Group, 2 hours monthly, $20-40/session
• Monthly Āsana and Prānāyāma Workshop, 3 hours monthly, $20-60
• IYDC Yoga Philosophy Study Group, 1 hour monthly $10-20
• IYDC BIPOC Study Group, 1.5 hours monthly, $15-25
  
• Email, text, and phone consultations, as needed, $100-150/hour

As further incentive, I plan to rent a 2 bedroom apartment, so that I can host visitors. A friend of my son is willing to rent her beautiful unit to me at a steep discount short term. I will need cooperative rental assistance in order to afford this $1500/month unit (normally $2300–argh!). If you would like to visit me for 1-4 weeks of intensive study and practice, please consider paying into this cooperative housing plan at an additional $50-100/month.

Thanks for supporting me in my continued growth, as I strive to come ever more into right relationship, with the planet, with the land, with the practice of yoga, with each other, and all beings.

Namaskar,
hgs

Finding Home, Making Home

 

 

“I’ve written a whole book on home and I still don’t know what it is.” ~ Bayo Akomolafe

“If you want to fly, you have to give up the things that weigh you down.” ~ Toni Morrison

I come from serially displaced people. Koreans take great nationalistic pride in their “purity,” and are dismayed to find out their racial and ethnic make-up is an amalgam of many peoples from many lands who criss-crossed the peninsula in the name of empire, adventure, accident, and plunder. More recently, my parents left Korea in the aftermath of war. A proxy war between two aspiring superpowers and their ideologies, it devastated the peninsula, divided it arbitrarily in half, and impoverished it in the wake of genocide.

My parents ultimately embraced the occupying power, as all good survivors know instinctively to do, and brought their three children to the far fringe of the USA, Honolulu, Hawai`i, to suck on the teat of American empire.

Torn from a primary caregiver, my maternal grandmother, and the land of my ancestors, and my mother tongue, I floated along, adapting with vigor. I entered school and quickly learned English and pidgin, leaving Korean behind. Whatever sadness I experienced at this rupture I learned to bury, and move on.

I experienced further trauma when our family left the islands in 1975 seeking better research opportunities for my father at University of Buffalo. Overnight I became Asian, other, strange, alien, and fugitive, in the 7th grade. Desperate for some sense of belonging, I developed armor, practicing making fun of myself. I learned to wear pantyhose, feather and curl my straight hair, and start to speak with curled r’s.

Since then I’ve made my home in many places: New York City, Nashville, Milwaukee, Detroit, and finally, I’m circling back around to Honolulu.

This morning I said goodbye to a home in Detroit, a year-long housesitting gig for my dear friend Adela, who is now based in Puerto Rico. It was not my intention to live alone in the large duplex for the entire year. Honestly I’ve never lived alone. I went from living with my parents to living in dorms and apartments with friends, then having my own family in my own home. After my  young adult kids left home, so did I, embarking on a new stage of my life, living in house-share cooperatives and intentional communities.

Once I overcame my resistance to living alone, I savored it. I ate when I felt like eating, I cleaned when I felt like cleaning. I kept all the lights off and used a single candle. I drummed at all hours, turned music up whenever I wanted. My main room was my yoga room, stripped of all furniture. The whole house was my dance floor, the houseplants my witnesses. I didn’t realize how much I had conformed myself to the needs of others until this year. I experienced deep healing in this house, in this pandemic year, and I will be forever grateful.

Now, as I prepare, at age 58, to make a new permanent home in Hawai`i, I am relinquishing this house, and so much more. I am determined to whittle my material life down to a dozen boxes, to ship to the island.

I have been gradually dissolving the library that had me bound for decades: small press poetry, politics and social commentary, Korean language and history, yoga and healing.… In waves, I have given away hundreds of books, and I still have more to release. Yesterday, I took four boxes of books to the free store at the recycling center. A feeling of loneliness swept over me as I stacked the books on the shelves. Who the hell is going to appreciate these literary works? Avant garde poetry, experimental fiction, and essays? Many are first edition, small press, out of print. Many are signed and have personalized inscriptions to me. Yet I cannot keep hanging on to them. They hold me back, saying, “stay, stay, hold me, turn my pages, keep me.” But as long as I hold on, my arms are full, and I cannot embrace the new.

It’s not just the books. It’s clothing: hand knit sweaters by my mother, a cashmere vest of my father’s, silken hanboks, myriad scarves–many gifted or inherited. It’s artwork–by me, my children, and friends. And endless photos, and albums from back in the day.

Worst of all, the notebooks. What was I thinking, writing all this shit down? What do I do with them now?

On the car radio, I heard a piece about a junkyard in Chicago, where the remains of significant historic buildings are piled up. You can see bits of beautiful architectural landmarks peeking out of the rubble. That’s what it felt like to see my formerly treasured, carefully curated books on the shelves at the recycling center, randomly stacked.

All the parts of my life are open to review and renunciation now. All my identities. Remember “Peggy Hong”? The poet? The wife? From Milwaukee? Remember Hong Gwi-Seok? The daughter? Teacher? Caregiver? Activist? Detroiter? Remember when I shaved my head? The Badass Yoga Nun? In Hawai`i I will be Halmoni, Aunty Peggy, and Mom.

In this grieving process, past, present, and future flow together, weave, and blend. Who am I outside of time? Who am I without my identities and their markers?

This morning I swept clean every room of the upper flat I had been occupying. I opened the windows and smudged each room clean with tulsi and sage, singing, crying, and praying. May we all move on, with grace, trust, and love. May all spirits be released and liberated. May we all joyfully enter the next stage of our lives. May this house be a blessing for the new family. My final gesture was harvesting a handful of onions from the garden, resplendent with green stalks despite the recent frost.

I’ve released so much, but there is still so much more to go. We cannot force or rush grief. I touch and stroke each piece of paper, each photo, each article of clothing. Keep, give away, recycle, or landfill? Some pieces I come back to three times, six times, ten times, undecided. Some pieces I photograph for a digital archive.

I remind myself that the objects have their own lives, outside of me. I attempt to shed my anthropocentric, Judaeo-Christian, capitalistic notions of ownership. My books at the recycling center will continue their existence, even if they are discarded, burned, or destroyed. They are artifacts of a stage of my life that is now over, and artifacts of an author’s particular expression at a particular time. Aside from the raison d’être of the book itself, it exists as paper and cardboard, made from trees, and it will, like every object and embodied being, return to the earth and be composted. If we’re lucky, we will all ultimately feed the soil, beetles, rhizomes, worms, and bacteria.

When identity through objects is shed, what is left? 

The practice.

Just what do I practice? Leaning into the unknown. Failing with magnificence. Dissolution of egoic attachments. Asking questions with no clear answers. Change as the only constant. I utilize the body, sound, image, breath. All of these modalities are available to me at all times, and have nothing to do with my possessions. This is how I find home, and make home.

Aloha `Āina

I stayed up well past midnight last night, caught in endless clickbait of …… Hawai`i real estate porn. It culminated in a minor obsession with a 2-acre farm in Waipahu, with a house, mature fruit trees, off-grid with solar panels, and more. So what if they were asking $900,000? That’s a bargain on the island, and isn’t this exactly what I had been wishing for?

I forced myself to close the screen and go to bed. All night long I dreamt of the farm, and my dream journey took me all the way from conversation with the owners, to a path to cooperatively finance the purchase, and plans to build a retreat center. The dream brought me full circle: a retreat center for whom? Tourists??!? When so many Indigenous Hawai`ians will never be able to own the land they came from?

When I awoke to the light of day, everything became crystal clear: NO, I was not going to buy the farm, or buy any land. Even if I did have a million dollars.

The morning clarity snapped me back to my values and ethics through the concept of `āina: the land. `Āina is not real estate. It is the living, pulsing land itself, which is the basis of all life. `Āina is land as being.

Even though I have childhood roots in Hawai’i, I am not Native. My family, who came as settlers, albeit in the aftermath of war on the Korean peninsula, gave up any legal ties they had to the land decades ago. I come with no claim to the land.

The best I can do is return to my childhood home in the spirit of aloha `āina: in loving and humble service–kuleana–to the land and all its beings. My grandchildren are an embodiment of `āina, and will largely be my focus on the island. The spirit of aloha is created through relationships.

When I moved to Detroit in 2013, I made a commitment to come in the spirit of solidarity, and to be part of the fabric of community, already rooted here for centuries. I vowed not to come as a colonizer, to grab land, impose myself, nor exploit the community. I have done my best to be a student, to be of use, share my resources, and live my most authentic life. The generosity, which is the spirit of Detroit, has allowed me to do the work I love–teaching, caregiving, growing food, cooking, making, studying, building community–while requiring very little money. Even though I have lived below the poverty line, my life has overflowed with abundance. This has been tremendously healing for me.

I hope to bring that spirit to Hawai`i. I have so much to learn and unlearn, and remember. As I study the maps, cellular memories are coming back to me: Amana Towers–the high rise we lived in when we first arrived, and the pool across the street where I fell in; the parking lot of Mānoa Elementary where we spent recess; the sloping back yard of our house and the plumeria, gardenia, and so many kinds of ferns; the fishing spot where my brother used to go.

I need to immerse myself back into the land, back into the culture, reconnect with ohana (family), and build relations with my new ohana. I need to literally have my feet back on the land, feel the breeze, smell the plant life, immerse myself in the waters, and live among the people. This is how I can practice right relationship with the land. Will I eventually own property there? I don’t know. I must reknit the fabric of relationship to the people and the land, before I attempt to claim property of my own.

Anyway it’s not like I have deep pockets to draw from. When I made the decision in 2010 to take  the path of a renunciate, I made the vow that I would live and die in the hands of community. If I had something to offer that was needed, I trusted that community would support me. When I eventually arrive at a day when that support vanishes, it’s a signal that my work is complete. Perhaps there will be opportunity for community-based cooperative ownership of property in the spirit of aloha `āina one day. As the African proverb says, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I’ve already wasted much of my life rushing and going fast. It’s now time to slow down, and go together.

I also urge visitors to the islands to recognize and practice aloha `āina. Hawai`i is not your playground. Exactly the way some wealthy suburbanites come into Detroit for a ballgame or a concert or a wedding, without any connection or sense of responsibility to the people or neighborhoods, I feel strongly that we should not travel anywhere just for recreation, in a world so lopsided with disparities through the ravages of capitalism, colonization, and cultural appropriation. What are some ways to practice right relationship and pay reparations? Here are some thoughts.

The land has pulled me back down to earth. The avarice has settled. Capitalism says, hurry, the competition is fierce, buy it while you can! I will take my time. I will learn the land. I will step tenderly, carefully, intentionally–in service, healing, and love.