It's all in a grain of rice

I can't use a fork well anymore.

One of the things I love most about Korea is that I don't shovel food into my mouth with a fork. I can get exactly that one piece of fried rice, a noodle, a pea that has escaped the gochujang. I have control and savory enjoyment of a miniscule moment of prepared nutrition. Not an overloaded sensory, fat saturated & sodden moment to distract from my issues. I know what I am doing. Working for it. And aesthetically obtaining it.

My last days at Gwangju Dae are enormously insightful why I have chosen Korea as my home. The culture pressure of ever changing norms to "catch up" coupled with the cadence of the unself-conscious disclosure of roots. Enthralling. Ravishing. So incredibly beautiful.

A tapestry. A Persian rug can hint at the culture permeating people, habits, and behaviors. But in Korea I have something much more ethereal and impossible to catch and adequately communicate to those I most want to understand me and what I am going through. "Impossible" I am so often told here. I finally understand. Impossible is it to nail down, categorize and dismiss the nuances once you can taste the differences between the assorted kimchee on offer.