Four Dimensions

What is it in each of us that searches for explanations in what is greater than ourselves? The church speaks of God and theology. Scientists postulate that the world is governed by unchanging mathematically and physically provable theories. Humanists search for the good that lies within themselves. Even in relationships, we look for what is greater, enviable even, in the other person. We are in constant motion to discover what is superior, what is infinite, what is divine. We all want to discover the truth.

Truth. How this era has ravaged and decimated our assumptions of truth. For, what is truth? How can we claim that any single truth exists? If I see it, is it true? If I can touch it? What if my soul confirms its existence? The juggernaut of post-modernity will assert this subjective reasoning, claiming that experiential knowledge is in itself reality. I hesitate to embrace the idea that what is conceptualized as truth can be so ephemeral and undulating. That there is no overarching reality that bonds humanity together seems counter-intuitive to me.

I want to be a reasonable person. I cannot believe anything simply because I am told to or because it seems right. I want to have proof: measurable, experiential, reasonable.

Of late, I have been struggling to redefine my beliefs, those expounded by the church, the teachings and sayings tossed around since my childhood. My life has turned, it seems, to call into question whether I believe what I have long clung to. Such will, or should, occur when one is faced with various paradigms, other cultures, sundry beliefs.

I do not want to be the person who criticizes the church for all that I see, as if I am to be greater than the beliefs that for so long defined me. I can not disbelieve just because it is fashionable to do so; the questions run so much deeper than that. When truly stirred by hypocrisies or the inability to answer, then I will question.

Recently, I wondered whether I had lost my faith. This pitiful, enervated quasi-pneumatic creature that is my faith writhes silently at my feet, shudderingly breathing its last, closing its eyes, falling away. It is not, as I assumed, lost forever. True, it is largely comatose, but I am too greatly defined as a person by what I believe. These beliefs are far too essential to have disappeared. In danger of extinction, I now seek to weed out the sickly beliefs from the essential ones. I want so badly to thrive wholly.

Lately I have been teaching in one of my classes about "dimensions," mainly because the dialogue centers on Minsu going to see a 3-D movie. Unsure that I had adequately explained the concept, I asked my co-teacher to explain it in Korean. Apparently he is somewhat fascinated by this subject, as he began illustrating each dimension and spoke for a long while (well, everything feels longer when you are uncomprehendingly listening to a different language) about the fourth dimension. He even drew graphs for each dimension, explaining the fourth dimension was unplotable on a graph.

Realizing how long it has been since I have taken any sort of math or science class, I looked up "dimensions," specifically the fourth dimension, on Wikipedia, scanning over its definition. It explained that our perception of space is three dimensional; it is mathematically demonstrated by perpendicularly connecting a line to a plane. The same was previously done in moving up other dimensions: go from none to the first by placing non-dimensional points in a row to form a line, go from first to second by setting two lines perpendicular to one another. The fourth dimension, then, is conceptually achieved by lining up several three dimensional spaces. It is often thought of as time, stationary objects moving across a span of years.

It went on to speak of "Flatland," a book by Edwin Abbott, which hypothesizes about life in a fourth dimension. Just as a hypothetical living two dimensional object, such as if a flat photograph image came to life, could not comprehend a three dimensional object, neither could we, in a three dimensional world, comprehend a four dimensional object. A two dimensional object upon being confronted with our image, could only understand us within its two dimensional frame of reference. Were we to step slightly out of its view, moving across a dimension that does not exist in its world, it would assume we had somehow disappeared. The same concept can then be applied to an animate four dimensional object entering into our world. If it merely traveled across its monopolized dimension, it would appear in our world to have vanished. It is greater and more advanced than what exists in our world.

Given the swirling of my mind of late that has gridlocked my penned thoughts, I could not resist reflecting on this super-dimensional world as being the very place that God exists. In keeping with how I was raised, my core cries out that the tangible world is not everything. What I can see is superseded by an over-arching reality, by a fourth dimension. In here, there is a God who moves freely, able to regard our fish bowl world from a superior angle. At times, flashes of divinity are exhibited in the world, then moving just beyond our view, disappearing.

My mind, at times even more two dimensional than three dimensional, cannot fully comprehend these considerations. After all, one may only conjecture at what exists beyond our understanding. So here I am, in a semi-permanent state of incomprehension, moving across time three dimensionally, grasping for a solid truth that exists to me in glimmers around my periphery.

I have no answers, just questions.

Smooth

The entirety of this past weekend for me was spent with Europeans. The whole time, I was in the company of only one other American. Europe I generally regard as the center of high culture, the epitome of refinement, a place of royal history, of haute cuisine, of fine wines, of charming and urbane gentlemen. Europe has rightly earned its prestigious reputation.

And then on Monday I walked back into Korea. Like America, it has not garnered a reputation as a country of sophistication and cultural refinement. Today for me served as a reminder why.

The remnants of yesterday's underachieving typhoon drizzled through the day. As an eternal weather optimist, one who wears sandals well beyond what the temperature would suggest as wise, I had in the morning's dryness forgone my umbrella for work. After work, stepping into a shop at the foot of the hill that leads to my school, I purchased yet another umbrella for my burgeoning collection. Stepping back onto the street, safely protected from the yawning sky, I began my return to the subway.

Many people along this ten minute walk, school children and shopkeepers, are familiar faces in my daily stroll. I get the myriad of calls of "hello teacher!" punctuated by fits of nervous or excited laughter (as well as sometimes the ensuing heated discussion regarding proper phraseology and pronunciation). I get waves and invitations from a few shopkeepers to join them for coffee. Yet then there is often the single incident that can only be labeled as cung ("completely unpredictable, yet unsurprising").

Today such an incident occurred. Moments before turning the corner to reach the subway, two Korean men who I would guess to be about my age turned the same corner. They were good looking guys, tall, well-dressed. I'm sure that they have no problem attaining a girlfriend. But as they approached me, the one on the right gaped, gasped, and shouted, "Whoa! Wow, wow! Whoa!" His friend, also equally adept at this repartee, called out, "Yeah, yeah! Ooooohhhh!" pointing and staring.

Now, I ask you, ladies, could any man come up with a better way to melt your heart?

And such is life in Korea. Have any Western man do this, and he would spend his life wondering why women wouldn't touch him, save the odd punch now and then. Generally Western men like to be slightly more subtle in their approach. But Korean men are different. For them, well-bred or not, something inside says that the best way to show interest in a Western woman is through the eminently romantic language of cattle calling. And they wonder why Korean men never get Western women.

The Non-Post Post

I'm not posting today, but I wanted to make a shameless plug, anyway. I recently added Flickr, a photo archiving website, to my blog. It's a link along the left margin. And I spent my break today uploading various photos, including a collection from India. Oh, the arduous life I lead! Check them out. I'd love to hear what you think.

The Great and Powerful Oz

My kids all bow to me. I walk past in the hallways and a sea of junior high children bend forward as I pass. It's great, really. It makes me feel so powerful. But sometimes I wonder if it's going to my head.

They do this to all the teachers, actually. It is a sign of respect. Before each class begins, the class leader stands up. This is a student who was voted into this position at the beginning of the school year. When they stand up, they silence the other students. In English, it sounds like this. (First, imagine 40 students talking loudly.)

"Attention! Attention!" Now the student will check around the room to ensure all other students are seated, facing forward, and quiet.

"Bow." The entire class simultaneously leans forward in their chairs, greeting me with, "Hello, teacher."

It's enough to give me some sort of god complex.

Actually, this took a lot of getting used to. Having already spent a year in Korea, I was familiar with the bow as a greeting and frequently used it myself. However, a teacher never bows to the students. The other teachers, I noticed, stand erect, often without even making eye contact with students. Yet initially every time a student bowed to me, I would begin to bow back, catch myself, and snap backward in an attempt to hide my mistake.

Now I have grown quite accustomed to the bowing and truthfully enjoy it. But I still can't shake the nagging feeling that I'm like the Great and Powerful Oz, assumed to be outwardly intimidating and powerful, but actually just a frail, aging man pulling levers behind a curtain.

I try to ameliorate my discomfort by walking through the halls, smiling at the students, greeting them with, "Hello. Hi. How are you. Nice to see you." I am just a foreigner, so I can get away with this display of camaraderie. As I have stated before, there is a distinct curiousity about me and how I act. So I'm sure they just chalk up my friendliness with them to being a little bit strange, as all foreigners are.

Yet as the students file past in the hallways of Dong-a, bowing with a "hello, teahcer," and I smile confidently, the inaudible voice continues to whisper to me, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain..."

Clinging to Neverland

Lately I've been telling my classes about my trip home; it is a nice use of class time when I just don't feel like teaching and they don't feel like learning. Well, I of course include details of my trip hiking with Daane on the A.T. For a little bit of the "wow" factor, I always throw in his height. "My brother is very tall. He is 191 cm." This statement is punctuated by gasps from my students, as even my height, 178 cm, is considered somewhat elephantine in this small culture. As I speak about him, I cannot help but be cognizant of the passage of time, reflecting on memories of an adorably pudgy boy now towering and masculine, complete with his hiking beard. All grown up.

Realizing how grown Daane is makes me consider this same phenomenon in my own life. I mean, when your baby brother grows up, what does that mean for you? Am I all grown up? This is somewhat of an enigma to me, for though I have many of the proper signs, I lack certain ones that as a child I always identified as benchmarks of adulthood.

As a little girl, I used to imagine my wedding, planning the details as I lay in bed awaiting sleep to fall. The groom had no face, but he was there amidst a host of guests and a field of flowers. Like play typical for a child, I liked to periodically change the outfits of myself, the groom, and the various guests. But as I remember those sweet, hopeful memories, something I still someday hope for, I realize that I have passed the birthday that puts me several years beyond the once-future imagined bride. I then assumed that at my current age, I would start having children. As I look at that now, I recoil slightly, knowing my life is far from those pre-dream images. In truth, it is not something I want now for myself. Later, yes. But as a single, independent girl living overseas, I am content to be that way. Did you notice that? I said, "girl." I still don't conceptualize myself as an adult. Am I just afraid to grow up?

I wonder about that. How frightening it is to accept aging. As humans, we violently fight the outward, physical signs. Sometimes, I believe, we fight the inward signs as well. Often I feel as though I'm still playing dress-up, donning adult clothes and make up to hide the little girl. There are still moments that cause me a certain degree of surprise that I am not still ten years old. Seeing my family is, as I said, one.

Is this ridiculous to think about? I have a full-time job at which I do well. I live overseas, thriving in another culture. I have my own apartment that I found, decorated, and pay for by myself. I lead a fellowship group at my church. Yet there remains a nagging suspicion that some day I will be pulled aside and asked to take off my play clothes, to stop pretending.

In truth I have no answers to this question. I do not feel as if I lack anything with these considerations; I merely expected to feel more "adult" by this age. I expected to be identified by events that have not occurred. But life continues to surprise me in its very unpredictability. Perhaps I should not be surprised; it is a common sentiment familiar to most. But there are moments when my mind succumbs to reflection and imagination that I realize how I must adjust for who I did not become, who I will never be, and this quasi-adult that I now am.

To be honest, I love that.

"So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!" ~James M. Barrie

Continuing Adventures of a Super Teacher

I just finished impressing upon my class the importance of using full sentences when they speak. A one word answer, I explained, is unacceptable. "When I ask, 'What is the most popular spare time activity?' do not say 'computers.' It is, 'Computers are the most popular spare time activity.'" Too many students, however, only superficially understand what is being asked and cannot provide adequate responses.

Well, this class seemed to understand the instructions and so we plowed into the activity in which partners had to ask each other a series of questions from the book, all pertaining to "the most" of a certain subject.

A boy and girl at the front of the class began and I overheard the conversation.

"What is the most interesting subject?" she queried, reading from the book.

"Killing you," he replied immediately.

Without a second's pause, she reprimanded, "You need a full sentence!" I love that this was her immediate reaction; it made me so proud, I could've cried. I'm such a Super Teacher.

Shut Up

I'm beginning to think that I probably write too much. I feel badly for anyone who visits my blog; I can only imagine that they must go to my page, scroll ten pages to the end of a single post and sigh heavily, rolling their eyes, as they read only the first and last paragraphs, which usually amount to a normal person's single post.

This suspicion extends to my talking as well. Yesterday Pastor Ben noted in his sermon that the average person spends 1/5 of their life talking. Men use 20,000 words per day; women use 30,000. Jokingly, I commented later that I must speak at least double that. But everyone just kind of smiled and nodded in a way that clearly says, "Yes, Aubrey, that's true." Oops.

So I'm thinking I should heed the advice of the ever sagacious Black Eyed Peas and just shut up.

In an attempt at being concise, I'll quickly comment on what a glorious weekend this was. I spent the bulk of it on the beach, as the weather was perfect. Since summer in Korea is officially finished on the calendar, few Koreans now go, even in the best weather. So it's perfect for us rule breaking foreigners.

On Saturday at Songjeong beach, Mel brought her guitar, so we (as in Liz, Emily, Ang, and I) sang very girl powered songs while she played. It was fun, especially because all these women have such beautiful voices. I, meanwhile, tried not to sing too loudly, so as not to break the facade that we all have talent.

On Sunday after group, I joined Mel, Liz, and Dan (buncha Michiganders) on Haeundae beach for some more relaxing and guitar playing. The beach was littered with foreigners because a throng of American soldiers had come down for Labor Day weekend (which, not surprisingly when one considers their workhorse ethic, Koreans do not celebrate). We had a couple of groups come over, which actually can be a bit irksome. I don't like the feeling of being in a meat market; I would rather just hang around with friends. Though I would venture to say this feeling is not atypical of most women (Mel and Liz most heartily concurred). But some of the guys were entertaining, especially in a way that causes American culture to rush back like a tidal wave.

At night, Liz, Kevin, and I, teaming up this time with Dan, Mel, and Jake, did Trivia again, beating our old shamefully poor record of 3rd to last by placing 2nd to last, a place that grabs the coveted M&M prize. Mysteriously, however, this has been replaced with a disappointing bag of onion rings. So our feat was not quite as great as we had assumed.

Well, looks like I failed to keep it short again. Next time I'll just have to try harder to be succinct. That, or I could really just shut up.

Just Call Me W.T.

The continued adventures of Procrastination Girl:

Having promised her theoretical readers that she would post about her incredible trip home, she found herself fighting petty crime in the rough Korean neighborhoods instead. The people begin to lose faith, seeing her false promises and the transparency of her supposed Super status. But then, just as the sun is setting on her reign, Procrastination Girl once again sits down to the computer...

So here, finally, begins my updates on my adventures at home. I just love my family. As soon as the option of coming home for vacation began playing through my mind, spending time with them was what most galvanized me. Likely if you have ever read any of my posts, you already know what my brother is doing. But since I never miss an opportunity to brag, I will tell you again. He and my cousin Chad are hiking the entire Appalachian Trail, a 2,174 mile stretch (3,499 kilometers) from Maine to South Carolina. The average length for hiking is from 5 to 6 months. And why are these two fine young gentlemen doing this? Not to waste time or for their only glory (trust me, the hiking is hardly glorious), but to raise money for the Susan G. Komen foundation, an organization focused on fighting Breast Cancer through education and research. Awesome boys. Awesome. Need a link to their site? Try this one!

So when my mom said that if I came home from Korea, it would be perfect to go see Daane and Chad, I nearly immediately went to get my ticket. Early on one Sunday morning, four girls packed the car for a road trip from Michigan to eastern Pennsylvania, a mere 11 hours away. Every minute was worth it. The aforementioned girls were me, my mom, my grandma, and my sister Ashley. While I have spoken extensively about what Daane is doing, I haven't yet had the opportunity to talk about Ashley. Neither of us are that good at maintaining contact, so spending time with her was wonderful to catch up on everything. I told her all about Korea (and if you are there, I probably told her about you, too). She told me about her all-encompassing passion: horses. I realize that this may sound underimpressive unless you are actually familiar with her sport. Ash bought her first horse when she was only 14, doing this with her own money. Since I can barely save 50 cents, this alone impresses me. Now 23, she has owned 3 horses; she recently sold both her first and second after buying a beauty she found on a trip to Germany.

I really don't know that much about horses. So anything that I say would probably be wrong. But I learn a lot from Ash, who adores to talk about it. Everything that happens, she connects back to her horses. To Ash, life is an analogy for horse riding. And yes, I know how I said that.

This new horse of hers, with the registered name "Safari," will someday bring her to the Olympics. I have no doubt of that. Ash is a true athlete, training both herself and her horse. She works at and runs a barn for a family in Lansing, Michigan (a family I incidentally met during my time home this past winter and now see why she loves them so fiercely). This connection has also led to her knowing many high people within the horse world, but I'm not one to name names. (Liar!) No, it's just if I could remember their names to drop them, I would imagine you to have the same blank look on your face that I get when she speaks of them. Ash is also studying to be a teacher (woohoo!) because, like me, she loves kids. Runs in the family.

And speaking of running in the family... So these four ladies drove all the way to the east side of the country to see our dear boys. We got in late Sunday evening, sleeping in a hotel while the boys slept in an A.T. (Appalachian Trail) shelter. Our plan was to meet at 10 am the next morning. We left early, giddy with excitement at knowing our reunion was imminent. As we pulled of the highway to the road which intersected the A.T., we spotted them in a small parking lot. The immediate reaction was like teens spotting a celebrity: screaming. Jumping from the still moving vehicle, I lept into Chad's arms while Ash jumped at Daane. Big hugs for our hairy (not shaving), stinky (lots of hiking + few showers), handsome (it's a given) boys.

Oh, I love them so much. They voraciously wolfed down the food prepared by mom and gram, while I basically pelted them with tons of questions about their trip. To fill you in, they are what's called "through-hikers," meaning that they hike the entire trail from north to south (how it was traditionally started, though nowadays most through-hikers do it south to north). Although I like to call myself a through-hiker, it’s purely fictional at best and is, at worst, a horrible lie. I did 20 miles. Chad and Daane are doing 2,174. So lets just say that I am currently a 0.1% through-hiker. Ah, the sense of accomplishment.

The boys had already hiked 10 miles to meet us, starting at 5:30 in the morning (“No, we were late. 5:40 or so,” Daane told me. I say, “Whatever. Anything before six is still the night.”). After stuffing ourselves with various and sundry goodies from mom and gram, we began our “long and arduous” 8 mile hike. Ashley and I had gleefully anticipated what Northbounders had informed the boys was the “most difficult part of the trail.” When the boys apologized later that day regarding the lack of challenge, I merely gasped that, no, this was fine that it wasn’t at all difficult. Indeed. Let’s just say I slept well, albeit with sore muscles, that night.

Ashley, full of her infinite energy, continuously ran up hills and bounced over fallen trees (not kidding), earning her the trail name “Captain Kangaroo.” I should explain that, too. When you hike the trail, you are generally given a trail name. Daane, my brother, got "Mountain Goat" (shortened to "Goat") because in hiking the first part of the trail, he bounded from rock to rock like a (say it, everyone) mountain goat. Chad was named "Stretch," given to him by another Southbounder, because he is so tall and lean. I was named "Walkie Talkie" (shortened to W.T.). You may guess how I got mine. Mom and Gram also earned trail names, though as chauffeur hikers. They suggested many, but I believe settled upon “Hansel and Gretel,” for wandering in the “urban” wilderness before meeting up with us.

We were quite a distance from the hotel mom and gram found for us, so Chad called for them to pick us up at Smith Gap. Nearly 1 ½ hours later, our car was escorted by a man gram and mom described as their “greedy guardian angel.” When they were hopelessly lost, fruitlessly asking countless befuddled locals where Smith Gap was (“Never heard of it!”), he drove up and asked if they wanted help. After finding us, they offered money to him as thanks for leading them; he snatched it quickly with a brief “Thanks,” and drove away. Apparently generosity does have a price. Nonetheless, this kind stranger allowed for another reunion. The evening was spent relaxing and recuperating with the boys.

On day two of my and Captain K’s hike, (day 66 of the boys’ hike) we completed 12 miles. The start of the terrain was exceptionally easy. We grabbed a few good scenery shots, deciding they were excellent opportunities to practice our intimidating poses. The hiking in Pennsylvania, I am told, is drastically different from that of the northern states, especially Maine. Here, you are hiking mostly through the woods, shutting your view narrowly into that of the path. The terrain is littered with small, jagged rocks as well, so you must always look down to ensure that you don’t trip and break an ankle (though I, an expert at clumsiness, managed to fall once anyhow). Thus the hiking is quite tedious and, dare I say it, boring.

This is something I never could fully grasp while reading their excellent journal entries. My responses were consistently, “I’m so proud of them!” (still true) and “This is so exciting for them.” In actuality, it poses a great mental challenge in forcing the hiker to overcome both the simultaneous boredom and physical pain that they endure. For a long time, I nursed a large blister incurred along my short trek, something that made walking quite painful. Daane and Chad have endured these physical pains (blisters, shin splints, athlete's foot) for over 900 miles. And they told us stories featuring the incredible people they have met, displaying their continuing and growing passion to help fight breast cancer (I now proudly wear a pink “Sharing the Promise” wristband that Chad gave me), and evidencing their resilience at overcoming the various obstacles. Without sounding repetitive, allow me to reiterate: these boys are incredible.

As we hiked up to an area of dead trees, naked stumps clustered like a natural ghost town atop the ridge, Daane and Chad identified it as the place with coal underneath; it somehow caught fire... 50 years ago... and has been burning underground since. As we passed beyond the trees, looking onto a field of rocks, a sign indicated a split in the trail. One, marked ‘94, pointed to the right. The other pointed left; a white blaze was shortly beyond it. These white blazes, the boys explained, mark the entire distance of the trail. They even made Ash and I take the role of “point” and guide the group (we only got us lost once, but the boys quickly redirected us). Ash... uh, Captain K, delighted at this and began to call the blazes “bread crumbs.” She would call it out at each one we passed.

We hiked about 2 miles of the rock and boulders before we came to the top of the mountain. As we reached the peak, Captain K called out, “This will be a hard one guys,” noting the group of people just ahead of us sitting and resting. Upon hearing us, one man from the group turned around and shouted at us to go back, that the trail was closed. “Closed?!” we all shouted into the wind. Chad suggested that they should have put up signs where the path split, but the man said they didn’t have any materials for that. Feeling aggravated, we asked Daane to get more information from them. As he walked nearer, the man jumped up from his spot and threatened, “If you take one more step, I’ll have you arrested.” Daane stopped and suggested that the man come up to him for a moment. Walking over, Daane was afforded a view over the edge of the cliff. On the ledge below, with the other workers now resting, Daane saw a body with a sheet over it. Meanwhile the man explained that he was sorry, but they had closed this section of the trail for the day; obviously, Daane understood. The man suggested we go two miles back, then take the other trail that led three miles to the bottom of the mountain. The group of us decided to take a better route, meaning faster, but not safer: straight down the mountain. I felt very nervous, especially knowing that someone had just died while staying on the trail; here we were forging a new one. An hour later, after sliding on unstable stones on a steep mountain, we made it to the highway where Gram and mom picked us up. Needless to say, they were happy to see us alive and well.

Regarding the dead man, we could only discover sketchy details. Gram and mom were told that he was found with a weapon and a dog so protectively vicious, it required tranquilizing before the rescue team could approach the body. The evening news and morning paper yielded no information. Aunt Sharon (Chad’s mom), adept at surfing the net, told us that he was a 45 year old rapist wanted by the police. Apparently it was a suicide.

As we safely made it back to the hotel with a mere 20 miles under my Appalachian Trail experience, I felt grateful for experiencing even a fraction of what Stretch and Goat are doing to help eradicate breast cancer. I topped off my newfound experience with a dip in the hot tub. Thus ends my tale of adventure from the trail.