I live in Daejeon, South Korea. It’s a city surrounded by mountains. The entire peninsula is mountainous terrain. So, it’s a bit difficult to escape not only the mountains but also the sea which is accessible by driving west, east or south. I have been thinking a lot about mountains lately. What do they have to offer us? Well, that’s a rather loaded question; however, the answer is simple, and you already know it. They give us our life’s breath. (I can think of a million more clichés to give as an answer.) Mountains here are dense. The sides of mountains that lay bare in this area have rocks that look as if you cold just scrape off a piece and take it with you.Whereas, in other parts, they are so dense with trees, I imagine that someone has taken a cake and just piped on little tufts of icing, just bouncing around and putting them here and there until it is completely filled with green.

A typical word to describe feeling and color in Korean is “verdant green” 초록색 (chorok saek). “Verdant” typically signifies lush vegetation and a vibrant green that gives the feeling of life in abundance.It’s not the same lush green that I found in Louisiana and that I so deeply connected myself to for the first thirty years of my life, but, nonetheless, it’s a hue of green that I now find myself drawn toward in the last thirty years of my life and yet, I still have 24 more of those next or last years to go. And so it goes, green must be the color of my life.

Now, most people associate the color green with that of envy, yet it reminds me of the constancy of nature, the ever-turning circle of life as so demonstrated in the plant kingdom. And, of course, plants get their green hue from little chloroplasts that produce chlorophyll. I think to myself, “Plants have it all. They can make their own food and can sustain given the proper amount of sunlight and rain. They do not need the help of another to live.”

So, what is all this talk of plants, and why do I ramble? Plants live on the mountain, a large fortuitous being that allows them to share space with it. They cohabit together forming their own little ecosystem and their own little world, and then I bring myself to the idea of marriage. I am a wife, something that even after three years I feel hesitant to call myself. I cohabit with another person, but we are by no means symbiotic. Nor are the plants and the mountain. We can easily transport the plants to another place, and they could easily thrive–given that it isn’t desert or tundra. (Or maybe I am wrong and full of crap here.)

I am a married woman. I have a husband, but what is this little thing we call marriage? I feel the need to write again, and from time to time, I hope to post here as a means of catharsis. Some tend to think that marriage is like climbing a mountain. Once we get to the top, we realize what we have gone through to get to that peak, and yet, we inevitably have to go back down and into the valley only to try to climb high again. I often feel that love coincides with that amount of effort that we put into climbing a mountain. We cannot stop and sit down for long. We just have to keep going.