By Kim Ja-heun
“Suguchosim (수구초심).” It is said that even a fox, when facing the end of its life, turns its head toward the mound where it was born. After leaving in my teens, I have finally returned to my hometown—a rural village where the bus only comes three times a day. It is a place where oriental turtle doves and resident birds chirp from the early morning, and the harmonies of cuckoos and scops owls sound like friendly conversation. It is a village where magpies, crows, and azure-winged magpies roam freely; where in spring, male pheasants take flight with a sudden flutter of wings; and in summer, vipers and glass snakes coil themselves on the sun-baked earthen yard. In autumn, wild boars descend from the mountain right behind the house to churn up the red soil, and in winter, water deer leave footprints in the snow right up to my deck before bolting away in a frantic dash.
I moved to this village alone—or more accurately, with five city cats. Though it’s not a “picture perfect house on a green meadow,” I built a small, modest, and practical home. I left the yard as natural soil. Out of respect for the environment, I use no pesticides or herbicides. Thanks to that, even without sowing or tending, the yard is always a lush green field.
After winter, fragrant shepherd’s purse emerges in early spring, followed by mugwort that shoots up overnight, until eventually, dandelions take over the entire yard. They soon burst into yellow blossoms. The spring yard becomes a vast field of gold where countless bees sip nectar and butterflies make an early appearance. When the dandelion seeds fly away, plantains grow in their place. As the plantains begin to seed, rose moss pushes up sprouts like the tiny red tongues of baby birds. In one corner, white clover spreads its greenery, offering flower necklaces made of white lantern-like blooms. Just when you think it’s over, tender amaranth begins to cover the ground. The life beneath the soil all has its own turn, waiting patiently for its
sequence.
The dandelions, fallen as single-winged seeds, soon sprout new green life again. Self-sown perilla plants grow tall, bringing back the scent of my mother from my childhood. I take what nature offers for free—making seasoned greens and pickles, boiling soups, making wraps, and brewing tea. I face the flowers that bloom in their season, observe the honeybees, and welcome the butterflies. The morning chorus of birds is a bonus.
When I open the window early in the morning, the mist from Jeongan Reservoir forms a wide ribbon and drifts across the forest. A white crane spreads its wings wide, gliding gracefully over the fields. I offer a tender morning greeting to the cats crowding by the window, just like any other day, and head out to the vegetable garden to see how much the crops have grown overnight. They grow at their own pace, without greed.
Now, it is time for my “morning play.” I pull unnecessary weeds and feed the crops with a watering can. Drenched in water, the plants look vibrant and fresh. Thus, the morning garden is not a space for labor, but a playground for “playing house.” To be honest, I never knew that living alone in the countryside could be such a fulfilling life. I once lived through an era where we had to trim the wicks of oil lamps, but now I have the help of the internet. It is a bountiful life, enjoying the benefits of both nature and civilization.
In Jeongan, the land of chestnuts, the chestnut flowers have now unraveled their long, tasseled skeins. The village is filled with their scent. When the sun rises, the cuckoo sings a distant “vowel” of a song, and in the evening, the scops owl sings a “vowel” of longing. This is Jeongan (正安) in Gongju. Having returned to my hometown—a name that means “Righteous and Peaceful”—I am living a life that is profoundly natural.
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