Seon Mi

Seon Mi rolled the blinds open one by one on the front windows, letting the faint light of the early morning wash inside the small room. Hardly anyone is out and about yet, the day is just slowly beginning. Peering up from the windows, she stared at the still overcast skies, at the clouds drifting slowly across the light grey blue expanse above.

I hope it rains today. She thought of her myriad plants in the balcony above, even with her painstaking care and watering, nothing can replace the natural nutrients of rainwater to make plants thrive and flourish.

She shifted a few books on display, rearranging their order, fixing the small lace mat underneath that curled up. She bent to pick up a box underneath the display alcove. She has several books still on boxes that she needed to inventory before she can put them on display and a few other miscellaneous tasks to do.

She looked around the room, her eyes surveying the wooden shelves lining the walls. Her quick glance has been long honed to see what needed fixing, what books have been mislaid, and what needed reorganizing. She moved gracefully to one corner and started reshelving the books as she goes along, box on her hip, making her way all around, leaving the center standing shelves for last.

Her resident guardian and number one guest greeter looked up from his perch among the stack of books on the table and gave a brief soundless miao, before resuming washing his face. “Hi my Romie cat,” she greeted him, all 14 pounds of black and grey tabby fluff. She went on to give him a little scratch under his chin and chuffed at the soft little cat he gave on her hand.

This small bookstore is her pride and joy, her meager source of income, but it carries everything she holds near and dear to her heart. It holds a variety of old books, used but are well maintained, some even no longer published anymore. Every month or so, she would scour estate sales, antique shops, even some pawn shops for any of these old treasures to stock her own store.

By no means a snob, she herself has an electronic tablet to read current published books. Sometimes, she would even buy their paperback or hardcover version. But it is a luxury she could never indulge much in, thus how her love for old books grew. Her electronic book collection is just as ample, but nothing can replace the actual feel of books in your hand, the soft whisper of paper as you turn the page, and the ease of thumbing pages when you need to reread a passage you’ve come to love. To her, these books are family, each lovingly cared for until someone comes and takes them home and hopefully cherish them just as much as she had.

Seon Mi finished setting the rest of the books, this her morning routine before the store opens each day. She went through receipts and monies in the small cash register by the counter, and fired up her computer. She sipped her coffee as she jot down notes on her software ledger.

Her phone notification beeped and she glanced at the message that popped up.

Do you have time to bring cupcakes or shall I? Ms. Choi texted.

I think I have time to make them. It’s not til 7 tonight anyway, right? She texted back.

Yes. Let me know if you get busy; I don’t mind doing them.

Ms. Choi is a longtime friend and a mentor, having met the lady years back when she first joined the support group. Ms. Choi has been the assistant facilitator then and have taken on the full position for the past year now. Seon Mi found much needed solace in the group and have stayed on after Ms. Choi’s request. In time, she has taken on the role of resident participant, counsellor, mentor, friend to the members that come and go. Ms. Choi had offered her an internship, but Seon Mi was not ready to give up her bookstore, fearing the added responsibility of managing both would result in the negligence of one.

Glancing at the clock, she moved to the front door to unlock the metal bolt and flipped the sign to “Welcome, We’re Open.”

Her day has begun.

.

.

Seon Mi climbed the narrow stairs set at the back of the store to her small apartment upstairs. Her arms loaded with supplies from the market she had purchased to bake the cupcakes she will bring to the evening's session.

Her cat Romie ran on up ahead of her. She had placed a small cat door contraption off the side, cleverly hidden by a largish potted plant, and Romie typical cat that he is, rushed on inside ahead of her, so that when she unlocked her door, he has already laid himself down on his cushions and acted so nonchalant, as if he had been waiting for her all this time when she walked in. He leisurely stretched himself and followed Seon Mi to the kitchen, winding around her legs, begging for treats.

Her apartment is moderately spacious, having a living room, small kitchen and a bathroom; it was only an addition to the apartment turned bookstore downstairs, but she loves it. Off to the side, near the windows, she would place her sleeping pallet, where she can then look up at the skies above and fall asleep looking at the stars.

"Here you go, sweetie," setting fresh water and bits of cat treats on the bowl for Romie.

She went on to wash and start preparing the cupcakes. Soon the enticing smell of red velvet cakes is wafting from the oven. She took it out to cool on the rack and went to get herself ready.

After a quick wash, she checked to make sure her cat has fresh water and food and packed the cupcakes in a baking dish. She will need to get going to catch the bus headed across town to where the support group session is being held.

.

"Annyeonghaseyo," she greeted the bus driver, an old man who grinned back at her toothlessly, as she swiped her fare card. She gingerly made her way to the rows of seat in the back of the moving vehicle. She has come to know the familiar faces of the drivers for these many years she had been taking the bus; and this was much of a comfort to her, being a young woman travelling alone most nights. She sat holding onto her dish of cakes, oblivious to some of the stares of the men, young and old alike, who glanced at her admiringly, at her image being reflected from the window. Though Seon Mi is not your typical y model that so many men seem to go for, she is naturally beautiful. Her delicate oval shaped face is framed by long silky dark hair, exposed right now when her hoodie fell onto her shoulders and glinted as it caught the overhead lights of the bus. Even her glasses could not hide the pair of large half moon shaped eyes delicately framed with dark lashes; eyes that are quite expressive and often betray her feelings, often much to her annoyance. A pert turned up nose and plump lips complete the picture. A sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose is usually undiscernible, until a blush steals across her cheeks that would color these freckles in sharp relief. She hardly consider herself a beauty. To her, her eyes are too wide, her freckles too prominent, her stature too petite. One is never happy with one's lot and she is human just like everybody else. But she has never been vain, having other more pressing issues to occupy her mind.

The bus dropped her off several miles later in front of a nondescript brown building. It is flanked by a Catholic church to the side, and a small storefront on the other, now boarded up with wooden planks. The building itself has a sign written on its window; a propped up board in bold letters that faced the street. It read "Bereavement Support Group" followed by a smaller script "for inquiries call" and a series of numbers. It listed times of meetings and the facilitator name, Ms. Choi.

The building used to be a housing office for the church next door. But since the church had acquired the rest of the lot in the block, it had renovated a new building behind it. The church sponsored this support group, after finding that there is a dire need for its services.

Seon Mi pushed the glass doors and walked inside. She passed Ms. Choi on one of the offices; the lady was on her phone speaking and waved back at Seon Mi as she walked past to enter the larger room third from the left.

The room is like a regular sized classroom but without the school desks cluttering the space; across one side near the wall, a longish table is set with a coffee pot and other implements and coffee supplies. Chairs were stacked on the other corner of the room. In the center, several chairs were already arranged in a semi circular pattern. She counted at least 8 altogether, which means, they will likely have 6 guests today. But it's not unusual that they would have drop ins, and from her experience before, there had been a few instances their attendance neared 10-12, excluding Ms. Choi and herself. But that's not been the norm. Their session tend to run in a smaller scale; Ms. Choi opting for a less crowded setting, scheduling several meeting during the week to keep the sessions small. Seon Mi have been coming here every Fridays, and rarely on Wednesdays unless Ms. Choi really needed another person.

She started arranging the dozen cupcakes on the table near the coffee pot, setting the paper plates and napkins nearby for use. Ms. Choi finished her phone call and walked into the room to greet her.

"Seon Mi, those smell delicious! I'm glad you baked them. My red velvet cakes never come out as tasty somehow." Ms. Choi said, helping her transfer the said cakes onto a platter.

"Oh, you make them well, too, but thank you." She a spot of icing on her finger and added, "I made a baker's dozen, just in case we have extra people."

"You can bake 2 dozen of cakes and you know it will be gone," Ms. Choi gave a short laugh, "if the guests were not taking the extras, you know I end up taking one or two home myself. I still think you can open a bakeshop with that bookstore of yours and really do well."

"Oh, maybe someday. I don't think I can handle a full fledge bakeshop on top of the store right now. I'm ok offering small cakes and cookies for those that do come and purchase."

"We have a few new names on the list today. Some were supposed to be in the Wednesday group but no-showed." Ms. Choi stated, grabbing a cup of coffee for herself.

"Oh? It would be good to start with a new group. I'm hopeful that it means the old group felt helped enough to have moved on."

Both women continued to chat while getting the room ready.

.

.

Ha Jun

He stood facing the canvas, all primed and prepped waiting for his paint brush. The beginnings of a scene is already visible, even at this early stage of his painting. Deep vivid amber rays swath the top and seep down to the blues on the horizon, with hints of the swell of the waves starting to come alive from a few of his brush . But those were done hours ago. Now he stood before the easel and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He looked around his studio, cluttered with canvases half done, some in paint, others in ink or charcoal. The ones completed were stacked on the corner, unmounted still, waiting for the framing to be done. His worktable held various drawing implements and strewn with various papers, sketches of ideas. Several balled up ones are piled on the trash basket below. He was never this cluttered before. I wasn't this exhausted either, he mused at the mess. He walked towards the window and leaned his head on the pane, looking out on the streets below with unseeing eyes. He was bracing himself for the task ahead him; unwilling as he was, he knew he had no choice. His mind drifted back to earlier in the afternoon.

He was in Dr. Kim's office, hunched forward, head on his hands. His hair tousled as if he had not stopped running his fingers through it. His back is bent, tiredness seeping out of his posture. His hands still showed stains of paint, of charcoal and ink, imbedded on the creases of his fingerprints, as much a part of him now as the hands that bore them.

"Will you try and go? At least check it out? It will not replace our sessions, but just give you a chance to find other means to cope." Dr. Kim Na Ri spoke, her voice though gravelly was soothing, always in neutral tones and non-demanding. She peered over her glasses at Ha Jun, who moved to lean back on the couch, his shoulders still slumped down. His eyes were closed but his brows remained knotted.

"I'm tired."

"I understand. That's why I would highly encourage you to go." She knew he signed up but haven't made the next step. "There's a session tonight. At the very least, go for a few of these and see. I know the facilitator; she's competent and not at all obtrusive."

"Alright," he opened tired, red rimmed eyes. "I'm desperate enough to try anything. I can't keep going on like this."

"Give yourself this. You said you have 6 months before your projects are due. Let's see if this helps."

"I barely made progress there. It better. I can't lose the contract."

"You've made other progress. You know this, even though it might not seem a huge change. But even small steps are steps forward. This will be good; a supplement to what we have right now."

"At any rate, it came at a good time when you're going to be away."

Dr. Kim was leaving for her conference in a few days, headed to a large convention held in Tokyo. She has made a name for herself as a Behavioral Specialist in her field and has been invited as a key presenter in this assembly. That conventions do take place prominently featuring Asian countries is a huge step these past decades. Asian cultures still tend to be slow moving in its progress in the recognition and acceptance of behavioral health issues. The switch from "Mental Health" to "Behavioral Health" was pivotal, removing some of the stigma associated with the word. But progress is slow and Dr. Kim is but one of the many that pushes for improvement and acceptance in the whole perception of mental health, with hopes that in the near future, the young and old alike would no longer fail to seek much needed treatment.

Ha Jun has been a patient for close to a year now, coming to her after his own coping methods were steering him inexorably to a path of disaster. The fact that he recognized it himself and made the effort to change showed his strength of character that Dr. Kim recognized. That he has been suffering for the past couple of years without a mental break until recently was not unusual. Plenty of people are walking heart breaks, barely coping, not fully deadened inside but not quite living either. And Ha Jun was no exception. 

She looked at this young man, handsome, seemingly having all the world at his feet, but truly barely holding himself together. People who looked at Ha Jun see ony the surface; the mask he presents to the world is that of a successful young man, handsome, easy going, thoughtful, artistic; they fail to see the brokenness he hid inside. If they had looked deeper, they would have noticed his eyes frequently look inward, introspective, and his quietness more pronounced. Being an artist is a great excuse, and she knew he drew on this readily to avoid questions he dare not ask even of himself. 

In the course of their therapy, she came to know him, his predicaments, his loss. And it had been an uphill battle; slogging through the piles of complicated memories, with emotions tainting everything. And it still is a battle, as she has come to realize after working this field for many years; our greatest enemy has always been ourselves. 

Ha Jun is well aware of his failing, how near he is to a breakdown. All these years of denial have finally come to a head and he is finding himself buried under the onslaught of grief, manifesting itself in ways that wreck the tenuous hold he has on merely surviving. He is no longer able to see past the torment, past the guilt; and now only the familiar blackness kept coming, clouding his visions, engulfing him, rendering him powerless as it barrels through him, leaving him vulnerable and paralyzed, worn.

.

.