A Letter from Your Cleaners – 27
The Letters – Part 6
I began to interweave photographs into the weekly letters where I had previously shared only my everyday stories and pieces of verse. Until that point, my life was a relentless rhythm of labor, completely stripped of anything that could confidently be called a personal hobby. One afternoon, while taking a completely solitary walk along a park trail, what deeply arrested my vision was the sky. The sky was untiringly approaching my soul with a magnificent, brand-new countenance every single day, and a powerful desire awoke within me to capture that sweeping beauty. Guided by an advertisement claiming it was a tool perfectly tailored for absolute beginners, I went ahead and bought the cheapest mirrorless camera available on the market. And that humble device has transformed into a sacred vessel, beautifully preserving the shifting faces of the sky alongside the deepest meditations of my heart for over a full decade now. On a few sudden occasions, tempted by flashy promotions parading “expert specifications” or driven by a faint wave of human vanity, my mind would briefly consider upgrading to a brand-new model; yet, I chose to hold fast to my old companion, reassuring myself that since this entire pursuit is ultimately a clumsy imitation of a true artist, the unadorned spirit of a beginner remains the most honest and transparent.
In the beginning, my focus was strictly centered upon the sky. While capturing the various movements of the clouds, my lens naturally began to encounter airplanes and soaring birds. The falling raindrops, the pristine winter snowflakes, and the dense sheets of morning mist began to reveal themselves to my consciousness with an entirely fresh, vivid clarity. Through the quiet changes multiplying across the trees and the wild flowers, I was enabled to beautifully anchor the emotional tones of each passing season. Yet, I must honestly confess that I have not yet advanced to that profound threshold where I can confidently capture the raw lines of a human face. Therefore, that humble camera remains resting quietly in its designated space, patiently waiting for me to grow into that deeper artistic maturity.
Right around that exact same period, a brand-new game emerged to fill my solitary hours—and that was cooking. The genesis of this kitchen play was purely born from a selfish desire to construct flavors that perfectly suited my own specific palate. It was a whimsical rebellion to break away from the distinct culinary heritage that defined my life: a taste deeply anchored in the hearty dishes prepared by my mother, who stubbornly refused to leave her kitchen even after crossing into her nineties, and a taste mirrored in the정갈한 (meticulous) but somehow always faintly vacant dishes prepared by my wife. The transformation that followed was truly fascinating. My late mother, who had initially been utterly horrified to hear that her son was stepping foot inside a kitchen, and my wife, who had initially watched my clumsy movements with a gentle note of quiet amusement, both came to wholeheartedly welcome and rejoice in my kitchen play. Even my children loved it immensely. Before long, the scale of this hobby multiplied out of bounds; on those rare, extraordinary days when our household accepted invitations to host dinner guests, the entire operation fell completely onto my shoulders.
Through that transition, I unlocked a magnificent, private fountain of profound joy. The ultimate pleasure I harvested from that labor was by no means the standard, polite compliments whispering “This is delicious”; rather, it was a highly unique, deeply satisfying sensation that flooded my spirit whenever I gazed quietly at a completely cleared, empty bowl that had previously been filled by my own hands. And that experience seamlessly birthed a brand-new, powerful understanding of my mother. Well after passing the grand threshold of her nineties, whenever I would travel out to visit her private home, she stubbornly refused to sit quietly in her armchair. She would endlessly move about her kitchen, hammering together some small dish for her son. Whenever I would desperately plead with her, saying “Please, Mother… I beg you, just sit down and rest…”, this was the unchanging, rough refrain she would hurl right back at me:
“You rascal! Someone has to keep moving about so that the people sitting at the table can have food to eat!”
Back in those intense days, my mind was completely blind to the profound reality. I truly had no capacity to comprehend that both photography and cooking were, in the final analysis, a series of magnificent graces quietly prepared for my soul by the Creator to beautifully discipline and fortify my spirit for the brand-new chapters of my approaching old age.
Through the transparent currents of those weekly letters transmitted to our customers and my dedicated members, a monumental realization firmly took root within my soul. It became another piece of my own humble philosophy, asserting that ‘loneliness’ is a universal shadow that walks closely beside every single human being on Earth, and that deep within the design of every soul lies a beautiful, inherent decency—a natural capacity to open-heartedly soothe and comfort a neighbor’s isolation.
What follows is one of those historic letters I authored and cast out to our customers during that unforgettable season:
Dear Friends,
When I stand behind the counter of our dry cleaners and watch the various neighbors crossing our path, I am continuously fascinated by the beautifully diverse portraits of family life that reveal themselves.
In many ordinary instances, it is strictly the husband or the father who takes on the chore of carrying the family’s heavy garments into our shop. Conversely, there are plenty of households where the mother or the wife consistently executes that exact role. While many individuals choose to navigate these errands completely alone, there are quite a few customers who never fail to enter our doors accompanied by their growing daughters or young sons. On other beautiful occasions, a grandmother or a grandfather will step through our entrance, proudly letting their preschool-aged grandchildren lead the way.
Though it remains a highly unique and less frequent landscape, there are certain customers who relentlessly visit my shop as a unified couple. Among them, some are extraordinarily young newlyweds, while others are seasoned, retired elderly couples whose hairs have turned completely white together. We grow so thoroughly accustomed to their shared presence week after week; yet, on a sudden day, one of those individuals will walk through our door completely alone. Whenever I gently pitch the ordinary inquiry—“Where is your partner today?”—and receive that quiet, heartbreaking whisper—“I am alone now”—my spirit is consumed by a deep, aching sorrow, even though the specific circumstances and raw narratives behind that separation remain completely hidden from my knowledge.
Just this past week, an identical event unfolded right before my eyes. In all honesty, I possess absolutely zero knowledge regarding that customer’s private life, their current structural hardships, or their environment; the sole reality handed to my soul that afternoon was the stark, naked fact that they had suddenly ‘become alone’. As I watched the solitary line of their back as they quietly exited our dry cleaners, a famous piece of verse suddenly flashed into my consciousness. I completely failed to recall the full text of the poem back then, but its haunting title remained stubbornly anchored in my mind.
That evening, the moment my labor ended and I returned to my house, I actively sought out that poem to read it thoroughly. And through a magnificent twist of emotion, those words arrived in my chest not as a text written for that grieving customer, but as a deep, mirror-like confession dedicated straight to my own soul—even though I am by no means alone in my right now.
Because the profound weight of that afternoon’s encounter refuses to fade from my spirit, I desperately desire to introduce that beautiful verse to you today.
From Your Cleaners
Because We Are Lonely, We Are Human
By Ho-seung Chung
Don’t cry.
We are human because we are lonely.
To live is to endure loneliness.
Don’t wait for a call that will never come.
When it snows, walk the snowy road.
When it rains, walk the rainy road.
Even the black-breasted bird in the reeds is watching you.
Sometimes even God weeps out of loneliness.
Birds sit on branches because they are lonely.
You sit by the water because you are lonely.
Even the shadow of a mountain comes down to the village once a day out of loneliness.
Even the sound of a bell rings because it is lonely.
And here is a brief entry carved into the private diary I kept during that exact week :
<Today, at the explicit request of several customers demanding to see the author of the emails, I stepped out from the back to stand before the counter multiple times . These are the beautiful, raw whispers they handed to me along with their deep gratitude :
- “That poem was an absolute masterpiece.”
- “Your text beautifully allowed me to realize anew that loneliness is a sacred garment shared by every single one of us.”
- “Remembering the intense seasons when my own soul was stranded in absolute isolation, I desperately desire to send a silent prayer of profound comfort straight to that specific customer you wrote about…”
In all honesty, these direct compliments arrived as a deeply heavy, almost burdensome weight upon my spirit . For after all, I had done nothing extraordinary; I had simply cast out a humble letter and introduced a single piece of verse . Meditating deeply upon the nature of loneliness .>
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