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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Ode to Seaweed On the way to Seongsan Harbor this morning, I met an old woman speaking to a strand of seawood, miyeok, held in her weathered hands. Her voice rose and fell like the tide, her words had the stride of the sea, a prayer or song, perhaps even a poem in the dialect of her grandmothers, spoken so clear that I could understand though only knowing some Korean, as if the ocean taught us language. The old woman graceful despite her years, dressed in white cotton and indigo of the haenyeo, her diving mask pushed back on her silver hair, her hands still dripping with seawater. She knew the whole history of seaweed, not only of this particular frond, but also the miyeok my wife would need tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow, soup to restore what birth had taken from her body. The old woman knew iodine, iron, she knew volcanic soil beneath Hallasan that fed the coastal waters, she knew what tides carried these ribbons from the deep places where they danced in the blue-green current, she knew which mothers had been nourished back to strength by this ancient gift from the sea, she knew the exhaustion in my eyes of a man three days without sleep, watching over new life, learning the weight of being needed. At first I thought the salt had frosted her eyebrows white; we stood face to face in the morning light, I saw she was ancient as the island strong in her movements, carrying salt water in her bones. She had the bearing of a sea-queen, someone from old stories of women who could hold their breath for minutes, who brought up treasures from the seafloor. For one moment, we shared the final poem of seaweed while the volcanic island breathed around us, and then the poem ended, as all poems do. She pressed miyeok into my palm—enough for three bowls. I bowed to her and whispered prayers for the wind to drift strength to my wife and daughter across the ocean’s endless conversation.
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