I was at an island for the morning last Friday, and enjoyed it. It was a little oval piece of land in the river, overgrown with ferns. Despite being very near the shore of the mainland, the island still felt like it was happenstance, if you know what I mean. Little, unknown, anonymous. Unimportant, but that much friendlier. To each their own. Everyone exploring the island that morning were roaming around in their own way, discovering all the pleasant secrets that the island had to offer.
This island is not, in fact, actually unnamed; it’s called Seonyudo. A tiny island in the Han River of South Korea, it’s part of Yongdeungpo District and you can reach it in five minutes by walking on a bridge. But doesn’t this take some of its charm away? Despite its proximity to the metropolis, the island is an independent one, set apart by the strip of blue water that shines beneath the bridge. So, self-sufficient it is. Green things grow in unchecked tangles and chaos over it. There’s a spillage of leafy tendrils, ivy clusters, and fluffy willow seeds that settle in heaps over the waters. It’s a disorganized little republic, reveling in its isolation from the city.
And aren’t humans the same? They want to be known, but not too known; with connections and relationships comes responsibility, and sometimes an urge to run away–where nobody knows you, and start over again. I’m trying Thoreau these days, and it feels as if he understands this urge better than anyone else. He seems to stand with the monks, hermits, and nomads. His time at Walden Pond earned him literary immortality and a forever place in English literature courses which is not too shabby for someone who wasn’t pursuing any of it. He was in fact seeking the precise opposite: insight and clarity that comes from removal from mainstream society. And I may have gotten a taste of what that’s like, in the morning of my little island getaway.
