The First Sprout

Grandmother told me
That long ago one piece of writing almost changed the world
I asked her, where is that writing
Grandmother smiled
Go and find it

I grew up between rice fields in a small village in Jeolla
I never learned to read. Because I'm a girl.
My father put a plough in my hands, not a brush
But ears cannot be stopped
When I was small a strange old man came to the market
Walking village to village with a stick
Telling stories
About palaces and scholars and fire and ink
The children thought it was a frightening old tale
Only I knew it was real

The last time that man came
He took my hand and said
"This story — you will carry it on"
I didn't know then what he meant

Beneath the ash there was a seed
No one knew. I didn't know either.
Then rain came, and spring came
And it broke through the soil
I am the first sprout
You thought it burned, you thought it ended
But here it is
A new letter risen from the earth

Spring of my sixteenth year, cleaning grandmother's room
Under the floorboards I found something wrapped in cloth
I opened it — hanji. There were letters on it.
I couldn't read them, but I could feel them
The smell of ink was still there
Decades had passed and it was still there
I took it to the village teacher
He read for a long time and then wept
Is this that scholar's writing
Is this the writing that tried to wake the world

That night I said to the teacher
Please teach me to write
He said a girl may not
Every dawn I sat at his door
On the morning of the third day, the door opened

Beneath the ash there was a seed
No one knew. I didn't know either.
Then rain came, and spring came
And it broke through the soil
I am the first sprout
You thought it burned, you thought it ended
But here it is
A new letter risen from the earth

The day I first held a brush
My hand shook
I ground the ink and drew a first stroke on the hanji
It came out crooked
And still, it was a letter
The scholar died, but the brush is here
The clown vanished, but the story is here
The nun went back to the mountain, but the ember is here
Under the floorboards
And in my hand

Beneath the ash there was a seed
That seed was me
Rain came, and spring came
And at last I came out
I am the first sprout
I don't know how far this writing will go
But I write
I carry on what the scholar began

Ink and embers
Ash and seed
This is not the end
It is the beginning