Growing Through Stories: Pitong Tsinelas

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When Seoul Surprises: History Beneath Our Wheels

From Insadong, we took a bus to the nearest park along the Hangang, Yeouido. Our agenda was simple: go on a bike ride and chase the sunset. Mission accomplished—and more.

Near the bike rental station stood a tunnel with a sign: “A Walk Through the History of Yeouido Airport.” I was tempted to walk through it, but we had bicycles waiting and the road ahead seemed to be calling us instead. For the next hour, we rode along the Hangang, passing families on picnic mats, couples strolling beneath the trees, runners, bikers, too and children racing ahead of their parents. Eventually, we stopped beneath one of the bridges to rest. That was when a series of historical markers caught my attention.

The markers narrated the story of Yeouido before becoming the financial district and riverside park that people know  it today. Once little more than a sandy island across Mapo Port, its destiny changed during the Japanese occupation when an airfield was built there. As I walked from one marker to another, I realized that this was not merely the history of an airport. It was the history of people whose dreams took flight.

One marker bore the words: “Yeouido, Where Dreams Take Flight.” It is a beautiful phrase because it speaks of more than airplanes, arrivals, departures, or the passage from one era to the next. It speaks of aspiration.

The story begins with Art Smith, an American aviator whose aerial demonstrations at Yeouido in 1917 captivated thousands and inspired many Koreans to dream of flying.

Among those inspired was An Chang-nam, who became the first Korean pilot to fly over Korea. Beyond aviation, he devoted himself to Korea’s independence movement before his life was cut short in a plane crash at only twenty-nine years old.

His example, together with Art Smith’s, inspired Kwon Ki-ok, one of Korea’s first female pilots. She joined the anti-Japanese independence movement, trained as an aviator in China, and dedicated her life to the dream of a free Korea.

Art Smith inspired An Chang-nam. An Chang-nam inspired Kwon Ki-ok. One person’s courage became another person’s beginning.

Reading those markers, I realized that inspiration also has a history. It moves from one generation to the next, from teacher to student, from artist to artist, from parent to child, from dreamer to dreamer.

I then realized how BTS’s songs about hope, resilience, and even resistance feel deeply rooted rather than entirely new. They belong to a much longer Korean tradition in which art, music, and culture carry memory, courage, and hope across generations.

Not because BTS is equivalent to these historical figures, but because they, too, have inspired millions of people to create, study, volunteer, teach, write, make art, to simply choose one more day to live or endure difficult seasons. Their music becomes another marker along the path, reminding those who come after them that courage can be inherited.

As a librarian, I have spent much of my life believing that history lives in books as well as places inhabited by dreamers, innovators and wanderers. Seoul validated that. History also lives in parks, tunnels, riverbanks, and the places where people choose to stop and read the space and environment.

Sometimes the greatest discoveries are not found inside museums alone. Sometimes they are waiting beside a bicycle path, though unnoticed, reminding us that every generation leaves markers for the next.

Growing Through Stories: Bakit Matagal Ang Sundo Ko

 

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July 21, 2026 is National Children's Book Day!

 

When Seoul Surprises: Damien’s Shark and the Philosophy of Namjooning

For years, Damien Hirst’s famous shark existed only through a conversation with my children.

Kuya once spoke about Hirst’s The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living as a class topic in his humanities class. ARMY Daughter, who works in a museum joined the conversation. I have been with artists long enough to understant the quentessence and quirks of artworks. A shark in a tank of formaldehyde is outrageous, indeed, but I never thought that one day I would stand before the work itself.

Last week, at the National Museum of Modern Contemporary Art in Seoul, I finally did.

It was larger than I had imagined.

Suspended in a glass tank, the shark appeared impossibly still, yet strangely alive. It was neither simply dead nor fully alive. It existed in tension. I found myself thinking not only about death, but about what I have come to understand as the life-death-life cycle.

This year marks ten years since my transient ischemic attack, also known as mini-stroke.

Ten years ago, life divided itself into a before and an after. Since then came other endings: COVID, Menopause , Ouie and Mama’s passing, Papa’s slow disappearance into dementia, friendships that faded, relationships that quietly unraveled, abandonment in a fickle fanbase, children growing into adults.

Looking back, I realize that life has never moved in a straight line. It unfolds in cycles. Something ends. Something is lost. Something new quietly begins.

Standing before Hirst’s shark, I understood that contemporary art does not always seek to comfort us. It asks us to remain present before life’s contradictions long enough for them to reveal something true.

We left the museum and as we wander into Cafe Homie for coffee, I carried a strange feeling of contentment.

As I ordered our drinks, only then did I discover that Namjoon had once spent time there and had taken a photograph from the space where I happened to be sitting.

The coincidence made me giddy. It also completed the day.

One artist had invited me to contemplate mortality. Another quietly reminded me how to inhabit life. Suddenly, I understood Namjooning a little differently. It is not about collecting places because RM once visited them. It is not about reproducing someone else’s itinerary. It is about cultivating the same habits of attention.

Standing before difficult works of art. Reading widely. Walking without hurry. Sitting in cafés. Listening more than speaking. Allowing museums, rivers, trees, books, art, music and conversations to reshape the way we see the world.

That afternoon, we wandered through a small gallery in Insadong. We rode bicycles along the Hangang. We cooled our tired feet in a shallow stream while children laughed nearby and elderly couples watched the evening settle over the river.

Looking back now, I realize that nothing extraordinary happened. We simply paid attention. And be.

Perhaps that is why the day remains one of the most meaningful moments of our Bangtan Pilgrimage. I came to Korea hoping to understand the culture that shaped BTS. Instead, I received more.

I came home understanding something about my own life. That is the invitation of both Damien Hirst and Kim Namjoon of BTS. To keep looking. To keep wondering. To keep making. To keep living.

Survival becomes a story where life thrives. The opposite of death is not life. It is forgetting to live.

When Seoul Surprises: The Neighborhood Near Changwon National University

People often imagine South Korea through the skylines of Seoul or the bright lights of Busan. Well, Changwon is charming and warm.

Gyeongnam Art Museum sits beside Changwon National University, and as evening descended, the neighborhood slowly filled with students wearing IDs on lanyards, walking beneath rows of trees with the mountain standing behind them. There was no rush to see the next attraction. The entire place felt lived in.

It reminded me of UP Diliman’s Area 2, except that, the texture has more “angas”.

The places do not look alike, but they share the same rhythm: affordable restaurants, students lingering over dinner, convenience stores that offer everything from medicines to Tmoney loading station, cafés waiting for conversations that stretch long after class.

We were hungry from an afternoon of wandering through galleries and discovering Arirang and Picasso’s ceramics, so we followed the path to where some students enter  into a small restaurant whose name I can no longer remember. Some places deserve to be remembered by taste rather than by name because, while we didn’t order Michelin-starred cuisine, we had a taste of every day Korean food cooked by an Ahjumma and served by an Ahjussi.

The Ahjussi welcomed us with efficiency while students came and went around us. As always, ARMY Daughter became our translator and communicator, reading the menu, asking questions, and ordering for the family. Kuya and I were all smiles watching her confidently speak. One of the quiet privileges of traveling with grown-up children is watching them lead when you once led them.

Our kimchi fried rice arrived crowned with a perfectly fried egg, its edges crisp and its yolk ready to melt into warm rice. The kimchi was exquisitely sweet at first bite, then spicy, then gently sour.

Comforting rather than challenging. Alongside it came silky tofu dressed with soy sauce and sesame, delicate rolled omelet, fish cake, and a simple clear broth. Nothing extravagant but difficult to let go of. After dinner, we wandered into Compose Coffee where the Americano fits in our budget.

The prices on the menu made me chuckle because it reminded me of the inexpensive eateries around UP Diliman where students gather over coffee and conversation while imagining and stressing over the futures waiting for them.

And suddenly I was no longer thinking only about Changwon. I was thinking about Kuya. In a few weeks, he will graduate and begin that uncertain season between university and full time work, between being someone’s student and becoming himself.

Watching the students around us, I realized that every artist, teacher, writer, musician, engineer, and dreamer once belonged to a place like this. Before recognition came ordinary evenings spent sharing inexpensive meals, drinking coffee, and wondering what kind of life awaited them beyond campus. This is why Changwon’s university neighborhood stays with me.

It’s not because of a famous landmark or a bucket-list destination. For one quiet evening, I saw my son already walking among those students: hopeful, uncertain, a little bit nervous, carrying invisible dreams beneath the trees.

And somehow, over kimchi fried rice and the smoothest tofu I have ever tasted, the future no longer felt intimidating. It simply felt warm.

#BTS_Arirang #FESTA2026 #bangtanpilgrimage2026 #SouthKoreaTour #southkorea #koreanfood

Tayo Ang Simula akda ni Kristine Canon

 

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When Seoul Surprises: Wait… Picasso is a Potter too?!

 

A week ago, at about this time, my grown-up children and I were wandering around Gyeongnam Art Museum in Changwon. It was there that Kuya found “Arirang” by Park Chan Gap. It was there, too, that we discovered another surprise: Picasso was not only a painter but also a potter. His ceramics were on display: playful, curious, and wonderfully human.

The universe truly conspired. I discovered this not in Spain or France, but in Changwon, a port city in the Gyeongsang Province of South Korea.

Looking back now, I realize that this was my kind of BTS encounter.

There is the concert stadium or through VIP access, of course, but there exist the quiet places that nurture artists: museums, sculptures, clay, mountains, streams and conversations that linger long after the galleries have closed.

This is what Namjooning has come to mean for me. To seek not only the music BTS creates, but also the art, culture, and ways of seeing that continue to shape our OT7.

And then Picasso humorously surprised me.

His ceramics are not simply vessels. They are drawings transformed into clay, printmaker’s lines becoming texture and form. He carried what he already knew from painting into a new medium and allowed it to become something entirely different.

I left the gallery thinking about my own pottery.

I found myself imagining plates that could become prints, bowls etched with stories, and clay carrying the same curiosity that first brought me to museums and books.

This is one of the greatest gift of this Bangtan pilgrimage. I am reaping memories to keep, but also opening my heart to new work waiting to be made. And maybe that is why this Festa 2026 journey still feels unfinished.

Because art, much like BTS, keeps inviting us to look again, make again, and begin again.

Apobangpo! Purple and true!

#Namjooning #travelog_southkorea #festa2026 #bangtanpilgrimage2026 #BTS_ARIRANG

Presenting at the 5th BTS: A Global Interdisciplinary Conference, Jeonju, South Korea.

 

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When Seoul Surprises a.k.a May SEPANX pa kami 😂💜😂

It was Kuya who found Arirang, a sculpture by Park Chan Gap in the courtyard of the Gyeongnam Art Museum.

Pauwi na kami noon, pero ang ganda kasi ng sunset kaya nagtagal kami. Gyeongnam Art Museum sits on top of a hill, with a mountain rising behind it. Emerald green in broad daylight, it had turned a deep blue in the fading light.

ARMY Daughter and I were seated beneath pine trees beside a bed of daisies when Kuya returned from wandering around the museum grounds.

“May nakita akong Arirang,” he said.

Curious, I asked him to take me there. At ayun na nga.

Rendered in black and white granite, the sculpture stood before us like a memorial to love lost and grief that refuses to leave. Yet it was never defeated by sorrow. It remained dignified, austere, and quietly resolute.

At its center, the white granite seemed to cradle something I could not quite name. A bell. A hill. A mountain. An absence.

Tinitigan ko lang ang sculpture na may pagkamangha. I did not dare touch it to find out. To do so felt almost sacrilegious. So Kuya and I simply stood there.

In that silence, I thought of Ouie and Mama, who had both passed on, and of Papa, whose dementia has slowly carried him to a place where he no longer remembers who I am. I thought, too, of friendships that quietly faded and communities I once believed would endure. May kirot pa din ng slight, but, somewhere beneath those memories, a song of resolve began to hum.

Perhaps that is why I lingered before Arirang longer than I expected.

The sculpture did not ask me to explain grief or overcome it. It simply held space for contradictions: black and white, weight and openness, permanence and emptiness.

Standing beside my eldest child, I remembered the many times we had stood together as seasons changed.

What do we carry from one season into the next? What do we leave behind?

Memory, I realized, is a curious inheritance. Some memories are taken from us against our will. Others return unexpectedly, summoned by stone, by silence, or by the simple act of standing still with someone we love.

I have spent much of the past few years caring for endings and tending the wounds of missing years.

Yet there I was in Changwon, South Korea, during FESTA 2026. While thousands gathered in Busan to celebrate music and joy, I found myself listening to another kind of song beside my eldest—the music teacher in our family.

Perhaps Arirang is not only about longing or separation. Perhaps it is also about remaining. Remaining faithful to memory, open to beauty, present for those who still walk beside us, even as we grieve those who no longer can.

We left the museum without touching the granite. But somehow, Arirang had already touched me.

#heartandseoul2026 #BTS_ARIRANG #Festa2026 #bangtanpilgrimage2026 #travelog_southkorea #Namjooning

Heart and Seoul Travel Log 2026: The Aftermath

We are officially back from South Korea. SEPANX is real. 😂😭😂 I have never visited so many beaches in my life: Haeundae, Gangmun, Anmok, and Jumunjin. Four beaches in seven days! Each one gave me something to remember and carry home. 🌊💜

@titazeeh7 Haeundae = Joy Jumunjin = Companionship Anmok = Wonder Gangmun = Imagination #BTS_Arirang #festa2026 #bangtanpilgrimage2026 ♬ SWIM - BTS