Spiritual legacy
Recently, a close friend unexpectedly rented a house on Jeju Island for a long-term stay and invited me to visit. The moment I arrived, a beautiful rainbow stretched across the Jeju sky, from the airport toward a seaside cafe. Welcoming me with a smile, she called me “the woman who brought the rainbow.”
We drove along the coastal road, stopping at romantic beach cafes for coffee and enjoying local specialties such as wild abalone seaweed soup. Jeju is home to “gotjawal,” its primeval lava forests, and “oreum,” its small volcanic cones. Just an hour’s flight from Seoul, these natural treasures made the island feel like a peaceful tropical paradise.
But why was my friend staying there for so long? The answer was her college-aged son.
After traveling to places such as New York, Florida, Hawaii, Tokyo and Kyoto, her son, who is in his 20s, experienced a cultural shock that led him to reflect deeply on the meaning of life. He longed for a place where he could breathe freely and live surrounded by beautiful nature.
So his mother chose Jeju. She maintained her base in Seoul while spending long periods on the island to support her son, leaving behind the conveniences of ordinary life without any regret. Watching her devotion, I thought about how much her son had already grown. While many people take decades to discover what truly brings them peace, he seemed to have reached that realization at a remarkably young age.
Is it leaving behind a large fortune? Is it pushing our children toward prestigious careers and high-paying jobs? Korea’s remarkable economic development was built, in part, on parents who devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their children’s worldly success. But perhaps our understanding of parental responsibility needs to evolve.
Excessive parental pressure can bring unnecessary suffering. Children need guidance, but they also need the freedom to discover their own paths through experience, mistakes and reflection. Sometimes, the greatest thing a parent can do is simply stand nearby and trust.
One day, my friend’s devotion and sacrifice in Jeju may therefore become a profound spiritual legacy for her son.
Her story reminded me of my own father. Decades ago, while studying in Japan, I returned to Korea when my father was critically ill with laryngeal cancer. Unable to breathe without tubes running through his throat and nose, he asked that they be removed briefly so he could speak to his youngest daughter.
Though speaking was difficult, we lay side by side, holding hands and watching the sunset through the hospital window. “I’m looking at you from up there! It’s me, Gureum!” (“Cloudy”), he whispered. I understood: “I will always be watching over you. So don’t struggle.”
Even today, when I feel tired or discouraged, I look up at the sky. Watching the clouds drift peacefully overhead, I feel my worries fade and find new strength.
Perhaps that is a true legacy — not money, status or achievements, but the freedom to become oneself, the trust to follow one’s own path and the quiet assurance that someone who loves us is always watching over us. That is the spiritual legacy my father left me.
Shin Hye-suk (sinesu@naver.com), who also goes by Shindy, completed a doctorate in sociology and has devoted two decades of her life to academic pursuits at a university in Japan. She is also a florist and currently serves as an adviser to the Seoul JoongAng Rotary Club International, Korea.