June arrived quietly, the way it always does in the countryside.
The wild raspberries had been slowly turning red for weeks — and one morning, they were finally ready. I walked out with a small bowl and picked them one by one, still cold from the night air. There is something about harvesting something you didn’t plant that feels like a gift.
Inside, I had been working on a small lampshade — woven by hand from natural materials, the kind of slow project that asks you to sit still and pay attention. When I finally placed a light inside and turned it on for the first time, the room changed. Warm, amber, quiet. It was a small thing, but it felt like something.
The roses along the fence have been growing wild all spring. This week I finally put up a proper trellis — guiding them gently, giving them somewhere to climb. There’s a kind of patience in gardening that I keep coming back to. You can’t rush a rose.
In the afternoon, I made tea. I read a few pages. I watched the cats move between patches of sunlight on the floor. 빼빼 settled near the window. 콩 disappeared somewhere and reappeared later, as he always does.
These are the hours I try to hold onto — not because anything remarkable happened, but because nothing needed to.
This is rural Korea. This is what slow living looks like here.
▶ Watch this day on YouTube → 감성찾아삽만리 https://youtu.be/OKllcN_vWdQ
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