Memories in the Body

I’ve been thinking a lot about memory. 


Is memory inherited? 

Where is it held?

How is it awakened? 

Through the senses? 

Through touch? 

What knowledge lives within instinct? 

What does remembering do within the body? 



They say that the body keeps count. If this is true, then the body is an archive. 

Each cell a steward of history.

Each electron a charge of emotion remembered.


Through my work here, I am in an active practice of embodiment, of engaging with what might feel forgotten or foreign. 

In doing so, I’m not only tapping into a spirit of remembrance but contributing to an evolution of memory. A contribution to the archive of becoming.

These photos were taken in a field behind my home in the high plains, along the front range of The Rocky Mountains. I spotted this hill on an afternoon walk and wondered whether my ancestors perhaps gazed upon similar grassy landscapes in Korea. 

Joined by my dear friend Grace, we dressed in our hanboks. Hers a beautiful pink and blue silk with embossed flowers. A dress that once belonged to her mother, discovered it in a bag bound for donation. And, on this day, it reconnected with its sheen, illuminated against the bright, autumn sunlight.

Mine, from high school, yellow, effervescent, wavering. Brought to life by the tall grasses swaying around us. 

I helped Grace tie her otgoreum (옷고름), the long ribbon that fastens the jeogori (저고리), jacket. The bow should face to the left, but in my confusion, I tied it to the right. 


This small flip took on a life of its own.


Subtle to some, but the first thing my mother noticed when I shared the pictures with her. For me, it serves as an expression of my displacement, a reminder that bodily memory can falter in what feels so simple. 

In this imperfection, I find such delight. A joy shaped by the act of trying to connect with a sensation and finding my own path of storing it within the body.