Peter Shin
Google
Was it in high school or college? I can't quite recall, but I remember the shock I felt upon learning that the "O" in Ojukheon comes from the Chinese character for crow (烏), symbolizing black. Black bamboo—could such a thing even exist? How could bamboo, which I had always associated with the vibrant green, whispering sound of wind brushing through its leaves, be black? That revelation completely reshaped my understanding of the place. From that moment, Ojukheon became a sort of pilgrimage site for me, a place to see this mysterious black bamboo. Now, living in another country and visiting Korea briefly, I find myself returning to Ojukheon with a different sense of appreciation. The historical figures who once lived here—Yulgok Yi I and Shin Saimdang—have long since become static figures in textbooks, their stories no longer growing or evolving. My real curiosity now lies with the black bamboo. How much stronger and more dynamic have they grown since my last visit? And what about the grand old pine trees surrounding the grounds—how much thicker and denser have they become over the years? I walked through Ojukheon with a sense of gratitude, not just for the history the place holds, but for the natural beauty that has continued to flourish here. The bamboo, the pines, and the serene landscape—they all seemed to reflect the quiet strength and resilience of the past while remaining vibrant and alive in the present.
