Beginning to write this chapter in Cusco, I face a question I have long avoided.
When you translate Korean into English — there are words that will not translate. "Jeong (情)." "Uri (우리)." "Han (恨)." "Nunchi." "Chemyeon." "Heung." Every time you try to put these words into English, something slips out. Most English equivalents are partial. Translate jeong as "affection" and half of it has gone. Translate uri as "we" and the structure has gone. Translate han as "resentment" — and it has changed into a quite different feeling.
Is this untranslatability only a problem of language? Or — is it the trace of a different worldview?
This question is the starting point of this chapter.
In Chapter 15 I unfolded the Byzantine theological concept of perichoresis. The structure of relation, defined by John of Damascus in the eighth century, in which beings dwell within one another while remaining themselves. The story that this concept is being rediscovered in twentieth-century physics (Bohm), psychology (Adler), political theology (Moltmann, Volf). The claim that this is the antipode of Wetiko.
But — perichoresis is a Western concept. A product of Christian theology. And that theology itself stands on the cultural inheritance of the Roman Empire. For this concept to have global validity — it must dialogue with the wisdom traditions of other civilizations. We must hear how each civilization has expressed this same truth in its own language.
This chapter is the East's response. Korean tradition in particular. Wonhyo's Hwajaeng (和諍), Toegye's gyeong (敬), Choe Je-u's sicheonju (侍天主), the yin-yang union of traditional East Asian medicine. And the everyday Korean — untranslatable — jeong and uri.
These traditions resonate with perichoresis. But they are not simply identical. They reach a similar point by a different path, and along the way they preserve what the Western tradition missed. At the same time — they bear shadows the Western tradition does not have. In particular, the history by which the hierarchical Confucian tradition has justified inequality in the name of "relationality." Honestly, including this shadow.
And — from my own position, born Korean and walking nearly seventeen years with a North American Indigenous community — the wisdom traditions of the East and of Indigenous North America are not strangers to one another. The two traditions speak similar things in different dialects. This chapter is an attempt to trace that resonance.
Wonhyo (원효, 元曉, 617–686). A monk of Silla. One of the peaks of Korean Buddhist thought. His life was — singular. An elite monk who broke his vows. A monk who married a princess of the royal house (so becoming the father of Seol Chong). An iconoclast who roamed the streets dancing as he taught the dharma. And — one of the most profound writers in the history of thought on the Korean peninsula.¹
Among the concepts Wonhyo proposed, the most important is Hwajaeng (和諍). "Reconciling dispute" or "dispute that achieves harmony."
The context. Seventh-century Korean Buddhism was divided into many schools. The various sutras coming from China seemed — to make different claims. Beopsang, Hwaeom, Cheontae, Jeongto, and so on. Each school claimed it was right. The arguments were heated.
In this situation — the usual responses are two. Choose your school and criticize the others. Or — fall into religious relativism ("everyone is right in their own way"). Wonhyo proposed a third way.
The core of Hwajaeng: the differing claims of different schools — are each one aspect of truth. They oppose each other because — each focuses on a different aspect. To see the whole truth — one must embrace the opposing claims together. But not by melting them into one. By keeping each itself while placing them in relations of mutual reflection.²
Wonhyo's Hwajaeng operates at three levels.
Level 1 — Logical hwajaeng. When opposing propositions describe different aspects of the same reality, the surface opposition dissolves. For example, "the self exists" and "the self does not exist" appear opposed, but if each refers to the self under a different perspective (empirical self versus ultimate self), both can be true.
Level 2 — Hermeneutic hwajaeng. When various passages of scripture appear contradictory, one must understand which audience and situation each presupposes. The Buddha told one disciple to "abandon the self" and another to "awaken the self." The two teachings are not contradictory. They are calibrated to each disciple's situation.
Level 3 — Ontological hwajaeng. This is the deepest. All beings are connected to one another. The separated entity is illusion. The change of one being affects all others. This is one expression of the Buddhist doctrine of dependent arising (yeongi, 緣起). Wonhyo developed it systematically.
One of Wonhyo's masterworks is the Daeseung-gisillonso (大乘起信論疏). A commentary on the Indian treatise Awakening of Faith in the Mahayana.³
In this work Wonhyo establishes the concept of il-sim (一心), the One Mind. All beings appear as the two aspects of the One Mind — jin-yeo (眞如, the dimension of awakening) and saeng-myeol (生滅, the dimension of arising-and-perishing). These two aspects oppose one another and yet are one. They do not exclude one another. They are within one another.
Look at this structure — and it is strikingly close to perichoresis. As in perichoresis the three persons dwell within one another while remaining themselves — in il-sim, jin-yeo and saeng-myeol dwell within each other while remaining each itself. A third relation that is neither separation nor fusion. This is the insight Wonhyo reached on the Korean peninsula in the seventh century. Strikingly similar to what John of Damascus reached in eighth-century Byzantium.
Could the two have known each other? No. Wonhyo died in 686. John of Damascus was born around 675. Their lifetimes barely overlap. Geographically — Wonhyo on the Korean peninsula, John of Damascus in the Middle East. Direct contact was impossible. Yet — they discovered the same structure.
This confirms one of this book's central claims. Relational ontology is not the peculiar discovery of one civilization. It is a universal insight that several civilizations have reached independently. A seventh-century Silla monk, an eighth-century Byzantine theologian, a twentieth-century British physicist, a twenty-first-century Korean reader — in different contexts, in different languages — approach the same truth.
Hwajaeng is not merely a philosophical concept. Its political and social implications are deep.
The Silla in which Wonhyo lived was — in confusion immediately after the unification of the Three Kingdoms. As the remnants of Goguryeo and Baekje were absorbed into Silla society — ethnic, religious, and cultural tensions ran high. Wonhyo's Hwajaeng thought became — a philosophical resource for resolving these tensions peacefully. A way of embracing opposing positions without melting them.
This tradition recurs in Korean history. The dispute between Zhu Xi learning and Wang Yangming learning in Joseon, the strife of the Noron-Soron factions, the modern opposition between the Reformists and the Conservatives, the contemporary conservative-progressive conflict. In each period — the possibility of Hwajaeng has been raised. Sometimes successfully, sometimes not. But — that very possibility has remained one axis of Korean intellectual tradition.
Wonhyo lived 1,400 years ago. But his insight — is still alive today as a resource for the critique of Wetiko. And — Wonhyo is one of the points to which my sister Debbie's words "brother, your ancestors knew it too" are pointing. What the Cree wahkohtowin says, a Silla monk — in another language — already knew.
Yi Hwang (이황, 李滉, 1501–1570). Pen name Toegye (퇴계, 退溪). A mid-Joseon Neo-Confucian. One of the peaks of Korean Confucian thought.⁴
Toegye's age was — the apogee of Joseon Neo-Confucianism. Joseon intellectuals who took Zhu Xi's learning from China and developed it — produced scholarship of world-class depth. Toegye influenced Japan as well, becoming the foundation of Edo-period Japanese Confucianism. His writings were even re-exported to China.
One of the central concepts of Toegye's philosophy is gyeong (敬). Literally "respect" or "reverence." But the gyeong Toegye spoke of is — different from the everyday Korean "respect." It is much deeper and broader.
Toegye's gyeong embraces three directions at once.
First — gyeong toward oneself. To handle one's own mind carefully. To observe attentively one's own feelings, thoughts, desires. Similar to meditation, but not a simple "emptying of mind." A posture of watching what arises within oneself with reverence.
One thing Toegye practiced daily was — jeongjwa (靜坐, "quiet sitting"). Sitting quietly and watching one's mind. Several times a day. This was not mere rest but a philosophical practice of how to deal with oneself.
Second — gyeong toward the other. Holding a posture of reverence toward other persons, other lives, other things — toward all. The crucial point is — that the object of reverence is not limited to humans. Nature, animals, even objects are objects of gyeong.
One of Toegye's anecdotes. He was walking with a guest along a path when — he saw ants crossing the road. He stopped. He waited until the ants had passed. When his guest looked puzzled — Toegye answered, "These too are lives."⁵ This gesture is the practice of gyeong. Even toward small lives — he attends and reveres.
Third — gyeong toward Heaven. Here "Heaven" is not the sky of nature. It corresponds to the principle of the universe, the source of being. It resembles the Christian "God" but — closer to impersonal principle than personal deity. Gyeong is continual awareness of this source. The recognition that all my actions — stand within some larger context.
How does Toegye's gyeong connect with perichoresis?
Gyeong is a posture of relation. It operates simultaneously in three dimensions: self, other, Heaven. And these three dimensions — are not separated from one another. As gyeong toward oneself deepens, so does gyeong toward the other. As gyeong toward the other deepens, so does gyeong toward Heaven. A threefold relation dwelling within one another.
This is the daily practice of perichoresis. Not abstract doctrine but — quiet sitting each morning, stopping before the ants, treating a guest with care. These small gestures are — the bodily expression of relational ontology.
And the important point — Toegye was not a theologian. He knew nothing of Byzantine theology. His intellectual resources were — Chinese Zhu Xi learning, the Confucian tradition of the Korean peninsula, and his own meditative practice. Yet — he reached an ontology similar to what John of Damascus or Wonhyo had reached. Across geography and time — the same truth opens to different people.
And yet, honestly — gyeong has its shadow too.
In Joseon Confucian tradition, gyeong was used to justify hierarchical order. Sons must show gyeong to fathers. Wives must show gyeong to husbands. Students must show gyeong to teachers. Subjects must show gyeong to kings. All of these relations were hierarchical. Gyeong worked in one direction.
This is not Toegye's own thought. Toegye himself emphasized — mutual gyeong. The teacher must show gyeong to the student, the parent to the child, the king to the subject. Read his letters — and even those addressed to disciples carry the posture of gyeong.
But — later Joseon Confucianism forgot this mutuality. Gyeong became a tool for reinforcing hierarchy. The subordination of women, the bondage of slaves, status discrimination — all were justified in the name of "gyeong."
This is a general danger of perichoretic concepts. As I already pointed out at the close of Chapter 15. The language of mutual indwelling — in conditions of extreme power asymmetry — becomes the mask of domination. Toegye's potential in gyeong — was distorted in Joseon's strict status society.
This is a vital lesson. When relational ontology operates without justice — it becomes deception. Whether perichoresis, gyeong, or wahkohtowin — all the same. Only when structural justice accompanies them do these concepts work liberatively.
Choe Je-u (최제우, 崔濟愚, 1824–1864). A figure of the late Joseon. The founder of Donghak (東學, "Eastern Learning"). One of the most dramatic figures in modern Korean intellectual history.⁶
Choe Je-u's age was — a time when Joseon was in crisis at home and abroad. The encroachment of foreign powers (especially the Western powers' advance into East Asia), domestic corruption and the suffering of the people. And — Joseon Neo-Confucianism had nearly exhausted its resources for responding to this crisis. There was an intellectual vacuum.
From this vacuum Choe Je-u proposed — a new thought. He is said to have had an experience of "awakening" in April 1860. Thereafter he unfolded "Donghak" — the Eastern teaching as a counter to the Christianity (Seohak, "Western Learning") that had come from the West. At its center was a single declaration.
"Sicheonju (侍天主)." "I bear Heaven within me."⁷
Why is this single sentence revolutionary? Look at several layers.
First — a theological turn. In traditional Confucianism, Heaven (天) was the principle above. Humans only revered it. In traditional Christianity too, God was above. Humans only prayed to that God. Choe Je-u inverted this structure. Heaven is within me. Human and Heaven are not separated. Each human is — not merely human — a being who bears Heaven.
Second — social implications. The explosive force of this declaration was enormous. If every human bears Heaven — how is the distinction between yangban and the lowborn meaningful? How is the discrimination of men over women justified? The very hierarchy among humans is fundamentally shaken. Choe Je-u and his disciples — actually applied this logic to social practice. They freed slaves. They treated women as equals. The shock to Joseon society — was great.
Third — an ontological turn. Sicheonju is — the declaration that there is divinity within every being. This is different from pantheism. Pantheism is the view that the divine is spread throughout everything. Sicheonju says that each being — as a distinct individual — bears Heaven. That is, it resembles the perichoretic structure. Heaven dwells within each being. Each being remains itself. A third relation that is neither separation nor fusion.
Astonishingly, sicheonju — resonates with the Cree wahkohtowin.
I said in Chapter 14 that wahkohtowin is the ontology that "everything is connected as kin." The river too, the mountain too, the buffalo too, the wind too — all are kin. Within this web of relations, each being remains itself yet stands within the bond of kinship with all other beings.
Sicheonju says the same thing in a different language. There is Heaven within every being. Therefore — every being stands in sacred relation with every other. The river is sacred, the mountain is sacred, you are sacred, I am sacred. Within this sacredness — we are connected.
Two concepts — from geographically different worlds — arrive at the same insight. As Wonhyo and John of Damascus did. And — if Choe Je-u could have met Debbie's grandfather, they would have — in different languages — understood one another.
Choe Je-u's declaration — became the fuse for social transformation. The Donghak Peasant Movement (1894). Peasants rose across Joseon. The aim: "anti-feudal, anti-foreign". To abolish feudal status discrimination and to resist foreign encroachment.
This movement — was the first modern popular uprising on the Korean peninsula. Hundreds of thousands took part. They clashed with government forces in Jeolla, Chungcheong, Gyeongsang. They temporarily took control of much of Jeolla.
But — the Japanese army intervened. It was the trigger of the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895). The Japanese army carried out a mass slaughter of the Donghak forces. Estimated casualties of 300,000–500,000. The Joseon government — used Japanese force to suppress its own people.⁸
Choe Je-u himself — had already been executed in 1864, before the movement. Charged with "heresy" and "treason." The Donghak he founded — survived him and spread. And — in the end, as he had foreseen — came to near extinction at the cost of blood.
What this history teaches: Revolutionary thought of the kind of sicheonju — is suppressed. Because it shakes the existing power structure at its root. The declaration that every being is sacred — is a declaration of war against a hierarchical society.
And this is — why a relational ontology like perichoresis is — always a dangerous concept. To take it seriously — is to have to change society. To try to change society — is to be suppressed. So in many cases — the concept is shrunk to a harmless spiritual concept. "We all bear Heaven" becomes — a theme for personal meditation. The practical meaning vanishes.
But Choe Je-u's original sicheonju — was a political declaration. It carried revolutionary potential. And — in the Donghak Peasant Movement, that potential actually exploded. It paid the price of suppression — but that explosion was one of the starting points of the Korean peninsula's modern history. The first great event in the lineage that runs through the March 1st Movement, the Independence Movement, and the Democratization Movement.
At the foundation of East Asian medicine — the traditional medicine of China and Korea in particular — lies the concept of yin-yang (陰陽). In the West this concept is reduced to "two opposing principles." But — this is a partial understanding.
The true meaning of yin-yang is — that the two principles are within each other. There is yang within yin, and yin within yang. There is no pure yin and no pure yang. The two continually circulate. This is what the famous taegeuk symbol expresses. Two half-circles within a circle, and within each half-circle a small dot of the opposite color. This is the union (gyohap) of yin and yang.⁹
This structure is — the bodily, physiological version of perichoresis. Yin and yang — are not separated. But — they do not melt into one either. They dance within each other. To borrow John of Damascus's expression — as the two persons dwell within each other "like dancers."
This principle defines East Asian medicine's understanding of disease.
In Western medicine (especially the dominant twentieth-century model), disease is — the result of a specific cause. Bacteria, virus, genetic defect, organ failure. Treatment is — removal of cause or correction of result. Killing bacteria with antibiotics, replacing a failed organ.
In East Asian medicine, disease is — imbalance of relation. Excess of yin, excess of yang. Or a blockage of the flow of qi at a particular point. Treatment is — restoration of balance. Herbal medicine, acupuncture, moxibustion, cupping — each method aims to adjust balance.
The depth of this view comes through in the question — where does the boundary of the individual end? In East Asian medicine — the body is open to its environment. Seasonal change, weather, food, emotion, relation — all of these affect the body's balance. The body is not simply a space within an anatomical boundary. The body is — an open system continuously relating with the world.
This — converges remarkably with contemporary systems biology, which we saw in Chapter 15. The gut-brain axis, the microbiome, psychoneuroimmunology — all view the body as an open relational system. What modern science is rediscovering — East Asian medicine has been practicing for over two thousand years.
As a medical researcher — I have lived for a long time between two medical systems. My formal training is in Western medicine. But I could not entirely dismiss the perspective of Korean medicine. Especially as I studied exercise medicine — I was drawn closer and closer to the conclusion that the body must be seen as an integrated system.
One example. Patients with chronic low back pain. The Western medical approach: imaging of the discs, nerve blocks, surgery, pain medication. These can be effective. But — much chronic low back pain is not explained by structural causes alone. Patients with the same disc condition — some live in severe pain, some without pain at all.
Why? Stress, posture, muscle imbalance, sleep quality, nutrition, emotional tension — all affect it. That is — the entire relational structure of the body is involved. Korean medical approaches are quite effective here. Acupuncture, chuna manual therapy, herbal medicine, qigong exercises — these methods, by readjusting the body's network of relations, alleviate pain.
During my research sabbatical at Harvard, I once visited the integrative medicine clinic at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Cancer patients there were combining standard chemotherapy with — acupuncture, meditation, yoga, herbal therapy. Despite criticism that "it is not scientific" — this integrative approach clearly improved patients' quality of life.¹⁰
This is — the way the wisdom at the foundation of East Asian medicine, the wisdom of yin-yang union, is returning to twenty-first-century medicine. Not as abstract philosophy but as concrete techniques of healing.
This theme will be unfolded in earnest in the next chapter (17) on salutogenesis. Here it is enough to mark — that the yin-yang of East Asian medicine is not merely Eastern mysticism but the medical embodiment of perichoresis.
Now to the most personal part of the chapter. The relational concepts of everyday Korean.
Jeong, the Korean concept of bonded affection that grows through shared time. One of the hardest words in Korean to translate. The dictionary offers "affection," "feeling," "love," and so on, but none fits.
What is special about jeong is — it accumulates with time. There is no jeong with a person you've just met. With someone you have spent long years with — jeong grows. The very expression "jeong-i deulda" ("jeong enters") is interesting. The jeong "enters" from outside. It is not my own emotion. In the time and interaction between me and the other — jeong arises.
This is the perichoretic structure of jeong. Jeong is not the emotion of one person. It is the character of the relation itself. Between two people (or more) — the time spent together, the things gone through together, the food shared — all accumulates and becomes jeong.¹¹
So in Korean society "to have jeong" — is not a simple statement of feeling. It is a statement of fact about the relation. Live long in a place — and you have jeong for the place. Do a job long — and you have jeong for the job. See a person long — and you have jeong with them. Jeong is something that accumulates inside relation.
This describes my relationship with Debbie. When we first met in 1997 — there was no jeong between us. Sixteen years of returning each year for ten days — jeong accumulated. This jeong — is what made us "siblings." Not blood, not law, not paper. Jeong.
And — the Korean word uri, the Korean first-person plural that includes the listener and dissolves the boundary between self and other.
"Uri" is translated into English as "we." But this translation — does not fit at all. The Korean uri is a far stranger word.
In English we say "my mother." In Korean, how do we say it? Not "nae eomeoni" ("my mother") but — "uri eomeoni" ("our mother"). Why? Mother is not the property of me alone. She is ours. The mother of the family, more broadly of the community.¹²
In English, "my country." In Korean — "uri nara" ("our country"). In English, "my house" — in Korean, "uri jip" ("our house") (even people who live alone often say it this way). In English, "my school" — in Korean, "uri hakgyo" ("our school").
What does this grammatical feature say? The individual is not first. The relation is first. Mother is — not my personal possession but — a being inside a network of relations. The school is part of the community I belong to, not my personal property.
This is — the ontology that Korean speakers unconsciously express every day. Relational thought embedded in the very structure of the language. The opposite of the possessive-pronoun grammar of Western languages.
Put jeong and uri together — and you have a Korean perichoresis.
Each individual remains itself. But at the same time — is dissolved in a web of relations. Mother is my mother but at the same time our mother. The house is my house but at the same time our house. I am I, but at the same time part of uri.
This structure — is both the strength and the weakness of Korean society. The strength: communal bonds. The resilience of Korean society — postwar reconstruction after the Korean War, recovery from the IMF crisis, the COVID response — much of it came from this communal bond. The sense of binding one another into "uri." The capacity to feel another's pain as one's own.
The weakness: the risk of blurring individual boundaries. When "uri" becomes too strong — the individual disappears. Personal freedom is crushed by the demands of community. It becomes a coerced "we." This too is the dark side of Korean society.
For balance in this chapter — I have to look at what happens when Korea's relational tradition operates in distorted form.
Coerced collectivism. This is a long-standing problem of Korean society. Suppressing individual difference in the name of "uri." Closing off legitimate criticism in the name of "harmony." Concealing truth in the name of "chemyeon (face)." Denying children's autonomy in the name of "hyo (filial piety)." The excessive emphasis on "nunchi" as a skill.
All of this — is the shadow of the relational wisdom of Korean tradition. Perichoresis's "dwelling within one another" is distorted into "having to lose oneself." Jeong's "accumulation" is distorted into "inability to leave." Uri's "community" is distorted into "denial of individuality."
One concrete example: Korean workplace culture. "Our company," "a family-like atmosphere" — these phrases are often used. But in fact — forced overtime, "gapjil", pressure to attend after-work drinking are routine. The language of "uri" — becomes the mask of labor exploitation. To call the company "family" is — a rhetorical tool to make legitimate wage negotiation feel impossible.
This is the Korean version of the danger of perichoresis we saw in Chapter 15. The use of relational language to conceal a power structure.
So Korean has another particular word. Han (恨). This too is untranslatable. The English "resentment," "grudge," "sorrow" are all partial.
Han is — a state in which unjust suffering, unresolved, has accumulated. Not anger. Anger is expressed. Han is — anger that could not be expressed. Pressed down, swallowed, but not gone — a deep sorrow.¹³
That han is the collective feeling of the Korean people, many writers and thinkers have said. The han of the Imjin War, the han of colonization, the han of division, the han of dictatorship. Centuries of unresolved suffering.
And — one reason so much han has accumulated is — that the collectivism of Korean society silenced individual voices. Even in the face of injustice — pressure to "endure," "harmonize," "settle it within uri." This pressure stopped expression. Han accumulated.
The existence of han proves something: Korea's relational tradition is not perfect. There are shadows. Acknowledging the shadows — is the only way to recover the tradition's true value.
In the twenty-first century this shadow has appeared in extreme form. Korea's suicide and fertility statistics.
The highest suicide rate among OECD countries. Especially among the young and the elderly.¹⁴ The world's lowest birth rate. As of 2023 the total fertility rate is 0.72. A third of the 2.1 needed to maintain the population. A speed of population decline unprecedented in human history is forecast.
The causes of these statistics are complex. Economic pressure, housing costs, educational competition, conflict over gender roles. But — one dimension cannot be dismissed. The collapse of communal bonds.
In its rapid industrialization, Korea — dismantled traditional community. The countryside emptied. Extended families shrank to nuclear families. Even nuclear families are breaking down into single-person households. The old "uri" — no longer functions.
And — a new way of relating has not been found. We do not want to go back to the old coerced collectivism (rightly so). But Western individualism — does not work well in Korean society either. Both models are insufficient.
A third path is needed. That is — the ultimate message of this chapter. Perichoresis, hwajaeng, sicheonju, jeong, uri — what these various languages point to in common: a way of relational existence. Not coerced but rich. The individual respected without being isolated. Community functioning without overwhelming.
This third path is — what twenty-first-century Korea must find. And perhaps — what the whole world must find together.
The various Eastern concepts seen in this chapter — Wonhyo's hwajaeng, Toegye's gyeong, sicheonju, the yin-yang of East Asian medicine, jeong, uri — resonate with perichoresis but are not identical to it.
The strengths of the Western perichoresis tradition:
The strengths of Eastern relational tradition:
These two traditions — have much to learn from each other. The West gives system, the East gives practice. The West gives the language of justice, the East the sense of harmony. The West preserves individual dignity, the East preserves the richness of relation.
This perichoresis of East and West — is one possible direction of healing in the twenty-first century. The resources of one civilization alone are not enough. A relation in which several traditions dwell within one another while remaining themselves. This is the orientation of this book.
Closing this chapter — I owe one personal confession.
That I am Korean and a member of the Cree — this double identity — was at first confusion. Which is the real me? How can I be both? The burden of having to prove I belong "enough" to either side.
But — through the lens of perichoresis, I can understand this in another way. The double identity itself is a living instance of perichoresis. Remaining Korean, living as a member of the Cree, the two identities — neither separated nor melted into one another. Dwelling within each other.
Debbie — instinctively — understands this. She has never told me, "Stop being Korean." Nor "discard your Korean self in order to become Cree." Rather — she sees that it is precisely because I am Korean that I can be Cree kin. My doubleness — is the richness of the relation.
This is — the quiet confession of the entire book. As I came to Cusco, stood before the stones of the Inca, dipped my hand in the water of Tipón, touched the great stones of Sacsayhuamán — I saw all of this as a Korean, as a member of the Cree, as a medical researcher, as an amateur lover of history — through several lenses. No single lens was enough. Several lenses dwelling within one another — made a new seeing possible.
This is the practice of perichoresis. And — it is the way the wisdoms of various civilizations meet. Not by clinging to a single tradition but by letting several traditions dance within one another.
Closing this chapter — one feeling remains. Korea's ancestors knew it too.
Those known by names like Wonhyo, Toegye, Choe Je-u. And the countless grandmothers, farmers, mothers whose names are not recorded. They — knew. That relation precedes being. That one can dwell within another while remaining oneself. That jeong accumulates with time. That "I" is not separate from "uri."
This wisdom — was largely lost in modernization. Western individualism rolled in. Industrialization and urbanization dismantled community. Colonization and war left collective wounds. All of this weakened Korea's relational tradition.
But — it did not vanish entirely. The Korean word "uri" is still used. The expression "jeong-i deureotda" is still used. At the holidays, scattered families still gather. The neighborhood grandmother still hands snacks to the kids next door. These small gestures are — the persistence of tradition.
And — there is a possibility of rediscovery. As Debbie found home in the Cree tradition — Koreans can find home again in Korean tradition. But — critically. Acknowledging the shadows. Refusing coerced collectivism. Relearning the true structure of perichoresis.
In this chapter we have seen the philosophical and religious expressions of relational ontology. But — these cannot remain abstract. Concrete practice is needed.
One of the most concrete fields of practice is — medicine. Our bodies. Our health. Our diseases. The way we live and die.
In the next chapter we meet a medical concept — Salutogenesis. The perspective established by Aaron Antonovsky in the late twentieth century — asking how health arises. This is the medical embodiment of perichoresis. And it — converges remarkably with the East Asian medical wisdom we touched on briefly here.
The body works perichoretically. Health is generated perichoretically. Healing happens perichoretically.
This is the subject of Chapter 17.
¹ On the life and thought of Wonhyo, see Go Yeong-seop, Wonhyo Tamsaek (Seoul: Yeongi-sa, 2001); Lee Gi-yeong, The Thought of Wonhyo (Seoul: Hongbeop-won, 1967).
² On Hwajaeng thought, see Park Seong-bae, Korean Thought and Buddhism (Seoul: Hyeanjisa, 2009), especially chapter 3.
³ Wonhyo, Daeseung-gisillonso. Modern Korean translation: Eun Jeong-hui, trans. and annot., Wonhyo's Treatise on Awakening Faith — Commentary and Subcommentary (Seoul: Iljisa, 1991).
⁴ On the life and thought of Toegye Yi Hwang, see Lee Sang-eun, The Life and Learning of Toegye (Seoul: Yemun Seowon, 1999); Geum Jang-tae, The Thought of the Toegye School (Seoul: Jipmundang, 1998).
⁵ Toegye's anecdote with the ants appears in various biographical sources. A typical example is the citation in Lee Deok-hong, Gyesangi Seonrok.
⁶ On the life of Choe Je-u and Donghak, see Yoon Seok-san, Suun Choe Je-u, the Founder of Donghak (Seoul: Mosineun saramdeul, 2004); Oh Mun-hwan, The Political Philosophy of Donghak (Seoul: Mosineun saramdeul, 2003).
⁷ The concept of sicheonju is grounded in Choe Je-u's Donggyeong Daejeon, especially the "Podeokmun" and "Nonhakmun." Translation: Kim Yong-hwi, trans. and annot., Donggyeong Daejeon (Seoul: Mosineun saramdeul, 2020).
⁸ For an estimate of the casualties of the Donghak Peasant Movement, see Park Maeng-su, The Dream of Gaebyeok, Awakening East Asia (Seoul: Mosineun saramdeul, 2011).
⁹ On the medical application of the yin-yang concept, see Paul U. Unschuld, Medicine in China: A History of Ideas (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985).
¹⁰ On the evidence base for integrative medicine, see David S. Rosenthal et al., research review on Integrative Medicine at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, in the Journal of Clinical Oncology.
¹¹ For a conceptual analysis of the Korean term "jeong," see Choi Sang-Chin, Cultural Psychology of Koreans (Seoul: Jisigsanup Publishing, 2011).
¹² On the grammatical and social meaning of the Korean term "uri," see Lee Gyu-ho, The Power of Words (Seoul: Je3 Gihoek, 1981).
¹³ On the Korean character of the concept of "han," see Kim Yeol-gyu, The Han of Koreans (Seoul: Mineumsa, 1980).
¹⁴ Statistics on Korea's suicide rate from the most recent OECD Health Statistics.