Precious Mugwort

Precious Mugwort
When spring arrives, the scent of mugwort is the first thing that comes to my mind. To most, it is just a common spring herb, but to me, it is a memory of life that I can never forget. Even the faintest fragrance of mugwort brings back the painful times of my childhood as if they were yesterday.

  
Around the time I was graduating from elementary school, my family faced an unbearable crisis. My father’s pottery studio was hit by a massive scam. A pottery dealer from Seoul had commissioned a full kiln of Ido-dawan (tea bowl) restorations, promising a large sum of money.

My father poured his heart and soul into the work day and night, but the promise was never kept. The pottery was gone, and the money never returned.
Having lived his whole life trusting only in clay and honesty, my father could not withstand the shock. He left home without a word, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence. The rice bin stood empty, and my family lived in constant anxiety, unsure of how we would survive the next day.

One day, my mother took my hand and led me to the fields. The mountains and meadows were blanketed in light green mugwort, pushing their heads up through the soil. We picked the mugwort in silence. After a while, Mother handed me the basket and said quietly,
"I am too ashamed to go... would you go to the market for me?"
In those few words, all of my mother’s pride and tears were contained.

I carried the basket of mugwort with my small hands and headed to the market. I was embarrassed and afraid, but I found the courage for the sake of my family. The words "Please buy some mugwort" got stuck in my throat, but eventually, passersby began to buy them one by one. The few coins I held in my hand that day were worth more than anything to our family; they were our hope.
With that money, we bought rice and put a warm meal on our table. Looking back, what I sold that day was not just mugwort—it was our family’s hope, my mother’s tears, and the strength to live on.
Much time has passed since then. Today, I live a life where I share comfort and healing through my paintings. Yet, when spring comes and the faint scent of mugwort rides the breeze, I am still that young girl standing in the field.
Though those times were poor, that poverty taught me the preciousness of life, the love for family, and the resilience to endure any hardship.


That is why, to me, mugwort is more than just a herald of spring. It is my mother’s love, the hope that kept my family alive, and the most precious memory that made me who I am today.
One day, while helping my family by selling mugwort, I made a quiet vow in my heart:
'If I can only manage to go to school, I will accomplish anything.'
Education was not a luxury to me; it was hope. I was grateful just for the chance to attend school, and I promised myself that I would endure any difficulty if given the opportunity to study. That vow was not just a vague childhood dream, but a desperate yearning that anchored my life.
Looking back, that promise was the strength that kept me standing. Whenever hardships came, I recalled that vow from my childhood and never gave up. Eventually, I kept that promise, grew into an adult, and walked the path of an artist.
Reflecting on it now, the mugwort I gathered in the fields that day did more than just provide our next meal. It taught me how to keep my dreams alive through any trial, serving as a precious hope that shaped my life.

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