The paperwork is in. I am officially TEFL certified, and Beau and I are officially obligated/allowed to work in the Dae Han Min Gook for one more year. These two years have passed so quickly, and it's a little sad to think that, once again, it's time to say goodbye to some of the people who started this journey with me.
Three years. The realization that I will have lived in Korea made me wonder about the things I miss from home. Every month is gets easier to live here, but there are some things that never stop making me homesick. Especially around Christmas time. Sure, Korea changes every year, and the "holiday" season is noticeably more prominent this time around, but I miss the excitement people and love people exude this time of year back home. Korea may have the kitsch, but it doesn't have the love (well, except in Nampo :). But, we do what we can in our little place.
That being said, Beau and I had an awesome Thanksgiving with the Swarringtons and other amazing, divinely beautiful people who will be missed when they return to the motherland(s) to seek their fortune. And, we're looking forward to a Christmas filled with loving friends, and filled with gratitude that Beau's mom's (my 시엄마) "jasmine" is treatable. We wish we could be there, but we feel better knowing that she's got a great community of friends and neighbors, and is in the very capable and busy hands of my sister-in-law, who basically rocks.
Each day here is a lesson, and I feel blessed to be living a life that includes such deep joy and contentment, as well as curiosity. Merry Christmas, ya'll.
I love the feeling of being overwhelmed by life's complex surprises. I was looking forward to writing a post about climbing the highest peak in mainland South Korea (5, 564 ft, in case you were wondering). Or about how I always pronounce my Korean vowels wrong (the English equivalent: just think of Brad Pitt in Snatch).
But this post is really about the peaks and valleys that, like Jiri-san, have filled our lives this month. We both are coming to a point where we feel like building something In Korea. Maybe the next is adventure is creating a home here, despite the temporary nature of our employment. It's like those Buddhist sand paintings that take the monks days to make, only to be finally torn down. Nothing is permanent, so why should we wait to be fulfilled until we find a "home?" Is there really such a thing, or is it possible to carry your contentment around with you, wherever you go? I'm feeling like the answer to that question is yes, and I feel blissed out to have been able to create so many incarnations in this one life of mine, only to tear them down and start over. And, for the first time, I'm looking forward to doing it as many times as possible before taking the final journey that we all must take.
I guess the thing that's got me thinking about these cycles is finding out that Beau's Mom has lymphoma. She has fantastic chances for recovery, and she's been really positive about it, which will serve her and our family well in the coming months. But I can't help drawing parallels between her illness and my own mother's. Beth's chances are great. My mom's weren't (though she stayed very strong about it). She participated in a test study, to help the doctors try to find a treatment for other people. I'm happy for Beth's possibilities, and the life she can look forward to with our family, the kinds of relationships she'll be able to build with her family, the depth of connection that she can choose to have with her children. And it makes me miss my mom. But, if not for the experience of losing her, I might not realize how precious the time you have is, and I might not understand that pain is a chance to learn. I might not be awake to the cycles of life, and I might take too much for granted. And I wouldn't really understand what Beau's family is going through right now. So, the biggest feeling I have right now is deep gratitude for everything that has brought me to this point, and multitudes of love for Beau and his family.
So I guess from this perspective, it's hard to distinguish the peaks from the valleys.
Jeju was back-breaking, sun-baking, tear-making, and frust-rating. And Worth It. Lugging a 50 lb trailer behind my bike for five days though scorching sun, torrential typhoons, up and down hills and valleys, over small, smooth coastal roads next to aquamarine waters and blackest volcanic rocks, through farms and cities, on designated bike paths and highway shoulders, across bridges and next to piers, with one sore ass, sore knees, and with a nigh near 3rd degree sunburn, was the most physically challenging thing I've ever done. Six months ago I was so out of shape that it would have been impossible. I've never been so proud of myself for finishing anything.
Another lesson: everywhere you go, there's at least one person who is willing to help you in a small but useful way. In Jeju, this help can in the form of an adjoshi (uncle) who oiled our bikes for us after the typhoon.
Yet another lesson: It's possible to sleep just about anywhere in this country for free, provided you bring a tent. No one will say anything.
In response to a passive-aggressive email request from my great grandmother, I'm resurrecting the ol' blog. Life in Korea has become settled, peaceful. I've grown comfortable in my non-Koreaness, growing more definite boundaries around my self. Korea is growing smaller, less strange. I find myself needing to travel more and more often. I'm feeling the beginnings of a push that will take me elsewhere, and it's about time.
Is that the sound of the wooden bell I had trained myself to expect?
Tack, Tack, Tack, Tack, Tack.
Is it really 3 am? I had spent the night waiting, a night full of false alarms, a room full of snores, three Scottish sisters talking well into the night, and a sudden and unexpected stream of loud Korean in the wee hours.
Tack, Tack, Tack, Ta-CELL PHONE ALARM!
Is it really 3 am or did someone forget to turn off the phone?
LIGHTS ON!
Yes, it's 3 am. Time to start the temple day. Frazzled female heads emerge grumpily from under pink satin duvet covers. Eyes full of sleep crud seem to question the wisdom of embarking on this particular Korean adventure.
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We woke up at 7 am, made eggs, oranges, and toast. We finished packing our pjs, toothpaste, towels, and soap. I threw in some hiking poles in case we felt up to hiking the famous Korean trail between the North and South gates of an ancient fortress. The trail begins right around Beomosa, the temple at which we were to spend our weekend.
I was excited as we headed to the subway, and not a little nervous. I am intrigued with the simplicity of the Buddhist monk's lifestyle, and was looking forward to a weekend of peace mixed with a (much needed) opportunity to learn some self discipline. After a 25 minute ride on the subway, we met our party of 20 wegooks (non-natives) and, after the exchange of Dunkin' Doughnut's blueberry muffins (which were actually unusually purple) we left to find our bus.
The bus ride up made me appreciate the seclusion in which ancient monks must have lived. It was only about a 7 minute ride, but the popping of my ears told me that the hike would've taken a lot longer. The point of having temples so far up mountains or deep in forests is to give the journeyer time to leave the world behind. It gives one time to meditate on one's purpose for visiting the temple. Of course, a bus ride full of tourists left a little meditation time to be desired, but the view was incredible nevertheless.
Beomosa is one of the most famous temples in Korea. It houses several national treasures, including the main Buddha hall which is a gorgeously carved and painted wooden structure that is four hundred years old. Beomosa's fame and size make it an attractive tourist spot. In short, it's gorgeous and culturally relevant, but it's hardly a peaceful little mountain temple.
We arrived at about noon and had a simple vegetarian meal with the other temple visitors. A Jehovah’s Witness wearing a silver swastika ring (not to be confused with a Nazi symbol) sat with us. I cleaned my plate (in Buddhism wasting food is tantamount to saying that you don't care about the starving people of the world) and watched as others tried their best to do the same. We were then herded to the part of the temple compound in which we would be staying and given our training clothes. Though they were grey and shapeless, they were comfortable and warm and, with everyone wearing the same clothes and looking equally unattractive, I found it difficult to feel too self conscious. In a place whose function is to get you in touch with the inner world, I guess that's a good thing.
The view from the top of the hill was incredible. Tiled roofs gave way to majestic mountains in the distance. A fuchsia cherry blossom tree peeked over the wall. The temple buildings are done in ancient Korean style: sloping tiled roofs, carvings of protection animals such as dragons painted in vivid colors, heavy wooden doors, everywhere a riot of sculpture and design, each small piece filled with meaning. It was a place in which one could spend a lifetime and still never grasp the significance of every nook and cranny. Our schedule, however, left us little time for such a deep level of appreciation.
First came an opening ceremony. We were taught to bow in the Buddhist way, both half bows (a deep bow from the waist with hands together in prayer posture) and full bows (starting from a half bow, moving the legs into child's posture and cupping the hands face up). Beau was chosen to represent the wegooks, and did so well that the monk instructing us suggested that both of us shave our heads and live at the temple. I declined, sure of the fact that I could not pull off a Sinead. We then made our Buddhist vows if we wished, and presented the Buddha with a red rose.
We then took a (too) short tour of the temple, walking down walled pathways strung with hundreds of colorful lanterns. We arrived first at the main Buddha hall, a building almost 400 years of age. Beomosa was originally constructed in 678 CE, but has been burned to the ground several times during Korea's unfortunate history. The main hall was rebuilt in 1613, after a Japanese invasion, and is a national treasure of Korea. Out of respect for those praying inside, I did not take photos of this hall. It is breathtaking with its intricate and faded wooden lotus flowers and its towering golden Buddha. I experienced an overwhelming sense of reverence and peace while listening to those around me chanting Buddhist sutras. I was lightly shaken from my reverie when the translator informed us that it was time to experience a traditional Buddhist meal. I realized that I was starving.
Normally, I'm a pescetarian, meaning I don't eat any meat besides fish. It's been hard to avoid eating meat in Korea, so I've relaxed my dietary guard a little and allowed myself to try some Korean delicacies that include meat. While I find the seafood here to be delicious I have discovered, to my surprise, that I no longer enjoy the taste of meat. That being said, the possibility of eating clean, vegetarian food for the weekend excited me.
Monks have a ritual for practically everything. Every detail of life is incorporated into their spiritual practice. Eating is no exception. Monks view food with distaste--they eat only to survive in order to achieve Buddhahood while incarnate. Knowing this, I anticipated that the food would be horrible.
Given a set of bowls to tote with us, we made our way to the dining hall. We were met by the monk who taught us how to bow. He was there to instruct us in the art of Buddhist eating. Basically, there are four bowls. One for rice, one for soup, one for side dishes, and one for warm, clean water. There is also a set of wooden chopsticks, a wooden spoon, and a set of linen, each with a specific purpose. During the entire meal, we were encouraged to sit with a straight back to receive proper nourishment, both physically and energetically. First, we had to unpack our bowls. The biggest one, for rice, went on the bottom left. The next, for soup, on the bottom right. The one for water went on the top right and the smallest one, for side dishes, went on the top left. Beneath the bowls lay a small table cloth. All unpacking must be done mindfully, without sound.
Here, a note on mindfulness. Everything done at the temple is supposed to receive the participant's full mental presence. For example, while walking, we were taught to pay attention to the sensation of walking. This kind of attention, Buddhists believe, is one way that can lead to the ultimate state of non-dual consciousness. Another way is, of course, meditation, though the two practices complement and support each other.
After packing, repacking, and unpacking several times, we were ready to eat. I volunteered to serve the soup. Each person was encouraged to only take what they could eat, to show respect for one's own body as well as for the starving of the world. Monks do not waste food. They do not cultivate eyes that are bigger than their stomachs, so to speak. After serving the soup and serving myself, I sat down to eat. Tack! The bamboo clapper signaled that we were to do a half bow, then begin eating. I found the food to be simple, but delicious. Not at all horrible! After we finished, we cleaned our bowls in a specific rotation with a few spoonfuls of clean water and one piece of pickled yellow radish. Then, we drank that water that we used to clean our bowls. Again, nothing was wasted. Finally, we poured the rest of our drinking water into a communal bucket. If even one grain of rice or pepper seed is found in the bowl, every person in that line has to share the water. Despite the fact that our water actually did contain some rice and chili seeds (I have no idea how that happened), the monk was merciful and did not make us drink it.
After cleaning our bowls with the designated piece of linen, repacking, tying, and covering our bowls, we went to have tea with my favorite monk. We sat in a big circle drinking tea and introducing ourselves. The monk, whom I have dubbed "Buddhaland," is probably the most blissful being I have ever met in my life. He always was smiling and radiating energy that I can only describe as "bubbly." During the tea, I sat to his left and noticed curiously that he was missing the top half of his left pinky. I never got to ask him how he lost it. After a pleasant tea, we headed to the main temple courtyard for the evening ceremony.
In the courtyard stands a drum tower. There, I saw monks wailing on what had to be the biggest drum in the world. My friends and I all puzzled about the size of the animal who had given its hide to construct that drum. There was also a gong, and a wooden bell shaped like a fish. After all of the monks in the tower had a turn drumming, we went to the main hall again to listen to the evening chant and bow to the Buddha. Again, after our tight schedule, I welcomed the respite I found in bowing and drifting with the sounds of monks chanting. To me, being in a hurry at a temple is paradoxical. Perhaps they were just trying to show us a much as possible during our brief stay.
Returning to the hall, we were informed that we would have meditation instruction. We did some stretches, sat in our personal best meditation postures, and meditated for about 10 minutes. Then, we were informed that we looked tired, told we should get ready for bed. We were to start the next day at three am, and the men were to sleep in a different hall than the women. Over the next 15 minutes, the hall was transformed into a sea of pink, faux-satin bedclothes. Twenty women competed for the use of the two sinks in the bathroom. Finally, at about 9:15 pm, the lights were turned off. The three Scotch sisters didn't seem to take the hint that lights out means "get some sleep" and talked well into the night. So did a few of the Korean women. I manage to get about an hour of sleep between strange dreams, women going in and out of the sliding doors, and one woman talking loudly in Korean in her sleep. Not to mention the snores. I surrendered to the fact that I was not to have any quality rest and that the next day would be very, very long.
When the lights came on, I was ready. We turned in our colorful (and surprisingly comfy-) bedding and again rushed the bathroom. I wondered if the monks sleep on pink nylon, as well. After my morning ritual of face washing and tooth brushing (performed a few hours earlier than usual) and last in line, I mindfully walked to the main courtyard, where the same monks, bright eyed and wearing grey toboggans that matched their flowing robes, played the huge drum again. I was astonished at their ability to keep tempo at 3 am, but, then again, they do it every day. We went to a different hall, listened to the morning ceremonial chants, bowed with the monks, and then prepared ourselves to return to our little hall to perform the ceremony of 108 bows.
If this ceremony sounds benign to you, be assured that it is not. It is a test of endurance and physical prowess. During our ceremony, we were to make a set of prayer beads that numbered 108. For each bead, we performed one full bow. After about seven bows, your outer thighs and calves start to burn. Your toes begin to ache. Around bow fifty, the endorphins kick in. You begin to think "this isn't so hard." Around seventy, it feels hard again. The knowledge than an 80 year old German man had completed the ceremony kept me going, as did the lovely smell and color of the cedar beads they gave us to string. When we finished, I couldn't believe it was over. Confusion overtook me as I noticed I had five more beads left. Relief followed as I realized that the person who counted the beads had made a mistake. One more bow, and I would be finished. Throughout the ritual, I alternated between full concentration and awe at the monk as I watched him rise and bow, rise and bow, all with the fluidity of water, while my own bows were staccato and full of the sound of popping joints and the sensation of muscles long since stiffened. This year, I vowed, I will do more Yoga. I want to be in the same shape as this monk.
After that, we were off to breakfast. It was about six am. We unpacked, were served, bowed, and said a badly-translated pre-meal chant. The food was once again simple and nourishing. We came to the end of another meal. Once again, we cleaned our bowls and dumped out water in the bucket. Again, to my frustration, some of the buckets contained food particles. This time however, the monks allowed a volunteer to drink some of the water for the group. It was quite a selfless act as most of us still possess our inborn Western germophobia.
After a brief rest, we were to undergo another arduous but rewarding ordeal. We were to hike to the top of the mountain to see the hermitage-- the place where monks go to be alone with their practice. Hiking is one of my favorite pastimes, one in which I am allowed to indulge often here in Korea, but after 108 bows and a 3 am start, I was anything but ready for this hike. But I made it, and felt some (I know, it's horrible) satisfaction at noticing the fact that the monk was also sweating. We were granted a few moments of photo-taking, and then we filed inside the hermitage to meditate.
This meditation would have been very enjoyable. The endorphins being released in my brain from all of the physical difficulties would have made it easy under normal circumstances to quiet my mind and focus. The subject of the meditation centered on looking out on the sweep of mountains and human life before us, and imagining that it was ours. Imagine that we owned everything we saw. This image gave rise to feelings of satisfaction, and, more importantly, self mastery. Because we were in a room of around forty people, it was impossible to imagine that you were the only one who owned everything. You owned it along with the rest of humanity. As I said, this meditation had enormous potential. However, I felt a little stunted because it only lasted for ten minutes, and it takes longer to get into a really deep state of meditation. Also, it is important here to talk a little bit about the position of being foreign in Korea.
Korea is an extremely homogenous culture. As such, being foreign really makes you stand out. Also, Korea has developed at an astonishing rate, and this, combined with the innate sense of hospitality present in this culture, renders many Korean institutions eager for relevance abroad. So, as in the case of the temple, people are really eager to show the world that wegooks appreciate Korean culture, too. As a foreigner, you are quite often on display. The temple stay was no different in that sense. From our arrival, to our early morning faces, to our bodies rapt in meditation, we were photographed. And photographed loudly, making a constant awareness of our outer surroundings pretty difficult to tune out. This difficulty could have been ameliorated with a longer sitting, but our schedule wouldn't allow it. So, back down the mountain we went.
Next, was tea with the Abbott, a genial man who spoke to us about the nature of Mind, and about the traps of choosing to remain attached to the world. He questions whether we were truly free. He talked to us about some of the things that trap us, and wondered whether we were choosing to remain attached to the world out of fear and complacency or whether we were freely choosing to do so. Did we truly understand freedom? Then, we bowed, and he shook our hands, gave us a wooden bracelet, and went with us for a photo op.
After the photo time, we went back to our hall, and changed into our civvies. It was now time to say goodbye to the temple and the monastic life. Buddhaland gave us a ritual well wishing, and then we were free to wander, finish photographing, and return to the "real world."
Was it a worthwhile experience? Our course. Would I do another templestay? Yes, but not at Beomosa. I really enjoy opportunities to focus on my evolution as a human being. Considering the type of person I am, being on display hinders that focus. Am I cut out for joining a religious community? Again, not in this lifetime.
