Golgulsa Temple Stay

I arrive at Golgulsa, which means Stone Buddha Temple, around four in the afternoon, after a six-hour bus ride that leaves my knees aching for some exercise, and boy, am I about to get it. We serve ourselves a simple meal of kimchi, plain rice, mushrooms, and tofu soup. Mmmm. Traditionally, I have always hated tofu, mostly because it has the same consistency of my dirty dish sponge. But to complain would be un-Buddha-like, so I swallow my objections. Even if I had given in to my initial inclination to sneer scornfully at the tofu, that wouldn’t have gotten me very far, since the temple has an extreme policy against wasting food, and if you take it, you must eat it all, down to the last grain of rice. The whole meal, I keep flashing back to being seven years old, only now my mom was wearing the loose gray monk’s robes, saying she didn’t care if that last bite of taco had accidentally been contaminated by my dad’s sour cream spoon, I was going to eat it because we were lucky to have it and there were starving people in Asia. Now I look to my right, where the men are segregated, at the meager portions of rice each monk allows himself, and I think, once again, my mom was right.

After dinner, I get settled into Ellen’s room, which is completely devoid of furnishings of any kind, save the mats we will sleep on, a thin blanket, and a small, flat pillow filled with cut straw. “Welcome to asceticism,” she says, cheerfully. “Don’t worry, you’ll be so tired at the end of the day that you won’t even notice you’re on the floor.”

My first zennish experience falls just after dinner, as we make our way to the gym for bows and chanting. One thing I appreciate about the Zen Buddhists is that they don’t view Buddhism strictly as a religion, since Buddha himself never claimed to be God, which I think is quite decent of him. Instead, they view it as a way of life, and as such, it is more than okay to be a Christian or anything else, and still practice Zen Buddhism. Therefore, we bow not as a penitent to a deity, but as a sign of honor to a teacher, which is a concept I find I can more readily get behind. I’m glad they aren’t demanding my alliance, and that I don’t have to pretend reverence.

I echo Ellen’s movement with the full-body bows, which are nothing to scoff at. You begin standing with your hands in prayer position, then sink to your knees before falling prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched in front of you as you sit back on your feet in child’s pose. You then touch your palms to your shoulders, then back down to the floor, sit back up on your knees with hands back to prayer position, and stand up again. Something about the repetition of the movement appeals to me, and I find myself sinking into a slight trance as the ritual goes on to the sharp sound of a wooden gong and the chanting of well-worn words that somehow make the monks’ young voices seem wizened. However, by bow 45 or so, I start to wonder just how long this is going to last, and my mind begins to wander. The chanting is a little reminiscent of hearing an entire congregation recite the Apostle’s Creed: equal parts inspiring and unnerving. 108 bows later, we finish, and I wince at the renewed pangs in my joints, which doesn’t escape Ellen’s notice. She nods in understanding. “Temple life is hard on the knees.”

Before bed, we go back to the gym for sunmudo training, a zen martial art that was practiced exclusively by monks until about twenty years ago. Golgulsa is the sunmudo headquarters of the world, so it’s kind of a big deal. It’s not exactly the flashy ninja business to which I’ve become accustomed, however, because it’s not intended to be martial at all, but as a way to use breathing as a bridge between your mind and your body so they are one. In other words, it’s not about fighting. It mostly seems to be a lot of breathing, and of course more meditating. “See?” Ellen says, “it’s the perfect martial art because you don’t have to hurt anybody!”

“Uh-huh,” I say, breathing deeply and thinking with longing of the swords in Master’s office. We’re woken up at four the next morning by a chanting monk hitting a gong outside our doorway. First up is more chanting, followed yet again by meditation. I am not very good at meditation, falling victim to what another writer—Steven Copeland, I think—calls “puppy mind.” I’m supposed to be emptying my mind and focusing only on the present moment, but instead my thoughts bounce about in the silence just like a young lab: so early—don’t fall asleep—wonder what Anthony’s up to these days—Ross Lake sounds awesome—I want to see a bear—when do I get my GRE scores back—I hope I get in—maybe I can live in Montana—Ellen!—God my knees hurt—what’s Matt doing today?—there are bears in Montana—I live in Korea—I’m sitting by a monk—that monk is kind of cute—close your eyes, that’s not allowed—stay awake—on and on. After half an hour, we stand up for more meditating, this time while walking up to a statue at the top of a twisted path leading up an unforgiving hillside. This exercise goes a little better for me as I get to contemplate the sunrise, because at this point, I’m honestly starting to get tired of myself and need some outside stimulation. I used to have a once-weekly sunrise policy, where on Tuesdays I’d get up early enough to catch sun-up, but somehow in Korea that habit fell into disrepair. I’m considering reinstating it, because it’s the first unfalsified calm I’ve felt all weekend.

After Buddhist breakfast and tea time, we’re allowed free time, so we hop a bus into town and catch dinner and before I know it, I’ve got to start heading back to Seoul. Saying goodbye to Ellen always sucks, but ever since my junior year of college, one of us has been driving off into our own sunsets, so we’re getting used to it. There’s a lot to reflect on during the journey home. Obviously, one does not find enlightenment over the weekend, and truthfully, I wasn’t much of a searcher. But I can’t stop thinking about the bows. I found the movement kept my mind steadier, and was far less soporific than pure meditation. I pull out the sheet of paper that details the specific meditative purpose for each one. Here are a few of the bows I found especially resonant:

I bow to wonder where I came from and where I am going.
I bow to know that unchangeable love is flowing through the universe.
I bow to call attention to the good in others, but not the bad.
I bow for the friends who have been beside me, sharing my laughter and tears.
I bow to realize that my life is the movement of my soul.
I bow to be thankful for the sight of beautiful wildflowers that are always present.
I bow to give thanks for the mountains and landscapes that speak to me through wind and snow.
I bow to hope for peace between human beings and nature.
I bow to be thankful for all the good and beautiful things in my life.

Reflecting on the bows, I realize once again that prescriptive religion doesn’t seem to be the ticket for me. I prefer the distant yips of a coyote over chanting; forget your heavily perfumed incense, and give me instead the wispy curls of wood smoke rimmed in a sunset halo. After a stay at Golgulsa, I won’t be taking off my skeptic’s cloak just yet—but, it never hurts to check.

written by  alli_ockinga on September 25, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
Send a Compliment

comment on this...