#jeongbalsan

[travelandlifeworld]

Jeongbalsan Village in Ilsan Goyang #southkorea #jeongbalsan (at ILsan, Goyang, Gyeonggi Do) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cn8WWtdNDAt/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[exchangeinseoul]

Theatre in Jeongbalsan

[lovesouthkorea]

Western Dom in Ilsan by Aaron Brown

[auroraflx-blog]

Temples

       Steaming green rice cake in hand, freshly made at the Jeongbal Buddhist Temple, chewy, sticky, a hint of sweetness. A large hunk, wrapped in a clear plastic bag as my parting gift, chunks of nuts and other mystery fruit. 

        Arriving this muggy overcast morning, after hiking over Jeongbalsan, buzzing with birds and insects, I was a little nervous. The Tibetan Buddhist services I’d attended in Seattle were half in English and Sakya, a completely different sect of Buddhism. 

The temple stands regally between upscale houses, a beacon of color, twin dragons jutting out from each roof corner, teal, pink and blue geometric patterns climb up the sides, around the open windows to sneak out under the wee, round peach flowers supporting the steep, rippling, dark slate roof. 

Removing my blue slip-ons at the door, I hesitantly follow a group of older women, some in perms and hanboks, up the sleep wooden staircase. The temple is illustrious, three golden Buddhas dominate the front of the room, flanked by intricate paintings of lotus ponds and hundreds of miniature Buddhas reflected in gold. As I wander in the back, shyly looking for a free fuchsia embroidered mat, I gape at the intricate detail, expertly balanced with linear, swooping flowers and interlacing shapes in vivid blues, reds, yellows, pinks and light green. Crane and dragon panels’ center on the ceiling, outer ceiling paintings predominately bodhisattvas, perhaps llamas, expertly rendered. 

Offerings of rich purple grapes, peaches, cantaloupe, white cloth bags of rice and rice cakes line the front on flower and dragon carved tables, light wood shimmering, accented by subtly green and pink stained lotus plants. Two breathtaking lotus arrangements balance each side, fresh blooms glowing, two unopened buds sprout out of the display, Ikebana style. Twin carved serpents twist out of the ceiling, down towards the audience, white teeth gleaming around red apple filled mouths, wire whiskers like vines. 

The ladies in front of me compare floral umbrellas and chat, joined by a friend who looked at me and smiled, all three turning in their seated poses to beam at me, surprised at my presence. “Ne, ne, sangsangnim, ne miguk.” (yeah, yeah I’m a teacher, yes, American) I think they asked if I was Buddhist, but Buddha starts with a “ch” and is very long, so I just smiled and said yes. They said something to a few other women who peered curiously at me, one friendly lady, with bright lipstick and long curled black hair moved next to me to ensure I was on the right page. She was from LA, and assured me she didn’t understand everything either, as she flipped the pages of my black scripture book, filled with Hangul and Chinese to the beginning.

A short, plump, bald and squinty monk entered to sit under the Buddha’s on a gleaming throne, gently striking the round brass gong next to him, the crowd bowed and we starting chanting. Nothing like Tibetan, I had a hard time keeping up, but as the droning repetition continued, eyes scanning for recognizable sound combinations, practitioners swaying gently side to side, cross legged, I reached that trance like calm of concentration and pureness of intent. I’m sure a sociological symptom of repetitive incantations in a group, that religions love to employ, but calming none the less. 

Next, women riffled in their bags for their wallets, lining up to slip donations into a smooth wooden box, missing my cue, I had another chance as the line turned around a lacquered ring nosed cow to drop my won in the sloped slot, continuing in line, bowing, hands open, we received an herbal smelling powder from the monk, smeared on with hands, to pause and bow to a candle framed Buddha with scrolls, the woman in front turned to demonstrate I should pat the powder on my head and bow, standing,  forehead to floor, three more times. The chanting continued, as we turned to the back of the room, resplendent, colorful paintings framing small glass cases, each cubby filled with a white paper slip inked in hangul, a name of a recently deceased relative.  Offering tables to ceiling, each little box had a tiny flame below it, a few blank, waiting. We prayed for their souls on their journey closer to enlightenment, select members of the congregation, including three adorable little girls, age two to seven, lined up to pour water offerings into round porcelain cups, which were swirled, presented, and after three were lined up, to be poured together in a steel bowl. The line nearly complete, a gorgeous song erupted, Korea’s Mother’s song, a beautiful sailing of woman’s voices, who all know the melody by heart. 

Turning to face the monk again, we chanted until my feet fell asleep, then grinning, the monk proclaimed something, everyone sent hands outstretched, fingers burst open, “Fighting!” they yelled, a Korean cheer. My friend explained “Your name, fighting! Your husband’s name, fighting! Your children’s names, fighting!” Then, open palmed, everyone started clapping. The monk went on, smiling eyed, for quite some time after that, my eyes wandering out the upper story window to the swaying green park below, to the bright flowered ceiling, golden Buddha’s, intricate vivid scrollwork painted on every inch of exposed wood, until three of the women, including my friend excused themselves, then another lady. I said my “om mani, padme, hungs,” sending compassion and love to some of my more difficult students, bowed and stepped out, followed by a friendly nun. At first worried, she led me downstairs to a simple wooden floored room, pristine, nine low dark wooden tables were set with bibimbap. She sat me down and oversaw as I added the rich brown flecked rice and spicy red sauce to the squash, mushroom, assorted veggie mixture. 

Eating with a few other early quitters, we shared Jalmokgetsumnida’s (Thankyou, enjoy your food) and dug in. Unsure how to proceed, I tried to wash up, swatted off by an auntie in the kitchen, and proceeded upstairs to the exit. That’s when another adorable lady ran me down to give me the fresh hot rice cake. At this temple and yoga I find myself surrounded by older women, when first in Korea, going out, staying at bars late at night, it was Korean men, forced out at late business meetings, drinking away their stress. It was good to experience the balance and peer into the less visible and loud parts of Korea. 

Like, as I write this, three ladies, by the koi filled, lotus scattered pond, under the traditionally painted gazebo, at first I saw them share lunch, cross legged, passing little bowls of fruit and sides, then, having proceeded to walk the hillside of the park, carefully pluck specific plants…herbs…greens? Now they are sorting them and softly chatting to each other. One of them smiled a “Hi,” as she slipped back in forth in front of my stolen bench.