The lkl korea Trip 2010

28. Temple Stay (95%) (Maitreya and pagoda)

We drive up a winding road, through woodland on the side of a valley until we arrive in the car park of Daewonsa Temple, in the foothills of Jirisan mountain. We are met in the car park by a monk well known to our local guide. “She’s my favourite monk,” he tells us. And yes, it seems that Daewonsa is almost exclusively inhabited by female monks.
“Our” monk, who later introduces herself as Neunghae, is in charge of temple-stayers and other visitors. Shaven-headed like all the monks, she has a wonderful smile and radiates an incredible warmth.
We are more than an hour late, and the scheduled evening meal has finished. But whether it’s divine intervention, or the local mayor gently pulling strings, they have kept the refectory open for us.
I follow wherever I am led. And before we do anything else it seems the first thing we must do is pay our respects to Buddha. Not for the first time on this trip, and definitely not for the last, I wish I was wearing slip-on shoes. We enter one of the shrines, having of course taken off our shoes, grab a cushion each from the pile in the corner (two piles for guests, two piles for the monks), and lay them side by side in front of the Buddha statue. I’m not sure what comes next, so I watch my guide out of the corner of my eye. We are going to do some bows, but I’m not sure how many, or what type of bow. If you’re not used to it, keeping your balance as you kneel down, placing your forehead to the ground, turning your palms upwards, and then standing up again, is difficult enough. But when you try to do it while watching what your neighbour is doing, it’s doubly difficult.
It was only three prostrations, and I managed to stumble twice. Not a good introduction to the life of peace at the temple. But it was a got me in training for what was to come.
Exiting the shrine, I grumbled as I tried to get my feet back into my shoes, and decided to give up, instead breaking their heels and using them henceforth as slippers. We are shown to our rooms and then directed to the refectory.
Waiting for us at the table is the mayor’s wife, obviously a well-known figure at the temple. Although there’s generally a segregation of the sexes at mealtimes, I was allowed to sit with my interpreter, the mayor’s wife and the local guide, Mr Min. Yoseph and the driver bond on a separate table.
I like my meat, but I would be perfectly happy being a vegetarian if every day I was fed the type of food I was given at Daewonsa. Countless side-dishes of every conceivable herb and vegetable, in all kinds of dressings, are laid out, together with a doenjang jjigae and rice. My own favourite herb was represented: yeolmae, both in leaf form and berry form. It is said that only Southerners can appreciate Yeolmae. If so, I was a Southerner in a previous life. Morgan, who has never tasted Yeolmae before, and who according to my friend Jin-gu was a monk in a previous life, almost spat it out. She’s obviously a Seoulite through and through.
After supper, our privileged group adjourned to a small room in a corner of the main courtyard, next to the main temple bell, for tea.
A monk sits in the corner of the room, brewing yellow tea, while we sit on the floor around the main table. Perfectly ripe fruits are laid out in front of us, including some of Sancheong’s famous strawberries.
The conversation rumbles on, I’m not sure about what, because it was all in Korean and my interpreter rightly didn’t feel the need to give me a running commentary. Maybe it turned towards acupuncture. For whatever reason, the lady mayor reaches into her bag and gets out her acupuncture needles.
First, Neunghae Sunim bows her head towards Mrs Mayor, to accept the needle in the middle of the skull. She makes all sorts of agonised grimaces to express the pain as the sharp steel went in. But she was just kidding. It’s soon clear that we are all to be treated in this way. Apparently a needle in the centre of the skull takes away your tiredness. To be honest, I didn’t feel a thing when the needle went in (and neither did I feel appreciably less tired), but maybe this was a long-term thing. We were told to leave the needles in until we went to bed for the night. Morgan had extra special treatment. As well as a needle in the top of her head, she also had a needle in the middle of her forehead.
Bbbonnngggg.
It’s 6:45pm, and the temple bell is ringing to signal the end of the day, and banish down the valley any worldly cares and thoughts.
Bbbonnngggg
The rich, round sound resonates around the courtyard, and with each peal a different set of harmonics make themselves heard. Ultimately, as the echo decays, the shifting soundscape settles on a melancholy minor third.
Bbbonnngggg
Somehow the tone is unlike any sound produced by a western church bell. Maybe it’s the fact that the bell is suspended in the open air, not in an enclosed belfry. Or that it’s hit with a wooden hammer rather than a metal clapper.
Bbbonnngggg
I just want to listen in silence to the sound of the bell. But the conversation around the table rattles on regardless. I wonder if it would be impolite to get up and go outside for a bit of peace and reflection. But my good manners get the better of me and I continue to try to pay attention, drinking my tea and picking at the melon, while wishing I was outside.
It’s now time to work out my schedule for the next fifteen hours. Just one night is obviously not enough to be introduced to what Buddhism is all about. And with nothing to go on, Neunghae Sunim asks me what I would like to do, and what I wanted to get out of my visit.
That’s a tricky question, because I’m not sure what temple stays are all about, and to be perfectly honest if I’d been in charge of booking the schedule myself I wouldn’t have booked myself a temple stay. Three o’clock in the morning is not my time of day, and everything I’d heard about temple stays involved getting up at that hour to do some prayers and meditation. How you’re supposed to meditate when you’re more than half asleep I wasn’t sure. But I couldn’t really say that I was only here at the temple because it was on my schedule, so I improvised something non-committal about wanting to find out more about the Buddhist way of life (and that if it involved eating yeolmae every day they might have a recruit).
Neunghae Sunim read me out the options. I was invited to choose as many or as few as I wanted.
This was really embarrassing. Was I expected to go for the full works? Or could I really just go to bed, have breakfast, have a stroll round the area and then leave for the next attraction? Better wait to hear what the options were. They were as follows:
(1) Join the monks for their regular 7:00pm and 3:30am prayers, followed by early morning meditation. It was now 6:55pm, so I’d kind of missed this already, but Neunghae said that was no problem. But 3:30am is definitely not my time of day. And despite my wanting to take advantage of opportunities that presented themselves to me, I considered what other opportunities would be presenting themselves later on during the following day, and how much better I would appreciate them with an extra few hours sleep. So thumbs down to this option.

(2) The 108 bows. I’d heard about this one. People had said what was in store, and how crippling it was. But I thought to myself: how hard can it be? 8pm-8:30pm sounded like a doddle, so that option was on. Besides which, I was told that I could do the 108 bows in a separate chapel so that no-one would see me making a fool of myself and laugh. Even better.

(3) The 9pm bell. This involved sitting in the courtyard listening to the bell. Now that sounded easy. And just right up my street. I was told I also had to meditate, to look in on myself. But they couldn’t really check, could they? Tick, another one for the list. If I could listen to that bell again in perfect peace, that now was really all I wanted from my visit. Forget about anything else.

(4) Some sutra-painting. This would enable me to … well, I can’t really remember what, but it sounded different, and there was some spare time in between breakfast and when we had to leave, so there was nothing to lose.

I even had a choice of breakfast times. Now this was REAL luxury. “What time do you normally get up at home?” I was asked. I could sense that there was the invisible hand of Mrs Mayor involved in this incredible flexibility. Breakfast time at the temple is 6am, and I was quite prepared to fit in with this in the interests of experiencing things to the full. They tried to push me towards an 8am breakfast, and we ended up compromising on 7am.
Toc Toc Toc
It’s 7pm and the prayers are starting. The magical sound of the moktak, the little prayer-drum, floats over the courtyard from the nearest shrine.
Toc Toc Toc

Tac Tac Tac

Another monk joins in. Before long it sounds as if a prayerful company of woodpeckers have taken over the temple, as the sounds seem to come from all directions.
Soon, an infinitely thin strain of chant, like a wisp of smoke rising from an extinguished candle, reaches the ears. Then another strain.
But the conversation over the tea table carries on, swamping the sounds from outside. I can bear it no longer. I make my excuses and walk out into the courtyard to immerse myself in these new sounds.
I take my seat on the stone steps outside the main shrine. The evening is still warm. There’s a gentle breeze which rustles the leaves of the trees, but even louder is the white noise rising from the rapids in the valley below, which almost drowns out the sound of anything else.
A monk tries to usher me into the chapel, but I resist and stay where I am, just listening, with my eyes closed, though I do get out my iPhone and try to record what I am hearing.
I sit facing down the valley, where the sound of the river is coming from. Behind me is the main shrine, where most of the monks seem to be praying. But over to the right, on the far side of the courtyard, there’s another shrine from which more chant and more toc-toc-toc sounds are emanating.
Messiaen could not have conjured up a more magical aural experience. When you try to notate sounds on a sheet of paper lined with musical staves, no matter how much you instruct the musicians to improvise or act spontaneously, there is an element of predictability in the outcome. But I now know towards what such music is unattainably striving.
Behind me and to the right, the moktaks were being struck whenever a monk had a prayer come into her head. Another monk felt moved to express her prayer in chant. This was not the rich, sonorous baritone chant of a Benedictine monastery, but a timid, wasted sound, but nevertheless quietly insistent, in a waveringly thin contralto. The wisps of chant wrapped themselves around the sharp hollow taps of the moktaks. In the trees, an occasional songbird twittered, almost inaudible against the roaring torrent in the valley below. The tiny bells hanging under the eaves of the shrines occasionally tinkled in the wind. And then a new bird joined the symphony, D-C-C-A, repeated once, carefully phrased, and then silence for a few minutes, while she listened to the prayers, before returning to reprise her simple solo.
The 108 bows
The time has arrived for the 108 bows. Strangely, we are told to meet in the car park. But that’s where a large side chapel has recently been built, mainly to minister to visitors on the temple stay programme. The chapel at the moment has none of the internal decoration of the main shrines, and is left plainly simple. Neunghae Sunim is there to welcome us.
The candles on the floor are lit, and we are invited to light some incense sticks and place them on the altar. In front of the candles, cushions are placed on the floor. We are told that there are many woes in the world – as many as 1,080, and we need to repent for each one of them. But beginners are permitted an abbreviated version, only 108.
Neunghae demonstrates the exercise.
“Put your hands together like a lotus bud. Kneel down, sitting on your heels. Then place your arms on the floor, your elbows beside your knees, first the right, then the left. Then place your forehead on the ground. Turn your hands over and raise your palms from the ground. Now there are five points of your body touching the ground: two knees, two elbows, and forehead. Then place your palms flat on the ground again, raise your body, stand up again and return your hands to the lotus-bud position, first the left, then the right.” It was all a bit much to take in.
“Now you try”
“Put your hands together like a lotus bud.” No problem with that. Although I’ve never knowingly seen a lotus bud, I can see what she means.

“Kneel down, sitting on your heels.” Six cracks, as three pairs of knees protest in unison at the unwonted exercise.

“Place your arms on the floor, your elbows beside your knees, first the right, then the left.” Relatively straightforward.

“Place your forehead on …”

YEEEOOOWWWCH.

Morgan had forgotten the acupuncture needle that was still in her forehead. It rather shattered the mood of the moment, and she retired hurt.

To help us through the 108 bows, Neunghae announced that she was going to put on a CD. The instructions: “Whenever you hear a moktak, bow. And then get up quickly, or you won’t be ready for the next one.”
A quiet, enveloping music started emanating from the speakers. A kind of generic, soothing, anonymous music that you might be played while receiving holistic therapy. “Oh dear. I hope this isn’t going to be too distracting,” I thought.
Just as distracting was the accent of the voiceover that was going to be leading the prayers for the next twenty minutes. “We pray to Boo Dar…” It took me a moment to figure out who he was talking about, and I resolved to try to filter out these distractions: I had to enter into the spirit of things, and experience it to the full. But my battle against distractions was itself a distraction, and I wondered if I was ever going to settle down.
Toc-toc-toc.
It’s time for the first prostration. The knees crack again. I bow and stagger back up again.
Toc-toc-toc.
These prostrations are coming thick and fast. Neunghae wasn’t kidding when she told us to get up quickly.
Toc-toc-toc.
I soon find I’m getting into the rhythm. I might not be doing them perfectly, but it’s good enough for me. My knees are no longer cracking, but now there’s another distraction: with each prostration my cushion is inching closer and closer to the candle on the floor in front of it, threatening a conflagration, so each time I struggle back up to my feet I try to pull the cushion back towards me.
I gradually settle down into the gentle exercise and start letting the repetitive prayers enter me. We were repenting for our individual and collective sins, against each other, against nature, against the environment, and for all our petty ways. We were vowing to make amends, and seeking healing. For anyone used to the confession and intercessions at Christian church services these prayers were second nature, but somehow the physical rigours of prostrating yourself at every confession reinforced the meaning.
I had no idea how many bows I had done, but they seemed to be passing very quickly. The prayers seemed to be winding up, and then suddenly it was all over. I felt I could have carried on for another 108. The exercise of confessing seemed remarkably healing, but having stopped I now felt hot, giddy and slightly nauseous from the exertion. It was good to get out into the dark night air waiting for me outside the chapel.
The 108 bows as exercise

http://www.koreanbuddhism.net/life/essay_view.asp?cat_seq=25&content_seq=420&priest_seq=0&page=1

The 9 o’clock bell
I’m not sure if the monks do their 108 bows every day. If they do, we did not see it because we did our bows in a separate chapel. And if they do, I’m sure they don’t listen to that CD when they’re doing it.
But I was expecting the 9 o’clock bell to be a communal experience. As it turned out, it was a meditation activity designed solely for their temple stay guests, of whom there were just the three of us.
We gathered in the courtyard as instructed. Neunghae Sunim had brought crash-mats, blankets and tea for us, for this was to be a deluxe meditation. I had brought my iPhone with me so that I could record the temple bell. But under Neunghae’s watchful eye I didn’t feel able to get it out of my pocket. I had to be doing this meditation thing properly.
First, we have to sit on the mats cross-legged, keeping our backs as straight as possible, and look back in on ourselves. And we wait for the temple bell to sound. The mellow rings possess us, but this time, the bell is only struck three times and the experience was over before we had time to savour it to the full.
After a while, Neunghae instructs us to lie down, and she covers us in the blankets. Very cosy. I feel myself drifting off, lulled by the sound of the river below and the rustling leaves above.
Suddenly, something drops onto the mat beside me from the tree above. I wonder what sort of bug it is. What sort of bugs live up in the mountains and drop on you from trees? Probably big scary ones with thick shells. Something else drops. I want to turn to investigate what they are, but I’m meant to be meditating. I want to smash them with my fist, but during the course of the 108 bows I have just repented of all the creatures I have needlessly killed in my life, and I don’t want to have to repent all over again so soon. I wait for the bugs to start crawling on my face, and the opening title sequence of Shiri flashes in front of my mind’s eye, when the North Korean agents have to stay motionless as a scorpion crawls over them.
This is not what you’re supposed to be thinking about when you’re meditating. But the bugs, or whatever they are, don’t crawl on my face, and my thoughts drift off somewhere peaceful again.
All too soon, Neunghae is back, pouring us refreshing tea from a thermos flask. It was a pleasant, dreamlike experience, and now it’s time to retire for bed.
I’m sharing my rather palatial guest room with Yoseph, while Morgan has one to herself. After figuring out which bits of bedding are meant for lying on and which are meant as coverings, Yoseph elects for some mutual privacy and occupies the kitchen area. We turn out the lights and relish the luxurious warmth of the underfloor heating. Yoseph, perhaps missing elements of the real world down in the valley and back in Seoul, watches an episode of his favourite TV drama on his media player, while I try to sort out some notes. But soon sleep calls.