A Taste of Nirvana

The rain is absolutely pounding down as we jump into Jisan's car at 1 PM. Rob's TA is taking us to Songgwang-sa, a Buddhist monastery and training centre an hour and a half southeast of Gwangju.

On the way, we pass traditional Korean markets, which Jisan tells us are going the way of the Dodo bird, thanks to the proliferation of megastores like EMart. We move through the mist and crawl through mountain tunnels in rain that is falling so hard and fast it rolls off the car the moments it hits. Outside our windows, roadside rice fields disappear under the deluge. In the distance, mist rises from the lush forested mountain tops.

At about the half way point we pull into Hwasun. A man sits, tending his business, which essentially is a two story high, post-apocalptic style ring of junk. He has bits and pieces of cars, fridges, and other household appliances and items piled haphazardly and, to my thinking, rather precariously, yet this structure has air of permanence to it. It suspect it will stand long after I've ceased thinking about it.

Lunch is taken at Dalmaji restaurant, a place known for it's black bean recipes. Our starter is a cold bean paste soup that is mild and soothing. The entrees are a spicy bean soup and a noodle dish with topped with black sesame seeds and bean powder. It's food that could prompt even the most discerning connoisseur to become a vegetarian. I think of this as I'm munching on a chewy treat and learn that it is, in fact, dried octopus. Thankfully, the atmosphere in this restaurant is calming. The building is wide open with high ceilings, a sort of Asian chateau. The quiet chatter of the patrons is backed by the steady tap tap tapping of rain. The view out the huge picture window is like a postcard, too perfect to be real.

As we continue our journey, we learn that one of Gwangju's water sources is in this area, and a number of restaurants have had to move to keep the area pristine. With its soaring mountains, rich green fields peppered with saffron tiger lilys, and gently flowing waters, the countryside reminds us of the British Columbia interior, with a slightly more tropical flair. Also, the roadsides are carefully tended and landscaped for both efficiency and beauty. Tiny ditches keep the water away from the road, and the roadsides are reinforced with rock terraces, flowers, and vines.

When we reach the Daewon-sa Pure Land temple, the rain has picked up again. In Pure Land Buddhism, the heavenly Buddha is a savoir, so this is a very sacred place from which one can reach nirvana. I fear that due to the intensity of the rains I might reach this blessed place sooner than I'd like, and am relieved when we seek refuge under the awning at the abbot's office. I watch a chubby bug, that looks like a Volkswagon beetle gamely trying to walk out into the yard, but then wisely opting to stay under the protection of the awning. Moments later, a miniature ant brazenly walks straight into the waterfall.. and suddenly.. the rain stops!

Daewon-sa was reportedly built by a monk in 503. Everything but the main hall burned in the Korean War, but during the 1980s and 90s it was partially rebuilt. This place houses the only Tibetan museum in the country, and it contains religious art and paintings. Mothers who have lost their children come here to pray for a local Korean goddess to protect them. There are rows of mini Buddhas with red hats representing the deceased children, and a collection of tiny white rain shoes lines the shrine. In front, there is a little table with many small Buddha figures. One can feel the energy of sorrow seeping away, ever so slowly, to another place, beyond this world.

We arrive at Songgwang-sa around 4:30 and are greeted by a spectacular lightning display, with some of the forks dancing off the mountain tops just across the field. We again seek the safety of a nearby awning. I have never seen rain like this; it's like standing under a celestial bucket which God is emptying all at once.

It is our honour to be treated to tea with the head monk himself. This man, a former classmate of Jisan's, serves us steaming jasmine tea and special chewy bean cake. He and Jisan chatter, while the rain pitter patters. At ten minute intervals, the monk thoughtfully reheats the water and makes another cup of tea, which he distributes in four 1/16 cup servings. This holy man completely looks the part with the egg shaped shaven head, long ear lobes, tranquil eyes, and full-lipped, Dalai Lama-like, perpetually upturned mouth. Jisan stares through his rimless glasses, listening intently, nodding his head. His long wavy hair with a couple of copper strands at the front frames his calm, peaceful face. He, too, has full lips that always seems to be smiling. As we leave his office, the monk gives Rob two CDs, one of the morning and one of the evening chants the monks perform. When we listen to it, we will always be transported back to a July monsoon soaked Songgwang-sa afternoon.

Jisan takes us on a tour of the courtyard and the main temple. Rob points out to me that "as in all great places of worship, every little nook and cranny has meaning." One painting that sticks out is that of man who, dying of thirst, finds water, and lives to see the next day. When he awakens the next morning, he realizes that he drank from a skull, and he is horrified. This is to convey the message from the enlightened Buddha, Gautama, that we must see all things as the same, and not value one more than another. The image is one that I will never forget.

We are invited to dinner in the open walled dining room where, before his prayer, Jisan exclaims, "I'm so happy." He inhales, smiles, and prays. I look out at the stream, which is now more a river, water splashing off its rocks, the current speeding up to accomodate the rains. We feast on curry, potato, bean, tofu soup with thick cut meaty mushrooms, and we wash it down with fresh, salt free, pure, unadulterated, tomato juice.

We stop to take pictures on the small covered bridge leading to the bell pavillion. The water rushes by the nearby building that houses the monks, and their small doors open out toward the stream directly below. At 6:40, the evening ceremony begins. A team of monks in the bell pavillion take turns beating the giant, upright, skin drum. A monk in the church tik toks on his moktok, the leather drum and the hollow wood instrument trading rythyms across the courtyard. A steady stream of monks in various robes of gray, for the seniors, and brown, for the novices, makes its way toward the temple, stopping to bow at sites along the way.

Women on retreat stop to watch the activities, one, though prohibited from doing so, chronicling the events on film. Part of me wishes I could do the same, because it's positively Felliniesque, filled with symbolism and meaning. Surreal, yet very, very real, all at the same time. Moments ago my camera battery signalled that it's dying, surely spurred on by the technology gods themselves.

My back and neck are beginning to respond unfavourably to all the floor sitting and standing in place. I look around and see the raw beauty of nature. A thick carpet of trees covers the mountains; the ground beneath them is jet black. I watch the water bugs skimming the puddle. I feel a giant raindrop bounce off a toe on my right foot. I rise above the pain, and step out of myself to feel the vibration of the earth itself, as the mist rises from the mountains and intermingles with the low-hanging cloud reaching ever closer to God.

When the drumming finishes, the monks use a hanging log to gong the eight foot high, six foot wide bell. It emits a variety of sounds, from one that is like several electronic bells, to another that is so deep, it shakes the ground and rumbles in the heart. You feel it as much as hear it. From the bell, they move to drum on the wooden fish and tap the metal plate gong. Then the chanting inside the temple begins. It's strong, melodic, and hypnotic. I know we'll reflect on this when we are home in Winnipeg listening to Rob's CDs.

Down the way, a lone monk chants in a much smaller building. His mokshoks clack as the cuckoo clock in the entranceway keeps its own rythym, out of sync with the monk, much in the way that we humans are often out of the sync with the very world in which we live. The rains have ended, and nature has responded with an explosion of new life and energy.

The place is alive with cicadas, those out of control wind-up toy bugs that sound like noisemakers at a party. When I approach an area filled with the little guys, they amp themselves up to triple-speed, and I pass by, they wind down. Unbidden, they remind the visitor of the rule here: You may visit, but you must not disturb. A fitting motto for a Buddhist world, one we are so very grateful for having had the opportunity to visit. One, whose atmosphere and worldview we hope to replicate, in some small way, in our daily lives.