The Country Mice

If you’re just dropping in, I encourage you to read the previous post about the start of my weekend spent in silence at Haein-sa Temple.

Following the evening meal, the one where I was startled into gulping down the remains of my rice, kimchi, and cabbage soup, as the rest of my table mates rose to go outside, I hurried out to make sure I was not causing the entire group to be delayed.

Remember: Temple life, we were told by the English-speaking monastery lady, meant always moving together in a group, lest someone be left behind.

From the dining hall we walked single-file, in the relative darkness, to the large central square where a number of monks and lay Buddhists were gathered, coming from different corners of the compound, summoned by the sonorous *bong* of the giant brass temple bell.

That *bong,* it occurred to me, would have been such a comforting sound, whether decades or centuries ago, to the villagers many miles down the mountain side — a sound that said all was right with the world, that someone was praying for them, for their crops, for the safety and harmony of their community, for the greater good of people everywhere.

Following the bell a series of young — and one had to be young for the energy and stamina required — monks who hammered out lengthy staccato rhythms with sticks on giant cow-hide covered wooden drums. The monks beat at the drums with powerful and energetic patterns, usually starting slowly then increasing the speed of the repetitions.

On and on the hammering went, rhythmic, too loud to be hypnotic, complex and too ordered to be random.

The head monk signalled again and up the stone steps we walked to the main temple hall. Inside, much of what you would recognize from other temples you’ve seen or, if not, from typical images of Buddhist temples: A large tall-ceilinged room with wooden floors, a massive altar at the front, three gold-leafed statues of the Buddha in repose.

Some flowers, some offerings of rice and beans, stacks of books for reading the prayers during chanting.

A few monks were already seated on the floor, facing the altar, chanting the prayers. Reminded me of a monastery I visited in Mission, B.C. where the monks sang Gregorian chants, again in unison. Very pretty.

A number of people were already seated there, waiting for the evening ceremony to begin.

We collected cushions from the back of the temple then were directed to bow three times, then to sit, rather close to the altar.

In all of these group experiences, we were treated very much as participants, not simply observers. We moved to the front of the crowd at the drumming ceremony, we sat at the front of the crowd in the temple, we ate at a table at the front of the dining hall. Any thought that this whole experience was put on for the sake of a visitor was simply not true.

And, every weekend many people do come to participate in what they call a ‘temple stay.’ Koreans will leave their busy stressful lives behind in the city and make a weekend pilgrimage to a mountain monastery.

So we sat in the temple for a while — and truly, I can’t say how long these events lasted. I was wearing a watch but as I was consciously at the temple for the whole experience, never thought to look. Was it a few minutes? Half an hour? Longer? I have no idea.

The monk indicated we were to leave so we returned our cushions to the back, bowed to the altar, and lined up in dusk.

Off we filed again, this time ending up in the small hall where we’d had our initial greeting ceremony. We Anglos (plus, mysteriously, a young Korean couple) were moved into one room and the rest of the group into another.

The head monk was with us. Hmmmmm.

He moved a low wheeled table to the centre of the room and we all collected our cushions to sit in straight rows as we’d done in the welcoming ceremony. No, no, that wasn’t what he wanted. He gestured, we fumbled, he gestured some more, “Circle! Circle!” except you know very well what he said didn’t sound at all like “circle.”

We finally (and with some embarrassment — I mean, who wants to frustrate a monk?) determined he wanted us in a semi-circle with him and his little table at the front.

He then proceeded to make tea (yes, with an electric kettle) in a large bowl which he poured into a another bowl with a spout and then passed the bowl to us so that we’d each have a small cup of tea.

Tea with the head monk. Fairly high on the cool factor.

Then, via the sweet little monastery lady, he indicated we could ask him questions. Questions? Fair to say we all gulped. And not just any questions, she said. They had to be personal questions. Personal questions? Of the head monk?

Anyway, the question and answer period started and he was very sweet, rather funny, extremely gentle and even via translation, illuminating and elucidating.

He talked about the bowing, for example. The statues of the Buddha were just that — statues. Wooden, empty. And the Buddha was just a person, not a god. So when we bowed we were bowing to the self, the commonality bond between all people, the unity that we have as people seeking an inner truth.

As one monk told me the next day, “Strictly speaking, Buddhism is not a religion.” Which I knew but was so very interesting coming from a monk.

When it was my chance to ask the head monk a question (and I actually did ask him quite a few; chalk it up to being the oldest in the crowd) I asked him what was most challenging for him after his many years of practice.

His answer was immediate: “Patience.”

Such a tenderly human flaw.

And the evening carried on until at 8.30 — was it only 8.30? — he told us it was time for us to go to bed.

Because we needed our sleep. You’ll recall, Dear Reader, we’ll be rising at 3 a.m. and certainly don’t want to be nodding off.

And as his final gesture of the night, we all received two swift smacks across the back with a long and flat bamboo stick — not particularly painful — the intent of which was, “Now, while you’re thinking about the sting, you’ll have time to think about what I’ve told you.” And then we bowed to thank him for the smack, and he bowed to thank us for letting him be our teacher.

An evening with the head monk. Seriously high on the cool factor.

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Next post I’ll tell you about waking up before dawn has even rolled over.

*bow*