Happy Birthday, Buddha!

It was a simple enough question. So, what will you do on Sunday? How will you celebrate Buddha’s birthday? I was asking this to all of my students. From what I gathered, this was going to be a huge holiday. For weeks, people have been hanging lanterns along the road, I had heard that every temple would have special ceremonies and performances.

George answered that his family would visit his uncle, the monk. He then, as polite as always, asked me what I planned to do. Well, I’m not sure. I’d like to go to a temple, but I’m not sure which one. “Come with us, Lori.” I’d like to, but why don’t you ask your parents if it’s okay first.

One of my teacher duties is to call my “homeroom” students each week to give them practice talking on the telephone in English. Friday night I called George. He asked if I would still like to join his family on Sunday. Are you sure it’s okay? “Oh, yes, of course. We will go to my father’s university for a special ceremony, then to the temples. It will be a long day. Is it okay?” Of course. What time should I meet you and where? “I’m not sure. I will call you tomorrow.”

Saturday night he called after I finished classes. “7:40? Is it too early?” No, of course not. I’ll meet you in front of the school. “And you will not have plans tomorrow night?” No, I’m free all day. “Okay, good. See you then!”

Sunday morning I dressed in pants (I remembered from our last trip we sat a lot) and shoes that were easy to slip in and out of. I’m becoming such the practical person, who would have thunk? I arrived in front of the school – no one was in sight. None of the stores were open, no one was on the sidewalks. I enjoyed the peacefulness of the morning sun, then saw George’s father’s car approaching. “Sorry we are late, teacher!” No, no problem. I squeezed into the back seat with George and his brother Pil Sang. How are you? I smiled. Pil Sang gave me a cheeky grin. George answered for him, “He is still shy.” I remembered from last time it only took a little while for him to warm up; he is quite the mischievous little one.

We drove across town and to the highway entrance. George’s mom had brought a variety of breads from the bakery and soy milk for us for breakfast. We carefully drank the milk from the foil packages and sampled rice cakes, bread, and bean paste concoctions.

George’s father explained we would go to the temple at the university where he teaches for a special ceremony, then have a lot of time, then go to the university again for the evening version of the ceremony then go to Girimsa, a temple nearby. “I think maybe you – bored.” Oh, no, it sounds like a wonderful day! Thank you so much for inviting me. “No, our pleasure.”

We arrived to the university and George’s father gave a quick tour – the monks’ dormitory, the art building, the music building, religion building, girls’ dormitory, etc. We parked the car and began walking up a sandy path. Wow. The temple, as all I’ve seen here, was beautiful. The intense greens, bright reds, deep yellows, complimented by the festive strings of lanterns with pictures of the baby Buddha imprinted upon them.

We entered the temple. It was a modern building, but still retained much of the traditional symbolism and beauty of the ancient temples I have visited. We slipped our shoes off, placed them on shelves, then entered the main hall. So breathtaking, but in a different manner than the other temples I’ve been to. This was a perfectly square room, not a separate building as on most temple complexes. It obviously was new. The ceiling consisted of hundreds and hundreds of square tiles, each intricately painted with cranes, or swirly patterns, or flowers. And from so many of the square tiles hung beautiful shocking pink lotus lanterns. From each a memorial paper fluttered, indicating the donor’s name and address. At the front of the room was the altar. A peaceful gilded Buddha sat, eyes closed, hands carefully resting on crossed knees. Exquisite flower arrangements decorated the altar. Daisies, roses, birds of paradise, lilies, and many others I couldn’t name. The candles burned brightly. I knew I was gaping in awe, but unable to do anything about it. My senses were overwhelmed – the colors, the smells, the sights. I felt a hand on the small of my back. Someone was pushing me forward. I turned to look. George’s father had selected cushions near the back of the room, but the usher (? – for lack of a better term) was propelling us forward. George’s father sat a few rows from the front, with George and Pil Sang beside him. I sat on a cushion behind them and George’s mother sat behind me. After everyone was seated, George switched spots so he was beside me.

Someone started playing the piano. It reminded me of typical “church” music. After a few songs, the monks entered. A drum was beat, people chanted. We stood, we sat, we bowed, we prayed. I tried to follow the movements of those around me. A few songs were sung, then several speeches were given. I was trying to concentrate, though my attention wandered. Mostly I stared at the beauty of the room, while trying to conceal that I wasn’t paying attention to the speaker. At one point George whispered to me, “Lori…” I turned to him and raised my eyebrows, in a “what” gesture. “Boring, huh?” I smiled and shook my head. He rolled his eyes. “It’s boring to me.”

About an hour or so later the ceremony was over. Many people came up to George’s father and spoke. He turned to me, “Do you have camera?” Yes, I do. “Get line. I take picture – you – washing Buddha.” I must have looked surprised. George explained that the line of people forming around the perimeter of the room was waiting to pour a ladle of water over the statue of the baby Buddha. Ahhhhhh. Okay. We waited in line, George and Pil Sang horsing around, their mother gently reprimanding them. When we got closer to the altar, I began watching what people did when it was their turn. Lori the lemming. Watching and copying. Face Buddha. Bow. Walk forward. With your right hand get a ladle of water. Slowly, let it trickle over the baby Buddha. Place the ladle down, take several steps backwards. Bow, then walk to the side. Place a donation in the box, then walk to the main altar. Select a stick of incense, light it, place it in the large bowl of sand. Bow. Walk backwards. All this was done with George’s guidance.

We retrieved our shoes and went downstairs. George’s father explained there was a reception taking place. We entered a spartan room which had four long tables covered with paper tablecloths. On each table were plates of kim bop, fruit, sweet dok, and cherry tomatoes. There were no individual plates. People stood at the tables with toothpicks, poking this treat, then that. Not much speaking going on. Just pairs of eyes intently studying what was to be had, then stabbing this, jabbing that. So, we poked. After a few minutes, George offered me and his mother a cup of juice, then we left. His mother led me out of the room, her arm intertwined in mine. She pointed at a sign that was in Chinese. I recognized some of the characters, but couldn’t remember their meaning. She pulled out her pocket translator and keyed in several characters. Then she showed me what appeared on the screen “enlightenment.” Ahhh. I see. The place of enlightenment. The temple. Yes, I understand.

Outside we faced gray skies.We walked over the grounds, studying trees, talking to people. We started down the path to the car. On a field, next to the parking lot, the university team was practicing. Oohhhhh, I love baseball! George, do you play? “Sometimes. Do you?” Yes. In San Francisco I was on a team. It was so fun, George! I miss my teammates. In the car, George pointed to the baseball players and spoke quickly to his father. His father stared at me with surprise in the rearview mirror. “You baseball player?” Yes. In San Francisco. Not here. “What position?” Catcher. “Ooooo. So good. I cannot believe it. I am amazed. Really? I do not believe you.” Somehow I sensed there was a misunderstanding. I looked at George, then it hit me. George, did you tell your father I played for the San Francisco Giants? “Yes, teacher, that’s what you said.” No. I didn’t play for the Giants. I played on a team in San Francisco, not *the* San Francisco team. He laughed, then quickly spoke to his father again. His father laughed and nodded.

“Miss Lori, we have much time. Go to temple? Or to folk village?” Either sounds great – which do you suggest? “Let’s go to folk village.” Great. We travelled about half an hour, maybe more, through the countryside. Soon we saw brown signs. Whoever is in charge of the Department of Tourism did a great job. See a brown sign, follow it, and behold a national treasure.

We arrived at Yangdong, a village of over 150 traditional houses that are for the most part still occupied. We parked the car, studied the map, and began walking. The larger mansions are virtually empty; only the care houses are occupied. We wandered through these mansions, George’s father explaining various bits of trivia. The village was home to the yangban class, a class based upon learning and position, not necessarily wealth. Several famous scholars were born and lived here. The mansions had black tile roofs, whereas the lower class residents’ houses sported thatched grass roofs which needed changing every couple of years. The black tile could be made into blue tile by coating the tile with sifted ash water then fired. The large vessels that I assumed were for kim chi were actually storage bins for seeds for the fields. He pointed out the various rooms in the mansions – the servant’s sleeping quarters, the napping room for hot weather, the storage room for linens. As we were walking down the path, it began to rain. Not a downpour, but large, fat, heavy drops of rain. He suggested we stop for lunch.

We piled into the car. He announced we would go to Kyeong-ju for lunch. As we were leaving the folk village, he stopped at an intersection. He wasn’t sure which way to go, so he asked the taxi driver waiting next to us at the intersection. The taxi driver spoke and pointed and spoke some more. Then, as our light turned red, George’s father drove across a good eight lane intersection, crossing from the far right hand turning lane to make a left hand, kitty cornered turn. I stared wide eyed. I heard George’s mother gasp and exclaim what I thought to be the Korean version of “dear sweet Jesus.” Good. I’m not the only one who thought that move was a little crazy. I’m amazed I haven’t seen more accidents here. Because this type of driving seems to be the norm. But it’s working.

About thirty minutes into our drive, George’s father pulled over to the side of the road. A farmer was walking along, pulling his cart. As they exchanged information about directions, I rolled down the window and began snapping pictures of the rain falling on the flooded rice fields. Maybe it’s because they’re foreign to me, but I’m intrigued by rice fields. The precise sections, the plants barely peeking through the puddles, the rows meeting one another at unusual angles.

We arrived to the restaurant, a Korean restaurant in which we had our own room facing a gardened courtyard. As we sat down, George’s mother took some medicine. She apologized and said her head hurt. George’s father ordered and the dishes began arriving. Fish, scrambled egg, kim chi, spinach, animals in seashells, cabbage, leaves, 25 small dishes in all, plus two bowls of soup to be shared commonly. The smell was too much for George’s mother. She laid down on the floor, covering her head with a handkerchief. Is she okay? George’s father answered, “Oh yes. Rest.” So we ate. George’s father complained about this method of serving, saying it was so wasteful. That they bring dishes and dishes of food, everyone eats from the same dishes, then whatever is not eaten is thrown away. He prefers the western method of serving your individual plate, eating what you want, then saving whatever is leftover. I, on the other hand, have become quite fond of the little dishes that arrive, with only a spoonful of food in each, allowing the diner to sample a variety of dishes, never eating too much.

After lunch George’s mother still wasn’t feeling well. We drove from here to there. I asked George where we were going. He said, “Take nap. Father will do duty.” We stopped at another temple and his father took something out of the trunk, maybe rice, maybe food? and took it to the temple. Then the search began. His mother was feeling worse and worse, so his father was trying to find a hospital that was open. We stopped at several, but they were closed – I’m not sure whether because it was Sunday or it was a holiday. When we finally found one, George’s mother could barely walk. George’s father escorted her into the building, leaving the three of us in the back seat. He came back out a few minutes later, cracked the windows, and told us to sleep.

It was as if we were in the poppy field in The Wizard of Oz. Sleep descended upon each of us. I leaned up against the door, Pil Sang leaned on my shoulder, George laid in Pil Sang’s lap. And we all fell asleep. We would have slept indefinitely, but were woken by a sudden slamming of the car door. A strange woman was in the driver’s seat. She faced the three startled, sleepy faces in the back seat and rapidly fired off Korean. She addressed me, as the adult, but once she realized I didn’t understand her, addressed George. When none of us answered her, she turned the key in the ignition and moved the car. I guess we were blocking her in, so she just moved us. After she left, I drug myself to the front seat and moved the car into her parking space. I then returned to my position in the back seat and we continued to doze.

A couple of hours later George’s father and mother emerged. She didn’t look any better, but George’s father assured me she was okay, no problem, not serious. He then turned to us and said, “Today’s journey – finished.” Yes. He started the car, then turned around again. “I sorry, Miss Lori. We don’t go Girimsa.” No, no, no. It’s okay. Really. I’m very worried about your wife. Are you sure she’s okay? I felt horrible. It’s bad enough to be sick, but to be sick in front of someone you don’t know is just, well, an added indignity. I wanted George’s mother to feel better. I wanted the trip home to happen instantaneously so that she could rest in the comfort of her home without a stranger present.

We arrived in Daegu an hour later. As we were nearing our neighborhood, George’s father stated he would drop off his wife and the rest of us would attend the evening ceremony at a temple in Daegu. I was dumbfounded. No, really, it’s okay. You have been so generous to me today. Please, stay with your wife. They would have nothing of that. So, we dropped her off and the four of us continued to a temple.

The temple was very close to where I take my so-yae lessons. The courtyard was adorned with strings and strings of lanterns. George’s father explained that at nightfall there would be a special ceremony to light the lanterns. We walked through the courtyard to a reception area. George’s father knew the monk there. He motioned us to join the people who were seated on cushions on the floor. We were offered tea, dried mangoes and cake. Conversation flowed easily back and forth, back and forth. The monk was obviously talking about me, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. George’s father turned to me – where are you from? San Francisco. “No – your ancestors.” Oh. Well, Scotland and Ireland for the most part. But very, very long ago. “The monk thinks you are Arabic. You have dark features.” Yes. I’ve been told that before.

The monk then addressed a question to me. Oh, I know that one. Processing, processing. George’s father turned to me. “From now, only speak Korean. He asked about your family.” I turned to the monk. In Korean, I explained I have a mother and father who live in North Carolina and two siblings. Except I used the marker for two “things” (doo-gay) not two “people.” Pil Sang, sitting beside me and gnawing contentedly on dried mango, looked up at me, smirked, and snorted, “Doo-gay” then laughed. Okay, it took longer this time, but there went the shyness. The mischievous imp is back. Several times throughout the evening he would sneak up beside me, whisper “doo-gay” and laugh.

After we finished our cake and tea we sat in the courtyard, watching the lanterns sway in the breeze. George and Pil Sang ran off to play. George’s father told me about the ways of the monks. How they have the first service at dawn, sometimes 3 or 4 am. Then another at noon, and a final one in the evening. About how the monks study the canons. And live simply. Then he turned to me. “Miss Lori, you have a boyfriend?” No. “Why? You been here 5 months. Long enough to find boyfriend.” Just no. “What’s the problem?” How could I explain that part of the problem was that I still confuse my Korean verbs and tell people they taste delicious instead of they are crazy. Or that I like to eat their eyes. And part of the problem is that I don’t meet that many people here. This isn’t the most friendly nation I’ve ever lived in. So I just smiled.

We were called into the dining hall for dinner. Several small common dishes placed in front of us, with an individual bowl of rice. We ate the delicious food, Pil Sang turning his nose when I ate the pickled turnip, moo. “That’s gross.” No, soooo goood. Here, you try. And I waved a piece in front of him. He was disgusted and wrinkled his nose, making a gagging sound. “Yuk.” George and his brother finished their meal, said thanks, then left to play again. I finished my meal and sat, looking around the room. George’s father asked if I was done. I said yes. He told me I needed to finish everything in my bowl. I looked at my bowl. There were maybe 5 grains of rice still there. I looked at him quizzically. He explained that it’s good etiquette to finish everything you are offered in the temple, not to waste anything. So I ate the 5 grains of rice. He then poured a little water into my rice bowl and placed a small square of cabbage in the water. He showed me how to remove the sticky rice residue with the cabbage. He then told me to drink the water. I did. He continued to explain that the monks practice this as well, not wasting even a grain of rice. We were offered pears and strawberries, then returned outside to the courtyard.

The monk started the evening service. We arose, I assumed to go to the main hall where the monk was. But George’s father called the boys and we left. Oh. We’re not staying for the lantern ceremony? “Another temple.” So we walked around the corner and there was another temple. In the courtyard, again, were strings of lanterns. We read a posting on the door to the main hall. The lighting ceremony will begin at 8 pm. It was only 7. We walked into the main hall. So beautiful. Three golden Buddhas, looking over plates of offerings of fruit, rice, and candles. I stared around the room. George nudged me. “Take picture.” Oooo. I would, but people are praying. I don’t want the flash to interrupt their prayers. He nodded and smiled.

We walked back to the courtyard. After looking at a few of the lanterns, George’s father announced we would go to another temple, but by car. So we returned to the car and started on the next leg of our journey. On the way across town, he explained that the larger temples had a festival all day long with traditional Korean cultural activities – plays, dances, readings, singing. That we would have seen that at Girimsa, but his wife ruined our plans and got sick. Really, it’s okay. I’m very worried about her. I hope she feels better. It’s no problem.

By the time we reached the other temple, it was dark. The temple, sitting upon a hill, was aglow in the light of the lanterns. We parked the car and walked up the steep hill. As we entered the courtyard, there was a monk singing a traditional song upon the steps of the main hall. So many people sat upon the grass, on the steps to other buildings, staring down from rooftops. We found a perch and settled. After the monk, another man sang. People gave speeches, read poetry. The moon, a perfect semi-circle, shone brightly overhead. Here the lanterns were not strung from the trees, but dangled from stakes, stuck in the grass. There appeared to be a sea of knee-high lanterns, each brightly lit by a single candle.

I spotted a group of women on the grass, all wearing identical baby pink and white han-bouk, the traditional Korean dress. I whispered to George’s father, asking why they were dressed the same. He explained they were part of a women’s chorus.

After the performances we were each given a candle. Someone came around, lighting candle, after candle, after candle. As he was doing so, the fireworks began. Ooos and Ahhhhs could be heard as the rockets exploded into bright flowers of light. After a few minutes of fireworks, everyone began to form a line. I turned to George’s father. What are we doing now? “Now, we circle the pagoda.” So with our candles in hand, the procession started. As we rounded a corner, I saw the monk leading the procession, beating a drum as people chanted. Behind him was the women’s chorus, appearing to be Korean angels floating above the ground in their shimmery pink and white han-bouk. I turned to George. How many times will we circle the pagoda? “Normally, 108.” What? Really? “Normally. Tonight, maybe not.” We, maybe 300 of us, circled the pagoda, still chanting, up the steps to the temple, around the main hall, around the buildings on the perimeter. Maybe a half hour later we all formed a circle, facing the pagoda. The monk called out. We bowed. He called out again. We bowed. He called out two more times, followed by our bows. Then our candles were extinguished and people began filing out.

The monks approached George’s father and asked him to join them for tea. George’s father turned to me and asked me what I wanted to do. Truthfully, I wanted to go home. I was tired. It was almost 10:00 pm. But, I smiled and said it was his decision, that if he wanted to join the monks, I would be happy to do that. He laughed. “We have drunk much tea today. We are not fish. We will go home.” I laughed. We all returned to the car. There wasn’t much conversation as we drove back across town. I think we were all tired. As we got closer to my house, I gave George’s father directions, but in Korean. He laughed and said, “You can take taxi now. You know directions.” I laughed, too. When we arrived at my house there were several good-byes and thank yous then they drove off, waving out the windows into the darkness.