A piece in The Independent.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
The moment I fell in love with Korea:
It was a clear moment, very conscious, very clean.
Just after lunch on Saturday, Dec 29th, I was scheduled to leave Golgul temple. I wanted to prolong my departure, making time slow while packing my bags and dressing for reentry into the world. I wanted to say goodbye to every spirit I had connected with, the people, the trees, the rocks, the buildings, but I couldn't. In just five days a deep crevice in the korean countryside became my home, and it's inhabitants my community; my family. To leave, I had to leave, it's all I could do. I couldn't make goodbye, making goodbye would be a search for closure, an end.
So to leave, I left.
As I walked down the steep twists and turns of the temple road I tried to push tears back, down, behind, beyond. Before I even made it to the temple gate a squat old korean van pulled up, driven by one of the younger monks and a sunmudo master.
"Bus stop?"
I bowed deeply and smiled broadly, and got in the van. The monk and I made small talk, we discovered we were born two years apart (he 1980, me 1982), he approved of my responses to his questions. "Did you like time at the temple?", I smiled and put my hands over my heart and nodded. "Where are you from?", Canada. "How long in Korea?", six months. "How long you stay in Korea?", three, maybe four years?
I was surprised when that last answer came tumbling quickly and naturally from my mouth.
At an intersection the sunmudo master said "bus stop", and as I got out, the monk kept waving his arm to the right, saying "this side! this side!, this side! this side!"
I got out, got change, got walking. There, in that short walk to the bus stop, I looked accross the flat lowlands and the hilly horizen arising out upon it, and I knew. I knew it was love.
Just after lunch on Saturday, Dec 29th, I was scheduled to leave Golgul temple. I wanted to prolong my departure, making time slow while packing my bags and dressing for reentry into the world. I wanted to say goodbye to every spirit I had connected with, the people, the trees, the rocks, the buildings, but I couldn't. In just five days a deep crevice in the korean countryside became my home, and it's inhabitants my community; my family. To leave, I had to leave, it's all I could do. I couldn't make goodbye, making goodbye would be a search for closure, an end.
So to leave, I left.
As I walked down the steep twists and turns of the temple road I tried to push tears back, down, behind, beyond. Before I even made it to the temple gate a squat old korean van pulled up, driven by one of the younger monks and a sunmudo master.
"Bus stop?"
I bowed deeply and smiled broadly, and got in the van. The monk and I made small talk, we discovered we were born two years apart (he 1980, me 1982), he approved of my responses to his questions. "Did you like time at the temple?", I smiled and put my hands over my heart and nodded. "Where are you from?", Canada. "How long in Korea?", six months. "How long you stay in Korea?", three, maybe four years?
I was surprised when that last answer came tumbling quickly and naturally from my mouth.
At an intersection the sunmudo master said "bus stop", and as I got out, the monk kept waving his arm to the right, saying "this side! this side!, this side! this side!"
I got out, got change, got walking. There, in that short walk to the bus stop, I looked accross the flat lowlands and the hilly horizen arising out upon it, and I knew. I knew it was love.
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