radio shenyen january 2007 south korea
(two days in seoul, then back to the meditation centre on an island on the west coast)
"to watch him at work is to see him delve into almost invisible specifics..."
the world is full of gaps. meditation teaches you to find them between your thoughts, pure conduct teaches you to find them in your world. and its entirely up to you whether you step through them or not. you're on your own. this mysterious world, this unrepeatable, disappearing life. you're on your own and you're among companions.
on the seoul metro i jump over the exit turnstyle when my ticket doesnt work. i was on my own and i was among companions. the robes of a buddhist monk are a gap in the universe. we walk up a hill, past some enormous building project - i think its going to be a particle accelerator site masquerading as an apartment block - through a beautiful old village perched on the hillside and, up further, onto the rocky scarp. two shamans are there, performing a ritual, sitting on a large flat rock with their backs to ten million people. they are on their own and they are among companions. their chanting merges with the construction sounds - in fact they are constructions sounds of a different kind. they are playing with time and space. they are beautiful the way anyone living a strangely natural life is beautiful. and they seem to bless the rest of the day, as prisons, galleries, military checkpoints, museums and temples present images of concentrated spaciousness within a time-frame that becomes uncannilly slowed down.
in seodaemon prison memorial museum tiny (six inch) holographic ghosts re-enact an assassination on the stage of a wooden model of the prison, behind a glass window. their bodies of light, graceful movements, electronic voices and gentle appearances and disappearances are breathtakingly beautiful, despite the tragic story being told (of thirty five years of japanese colonial brutality).
in a contemporary gallery a show by last year's gwangju biennale prizewinner michael joo includes images of a hyena feasting quietly on the carcass of a deer, an inuit man having a seisure, diagrams of an ecosystem, and the artist walking along a long straight road, occasionally disappearing and re-appearing through a gap created in the editing. it is a wonderful room - a gap - and reminds me of who i am, where i'm going.
and back to the meditation centre... blue skies over the snowy hills, icicles in the branches of small bushes. my day begins at 3.40 with a knock at my door and a cup of green tea from the sweet vietnamese monk opposite who speaks neither english nor korean and just smiles all the time. its always difficult getting up for the morning chanting session but once i'm on my meditation cushion i'm wide awake and always resist the temptation to return to bed in the free hour before breakfast (which is at six) , preferring to stay in the now empty hall for another couple of sittings. everyone here is very relaxed - the abbot keeps taking us on sight-seeing trips or to the local spa - and the conditions are not at all spartan. there's a good library, underfloor heating (i can dry my clothes on the floor of my room - try doing that at tushita!), and good food cooked by a korean mamma who knows the importance of cooking with love. we are now in the middle of the month of children's camps - five days of tea ceremony, formal eating practice, meditation and walks. some of the kids are models of silent resignation towards the rigour of the shedule, others make hilarious faces whenever some 'outrage' is announced (such as having to drink the water and eat the kimchi that they've just used to wash their bowls with during the formal eating practice). yet its amazing to see how focussed they are during the tea cermony test on the last day - even (and especially) the wild ones.
in the meditation hall at night the soft light above the altar leaves some of the darkness intact. i sit facing the wall, and the one metre of floor between me and the wall is the most beautiful thing. when you realise that sitting in meditation - in the dark, alone in some room - is actually a means for making yourself available to the universe, beyond the limits of your rationale, it is no longer difficult to do. and this is how i sit: with the knowledge of my approaching death and with gratitude for being able to be here in the first place, with time enough to express this 'impossible' gratitude. i dream of becoming the kind of person who can make people aware of just how 'expensive' it is - how rare and difficult and mysterious it is - to be here in this world, spending even just a few moments looking at some beautiful landscape or person or text. the goodness we collected over many lifetimes just to be able to afford a few seconds of human life.
what happens next - in february - i dont really know. but i just keep surrendering any anxious thought as it arises. i tell myself its just my life, it's unrepeatable and it's disappearing, it is eternal and it will never come back, and i sit within this mystery - the mystery of this feeling of plenitude and wistfulness.
and in any case what happens to me isnt important. what's important is what happens to you as you read about what happens to me (or anything else you are reading). it is language that is important, not biography. "language, the axe that breaks te frozen sea inside you." (kafka)
till next time,
"to watch him at work is to see him delve into almost invisible specifics..."
the world is full of gaps. meditation teaches you to find them between your thoughts, pure conduct teaches you to find them in your world. and its entirely up to you whether you step through them or not. you're on your own. this mysterious world, this unrepeatable, disappearing life. you're on your own and you're among companions.
on the seoul metro i jump over the exit turnstyle when my ticket doesnt work. i was on my own and i was among companions. the robes of a buddhist monk are a gap in the universe. we walk up a hill, past some enormous building project - i think its going to be a particle accelerator site masquerading as an apartment block - through a beautiful old village perched on the hillside and, up further, onto the rocky scarp. two shamans are there, performing a ritual, sitting on a large flat rock with their backs to ten million people. they are on their own and they are among companions. their chanting merges with the construction sounds - in fact they are constructions sounds of a different kind. they are playing with time and space. they are beautiful the way anyone living a strangely natural life is beautiful. and they seem to bless the rest of the day, as prisons, galleries, military checkpoints, museums and temples present images of concentrated spaciousness within a time-frame that becomes uncannilly slowed down.
in seodaemon prison memorial museum tiny (six inch) holographic ghosts re-enact an assassination on the stage of a wooden model of the prison, behind a glass window. their bodies of light, graceful movements, electronic voices and gentle appearances and disappearances are breathtakingly beautiful, despite the tragic story being told (of thirty five years of japanese colonial brutality).
in a contemporary gallery a show by last year's gwangju biennale prizewinner michael joo includes images of a hyena feasting quietly on the carcass of a deer, an inuit man having a seisure, diagrams of an ecosystem, and the artist walking along a long straight road, occasionally disappearing and re-appearing through a gap created in the editing. it is a wonderful room - a gap - and reminds me of who i am, where i'm going.
and back to the meditation centre... blue skies over the snowy hills, icicles in the branches of small bushes. my day begins at 3.40 with a knock at my door and a cup of green tea from the sweet vietnamese monk opposite who speaks neither english nor korean and just smiles all the time. its always difficult getting up for the morning chanting session but once i'm on my meditation cushion i'm wide awake and always resist the temptation to return to bed in the free hour before breakfast (which is at six) , preferring to stay in the now empty hall for another couple of sittings. everyone here is very relaxed - the abbot keeps taking us on sight-seeing trips or to the local spa - and the conditions are not at all spartan. there's a good library, underfloor heating (i can dry my clothes on the floor of my room - try doing that at tushita!), and good food cooked by a korean mamma who knows the importance of cooking with love. we are now in the middle of the month of children's camps - five days of tea ceremony, formal eating practice, meditation and walks. some of the kids are models of silent resignation towards the rigour of the shedule, others make hilarious faces whenever some 'outrage' is announced (such as having to drink the water and eat the kimchi that they've just used to wash their bowls with during the formal eating practice). yet its amazing to see how focussed they are during the tea cermony test on the last day - even (and especially) the wild ones.
in the meditation hall at night the soft light above the altar leaves some of the darkness intact. i sit facing the wall, and the one metre of floor between me and the wall is the most beautiful thing. when you realise that sitting in meditation - in the dark, alone in some room - is actually a means for making yourself available to the universe, beyond the limits of your rationale, it is no longer difficult to do. and this is how i sit: with the knowledge of my approaching death and with gratitude for being able to be here in the first place, with time enough to express this 'impossible' gratitude. i dream of becoming the kind of person who can make people aware of just how 'expensive' it is - how rare and difficult and mysterious it is - to be here in this world, spending even just a few moments looking at some beautiful landscape or person or text. the goodness we collected over many lifetimes just to be able to afford a few seconds of human life.
what happens next - in february - i dont really know. but i just keep surrendering any anxious thought as it arises. i tell myself its just my life, it's unrepeatable and it's disappearing, it is eternal and it will never come back, and i sit within this mystery - the mystery of this feeling of plenitude and wistfulness.
and in any case what happens to me isnt important. what's important is what happens to you as you read about what happens to me (or anything else you are reading). it is language that is important, not biography. "language, the axe that breaks te frozen sea inside you." (kafka)
till next time,
posted by . . . at 8:43 PM
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