Thursday, February 02, 2006
Daughter In Temple
Wherever I go in South Korea, there is one constant in the sky—neon red crosses, burning alongside storefronts and skyscrapers, in the big city and tiny suburbia, silent and deafening at the same time.
They remind me of my lapsed state, of the days I wished I no longer believed, but knew that in spite of my words and my absence I would remain faithful.
The last time I went to mass was after my father was diagnosed with cancer last August. I made a promise to myself and God that if he took care of my father I would practice the faith again. But I couldn’t stick with it. As much as I love Pa, I chose to burrow myself under the covers and get an hour more of sleep.
So I was surprised when I actually embraced waking up at four in the morning to meditate in that small Buddhist temple in the south. I especially enjoyed “walking meditation” up the mountains, which ended with a visit to a folk village and rice fields. As the head instructor asked me questions about California, I took in the beauty and simplicity of the countryside and its people.
“This is where I should live,” I told R after W left for Seoul. The head priest had invited us to join him for his horse riding lesson outside the temple, but watching him trot in a circle got old real fast. So my new Canadian friend and I passed the time by exploring a nearby lake.
“I don’t think they let women become monks here,” R said.
“I wasn’t talking about the temple. Although it would be exciting, wouldn’t it? It’s hard, obviously,” I twittered, tossing a rock at the frozen water. “They do the same exact thing every day, and I would think that would get boring. But they have such an appreciation for every single thing in their lives.
“I feel like I could have that here,” I sighed, turning to her. “It’s strange, because I’m not a religious person. Well, I was Catholic, and I was devoted, but . . . Anyway, it’s something I’ve always felt conflicted about. I don’t like going to church, but whenever someone criticizes Catholicism, I have to defend it.”
“I know how you feel,” R said. “My mom’s a Sunday school teacher, so Christianity was a major part of my life. In college I decided it wasn’t for me. But I don’t think it’s as oppressive as some people think.”
“Religion only restricts your life if you let it,” I said. “But I think all religions are good natured. It just depends on how you interpret yours, you know what I mean? The monks here spend most of their lives in the temples, but they look so liberated. It makes me want to . . . Whatever,” I laughed, standing up.
Pulling her off the ground, I declared, “I don’t want to convert or anything. I’m a shitty Catholic, and I’d be a shittier Buddhist.”
After R and I took turns riding, the head priest took us to a pagoda that the monks visited often for their exercises. As we crossed a bridge over a frozen river and climbed a rocky hill, he turned back to me and asked, “Pia, when will you marry?”
To hear a question like that from a monk startled me and for a moment I couldn’t respond. Then I said, “I don’t think I’ll ever marry.”
He looked back at me, looking confused. I sighed deeply. “I enjoy my solitude,” I explained. “I enjoy my achievements, and I need them to be my own.”
He didn’t seem to understand what I was saying, and I wouldn’t have been able to explain. I hadn’t told the entire truth, and I’m pretty sure declaring my resentment for men would have made him more dumbfounded.
The pagoda, consisting of two stone pillars and a fire pit, had been partially destroyed from a fire decades ago. As I gazed up at the ruins, I instantly thought of my father and how the seemingly sturdiest of structures can crumble.
But even though the pagoda had deteriorated, it was still worshiped. It would never be what it was, but its admirers did not deny its imperfections or attempt to repair the damage. They simply accepted the destruction and rolled with the change.
*
On New Year’s Eve I sat up from my slumber a quarter before four, spitting snot into dried balls of toilet paper. Sliding the door open and slipping on my shoes, I stumbled out of my room and looked out at the mountain. The temple rooms were lit, their windows orange and flickering. I leaned over the railing and looked out, inhaling the frozen mountain air that splintered in my lungs.
I would be leaving after the morning meditation. I was sorry to go so soon, especially since they would be meditating on the beach in 24 hours to ring in 2006. But I also knew that the longer I stayed, the harder it would be to leave.
Fifteen minutes later R and I trod up the mountain and snuck into the meditation room, where the chanting had already begun. To my surprise, the majority of people were under 30, which made me wonder how many visitors had just converted. Had they found the same thing I did?
Painted on the west wall, four naked Buddhas sat in various stages of meditation, their eyes low and without a worry in the world. The monks, their heads newly shaven, were dressed in cranberry and chanted in low tremors.
After we completed our bows everyone sat facing the walls and began to meditate. I can’t say I was totally into it. I’m not accustomed to sitting cross-legged for extended periods of time, and my lower body was screaming and falling asleep simultaneously. But there was also that tiny nook in the back of my mind that reflected on the past year’s occurrences.
During this time a year ago, my entire life was up in the air. I’d just been laid off by a dictator who’d gone out of his way to crush me with his lewd invitations; I’d tossed aside my lifelong dream of writing in New York and I’d moved back in with my parents.
I had taken TESOL courses on a lark—I hadn’t considered teaching abroad since college, and I only signed up to appease my parents and buy more time to figure out what I really wanted to do.
Now I was in Korea, and while I was having a wonderful time, there was still that part of me that was a small town Pollyanna—that naïve romantic perfectly content burrowing herself under piles of blankets as she read comic books, who suffered from a major case of redneck pride when she drove past the Sunsweet factory on her way to Wal*Mart and felt as if the entire world was just waiting for her to jump right in.
And while I knew I could not stay in that mindset forever, I yearned for that young idealist. I wanted to believe in the best of people. And most importantly, I wanted to believe that even though I was flawed, there was a something that made all the trials and mistakes worthwhile.
I left the meditation room with collapsible limbs and a weary mind. R had to grab my arm and pull me along. When we reached the bottom of the mountain, I looked up and took a long look in the direction of the stone Buddha gazing down at us with that tiny, knowing smile. I couldn’t see him in the dark, but I could feel a flickering in my mind as I looked on.
“Wait,” I said, prying her hand off me. “I can’t go.”
“If you miss the train, you’ll get stuck,” R warned. “You’ll have to wait ‘til New Years to get another one. And it will be a bitch trying to get into Seoul tomorrow, believe me. Pia, you can come back to the temple as much as you like.”
We left. The taxi ride was filled with the soothing sound of Buddhist chanting over the radio. As I sipped coffee, I mused over the fact that it would be a long, long time before I would revisit the temple. And that wasn’t so terrible.
The only thing I would truly miss was the passion I’d felt for that miniscule corner of the world. I would go out and make new memories here, and it would not be long before I forgot the meditation, the hike and the monks. After all, I just wasn’t the religious type.
But for two days and two nights, I was devoted. And that had been really, really nice.
*
When I returned home, I looked in the mirror. Those black rings still hung below my eyes, magnified by the harsh bathroom lights. I had spent the past two days without makeup or a shower, but there was an earthiness in my appearance—coupled with a vulnerability that made me cringe involuntarily.
After my shower I plucked a bottle of foundation off the counter and pressed the liquid into my flesh until all the cracks disappeared.
M ducked into the bathroom. “We’re drinking in two hours,” she said. “How was your trip?”
I tore myself from the mirror and sighed. “I think I’m a vegetarian.”
*
Clad in a sequined top, tight jeans and three-inch heels, I found myself in Geckos, a popular bar in the expatriate sanctuary of Itaewon.
“The guys here are cute,” E said, as a dozen pairs of eyes swung in our direction. I lowered my own and slumped into my chair.
I have this queer little love-hate affair with Itaewon. During the day, it’s nice to walk around when you’re feeling overwhelmed as a foreigner. Two-thirds of the inhabitants are non-Korean, and everything’s written in English.
On the other hand, nights there feel like a cheap cop-out, like eating at McDonalds.
The men—whether they’re foreign or native—are aggressive. And as a skinny, English-speaking and Korean-looking female, I can’t help but feel like I have a huge bull’s-eye on my ass.
On that night I had ditched a previous get-together with K and D. While I had enjoyed our time together at Osaka (for the most part), I was wary to meet them while they were drunk. But at the same time, I had thought of them often. So when K called I told him where we were and invited them to join us.
An hour before midnight, K slid into the chair next to me. He was accompanied by his friend, a New Yorker who had a drunken grin plastered on his face.
“Where’s D?” I asked between mouthfuls of soy enchilada.
“He threw up all over Seoul. I had to take him back to his hotel. Poor guy,” he sniggered, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “He thinks he’s in love with you.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I muttered.
Meanwhile, M grumbled to NYer: “If your friend doesn’t leave Pia alone, I’m going to punch him in the face.” What a woman! NYer laughed and stared into space. Since my main objective was to avoid the K’s leering paws, I didn’t pay that much attention to his American buddy. (That would change.)
“Can I get you a drink?” K asked, touching my knee.
I picked up his hand and dropped it on the table. “I’ve given up alcohol.”
“So now you’re a sober vegetarian? You have to live a little, Pia.”
I gave him the cold shoulder and ordered another coffee. Eventually he got the hint and swaggered off, but not before planting a wet kiss on my cheek and telling me to loosen up.
After his departure, T, who had joined our group shortly after our arrival, snickered at me. “You’ve been breaking hearts all night.”
“It’s my calling,” I said, grinning. I’d been attracted to this tall, roguishly handsome writer since we’d met.
He took out a pencil, scribbled a note on a receipt and passed it to me.
Tell me about yourself.
It felt like such an adolescent thing to do. I wrote back.
I’m nerdy! What else?
He laughed.
That was clear the moment I saw you.
I know! I’d like to put it on business cards.
Meet me in the bathroom in four minutes.
He stood up and left.
“Is something wrong?” M asked, after I’d been caught staring at the table for the past five minutes.
I jerked on my jacket and scarf. “I’m leaving. Now.”
I pushed my way through the singing hoards into the streets of the appropriately-named Hooker Hill. Leaning against the railing, I realized that I was more religious than I thought. There would be a day I would drop Catholicism completely, but there were still things that I considered sacred.
I straightened myself and flipped open my phone. “Happy New Year, Pa. How was the chemo?”
“It was long, but I’m okay.”
He sounded so weary at the other end. I have to admit I was grateful I couldn’t see him. “Do you feel any side effects?”
“My fingertips hurt a little, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. You’re celebrating in Seoul?”
“It’s so beautiful here. All of the department stores are lit, from head to toe. There are opera singers performing at the temples, and everyone is so nice to each other. I wish you were here. I . . . I wish I was there for you.”
“Don’t feel guilty, Pia. It makes your mother and me so happy to hear your stories. Korea has been good to you, and when you’re happy, we’re happy . . . Have your adventures. Then come back to us.”
I felt a lump in my throat. I would never be comfortable with my father’s new reflective attitude towards life. “I prayed for you.”
“I know, baby. But don’t forget to pray for your mother and sisters. Thank God for the time we have together. Be grateful for all the gifts He has given us.”
I shuffled my feet in the muddy pavement. “I’d better go.”
As I snapped my phone shut, I could hear "American Pie" over the loud speakers, drifting into my ears and covering my bared shoulders.
Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so
Do you believe in rock n roll
Can music save your mortal soul . . .
Pia at 6:50 PM
