The Scent of Dandelions

5. 민들레 향기

The Scent of Dandelions

I was 20 years old. I was still a boy who admired Hermann Hesse and dreamed of Olivia Hussey. In my immature eyes, the world was vague and indistinct. In June of that year, I visited Gyeongju, where I had promised to spend a week at the home of my friend Dong.

All I had was a backpack full of clothes on my back and one stained library book in my hand. Dong lived in a low-slung home on a road that followed the rice paddies on the outskirts of Gyeongju. It had a large courtyard, and his elderly mother was a gracious host who treated me like her own son.

On my second day, I had Dong guide me on a walk through Gyeongju. As a native, he might have been thrown by my outsider’s curiosity, because every time I stopped, my attention caught by something, he would remain a few steps back, just staring.

Eventually we arrived at a small temple called Geungnaksa Temple. It consisted of just two buildings and an old stone Buddha statue, which came up to around knee height. I had a lot of places I still wanted to see before sundown, but just as I was taking one final look before we hurried on our way, a monk called out to us.

He had been watching us absentmindedly while shaking out his monk’s robes in the sun, and he asked us to come over for a second. As we approached, he noted that it was a hot day and suggested that we eat some watermelon.

He handed money to Dong and asked him to go buy some. Seeing the monk up close, I saw that he was stocky in build and had a pleasant, hearty way of speaking. He had been passing along the road, and he proceeded to regale me with stories of his travels by foot in China, bringing up politics and geography, too.

I followed his lead—when he sat, I sat and when he stood, I stood—I even crouched down next to him to listen while he was doing his laundry. He was only ever brief when he replied to my questions.

Dong arrived soaked in sweat, holding a well-ripened watermelon that was bright red on the inside. I was feeling thirsty by that point, and we quickly cut the watermelon up and shared it. Finally, I felt like it was time to go.

As I was saying goodbye and preparing to leave, the monk said to me in parting, “Judging by your face, you have the look of someone who will become a monk. My name is Wongong, and I’m at Cheonchuksa Temple at Dobongsan Mountain. Come visit me sometime.”

I listened to him, but at the time I thought it was nothing more than a passing interest, and so I didn’t take special note of it.

Wongong was the first person who came to my mind 11 years later when I encountered Won-Buddhism and embarked on my path toward pabbajjā, leaving my home to join the order. But all I could remember of him were two things: Dobongsan Mountain and Cheonchuksa Temple.

Based on these details, I found his name and eventually his telephone number thanks to Crystal, a university classmate senior to me who now worked for the Buddhist Broadcasting System.

My guidance minister (an instructor for prospective ministers) at Mandeoksan Mountain would not allow me to see him, fearing that if I did so I might end up going over to the Jogye Order. But I felt that I ought to meet him again anyway, and so I headed for the Seongakwon, where, I had learned, he was staying.

When I finally did meet him, he said he could not remember what had happened that day. If he had said those things that I remembered, he added with a smile, it must have simply been a mistake.

When a seed is planted in the ground, it sprouts and grows depending on its conditions, such as water and temperature. As people, our roots lie in heaven, and each thing we do with our bodies or say in words is planted in the void, manifesting as karma with time and dependent arising.

It was the dependent arising of those words the monk spoke that led to the seed of Buddha sprouting within me, making me who I am today. If miracles exist, that I did not forget about what happened—and that I made my vow to shine the light of wisdom and create a beautiful world where all of us can live together—are truly miracles.

What seeds have we sown in our own minds and the minds of others, today and yesterday, and what dependent arising have they brought about? As I made to return home, the monk told me three things to do in the future. A single wisp of a dandelion settled in my mind.