Mountain Temple on a Rainy Day

52. 비 내리는 산사

52. Mountain Temple on a Rainy Day

Yu Hui Jung

After five days of hard work, the other practitioners left and I found myself alone. Stopping in the laundry room after cleaning the dharma hall, I saw a pile of blanket covers, quilts, pillowcases, and cushion covers. I stepped outside, took down the tents, and cleared away the tables and chairs. Almost on cue, the rain started pouring down.

In my mind lingered images of my fellow dharma practitioners, who had sat in long rows beside me, eating their meals with care. Drenched in sweat, I took a shower before I changed into clean clothes and went up to the Great Enlightenment Hall.

To the sound of a bell, I lit incense, recited scriptures, and performed the Cheondojae ritual to light the way forward for souls darkened by the comings and goings of life and death. I then walked down on palm frond mats to the monks’ dormitory.

A rhinoceros beetle bigger than my thumb crawled along and stopped in front of my feet. In the distance, a group of pheasants emerged from the forest by the side of the road, dashing off in a row after the hen. Another bird sat on a wire as the rain poured down over it.

A misty fog spread over the thick greenery that curved around Jirisan Mountain. In the valley, rivulets of water coursed downhill, through the trees on the other side, where the sound of windless rain cut serenely through the air. Dripping from the eaves, the water fell into gravel trenches. The sound of it brought my mind peace.

Sitting on the wooden porch, I spread out a thin, warm shawl and knelt upon it. Straightening my posture, I casually brought down all my body’s strength to the elixir field—like hanging clothes on a hanger or unloading the payload of a forklift. Then I focused my mind below my navel, like sprinkling water upon a rice paddy.

As my breath evened out, the saliva began to flow and settle in my mouth. It pooled there, and I periodically gulped it down. Whenever I began to doze off again, I would open my eyes to chase away the sleep that threatened to fall over me, observing my intense distracted thoughts as they were and waiting for them to dissipate.

At some point, I saw that the dimness of dusk had descended. I had remained in the same posture for a long time, so I rubbed my tired joints to loosen them up. Looking down to put on my shoes, I saw a dead mouse beneath the floorboards—so young its hair had not yet grown. Another one had been pulled into a web, where a spider was feeding on its bodily fluids. I swept them into a dustpan and buried them in the flower garden.

Dead millipedes lay curled in balls all around, while their living brethren crawled busily about beside them. A dragonfly rambled across the flower garden through the rain, while a lost bee rested its tired wings against the screen.

I boiled eggs in a pot on one of the two gas stove burners, turning down the heat once the water had boiled. On the other burner, I cooked scorched rice. I placed water kimchi and Korean-style vegetable dishes on a tray, and soon my simple dinner was ready.

I sat facing Banyabong Peak through the large cabin window, put my hands together in prayer, and offered thanks before picking up my chopsticks.

In the distance, the thunder rumbled. The wind began to blow and the rain fell harder, mud splashing up in puddles. I once again recalled the words of the Buddha: “Go alone like the lion that is not frightened by sounds, like the wind that is not caught by the net, like the lotus that is not sullied by the mud, like the horn of the rhinoceros.”