4 a.m. Stars hover over a misty mountain temple. 

A gong echoes, rousing me from sleep on a thin floor mat. 

A chilly breeze of early autumn greets me, waking up my slumbering cells. 

  

My feet crunch in the dark, 

making their way up to the daeungjeon, the main hall. 

Shoes come off, sock-footed, I grab a meditation cushion.  

A strong whiff of incense embraces me, tingling my senses.  

“Om Mani…Padme Hum…” 

A strange, foreign chant, I cannot make out, reverberates the hall. 

Clasping my hands together and kneeling, I bow my head forehead to the floor.  

Standing again, bowing again, facing one Buddha statue after another. 

Baekpalbae - one. hundred. eight. prostrations I complete. 

A sense of humility engulfs me, emptying myself of worries clouding my mind. 

  

Crickets chirp, brooks babble, soundtrack of dawn. 

A golden light peers above the three-story stone pagodas.  

We tread to mess hall. 

Baru gongyang - 

Together we consume the contemplative, vegetarian dishes in utter silence.  

Not a spoonful of rice, not a single grain of rice is to be wasted. 

A sense of gratitude fills me, reflecting deeply on the efforts that brought food to us.  

Circle back to daeungjeon, I perch on a cushion. Like a bird. 

Chamseon - a meditation. 

I fall in and out of sleep. Am I awake or dreaming? Strange.  

My rambling mind, momentarily quiets. 

  

I disrobe the gray Gasa. 

Gray - a mix of black and white, 

a middle way between two opposites, extremes, 

a spirit of no belongings, letting go of all worldly desires. 

  

My feet crunch as I leave 1,600 years of history behind.  

I peer over my shoulder. 

The monastery dances in harmony to the wavy ridges of Mt. Hwanghak. 

  

A brief overnight peek.  

A slice of monastic life.  

I leave enlightened. 

How strange, odd an experience in my motherland.  

I continue my stalled sleep. 

Was it all a dream? 

My legs, arms feel sore 

from one. hundred. eight. prostrations.