The Journey Before Us: Mountaintop Reflection

Hazy high-rises on the hills. Bare branches brave the brazen breezes of winter.

Built into Inwangsan Mountain stands a colorful temple, its architecture a pan-Asian blend of Korean history. The intermittent drum beats of Buddhist prayer echo from the temple. Between my feet and the drum beats are wooden steps, stone walkways, and a man smoking a cigarette on the porch of a wide home.

My destination is the wall built into Inwangsan, directly ahead.

At the gates of the temple, crowds of hikers flow straight into the mountain trail.

To the left, I see stone steps. Those I follow.

An old woman peers through a locked wooden door of an obscured temple wing. Further up the stairs, another man smokes a cigarette, beside the open doors of an old shrine. A sign explains in multiple languages that this shrine ("Important Folklore Material No. 28") was once used for sacrifices and exorcisms. Now it is used for modern shamanism rituals.

Another fork in the road. Steps directly ahead. To the left, steps lead to Seonbawi Rock.

Straight up I go. Seonbawi Rock awaits. It is a place for wishes, meditation, peacefulness, and prayers from soon-to-be mothers (traditionally, asking for sons). A natural formation of rocks, Seonbawi is also a natural Rorschach test. A faint resemblance of hooded monks. Or perhaps spirits reaching for the heavens.

Pigeons rest in the crevices of the rocks. They look down upon a woman silent, meditating. She sits upon her own padded floor mat. Upon ears fall the occasional coo of a bird. I wonder if she hopes for the coo of a baby boy.

I too sit. The raised wooden platform is encircled by lit candles, prayers, Korean writing, and ahead, of course, the rock.

Eyes closed. Ears open. The shrine doors have since closed, but the intermittent drum beats have restarted. Tap. Tap. Tap. In the distance, music faintly blasts from the city. Then, wind. Or cheers? Below the stairs to the rock, a crash. The violent flutter of pigeon wings. Footsteps approach the stairs, climb, join on the wooden floor. The sound of instruments from somewhere around the temple. No rhythm to the music; it's the chaos of individual band members warming up their instruments before practice, but it seems to be intentional.

The aroma of incense fills the air. We women are all wearing fine dust masks, but even through the filter, the smell is strong, yet pleasant. Soothing. Aiding.

I'm on a mountain. High. Not at all top-of-the-world, but other side of my world.

And here, there is clarity and perspective.

Here, I hear the echoes of the world and all its life.

Here, I see relics of history.

Here is humanity, generations of lives and what they left behind.

Here is nature and all she has built. All that we have built within her.

Here is harmony.

Here is the promise of unity.

It is easy to see from atop a mountain.

It is easy to listen.

It is easy to notice.

Here, it is easy to hope.

Life is an unending game of finding yourself, being yourself, losing yourself, and rediscovering who you are. At home, I sometimes struggled to belong. I played a game of chicken between groups who understood and accepted me, and groups that taught me I am stronger if I understand and accept myself. With self-acceptance comes peace of mind and soul. And here, in a new world, as a foreigner where I stick out physically and culturally, I have peace.

I know who I am.

I am positive and optimistic. "You're new; it'll wear off." That's what people have told me all my life, in college, at Disney, in Korea. But this is me. It always has been.

Last year, in D.C., I stayed with an Airbnb hostess named Robin for one night, but we talked for hours. The same morning I left, when I awoke, she invited me to greet the morning with a chant. She is Buddhist. At her altar, we rang a bell three times and chanted. "Nam myoho renge kyo." She taught me that her sect of Buddhism believes that it's not only our actions that affect the world, but our thoughts. She taught me more than I can remember, but after she'd explained it all, I laughed and said, "Wow. I think I may have actually been Buddhist my entire life." It resonated.

Here, at Seonbawi Rock, Robin's words echo. I feel wholly like me. I am not a religious person. I would not call myself a spiritual person, though some may find that arguable. In thoughts, I am practical. At my core, I am idealistic. My identity and my choices stem from a personal belief that any deed, even a positive thought, will influence the world. Pennies add up.

Here on a mountain, pennies have value.

Intention is powerful. In yoga, you begin your practice by setting an intention. Before my hike, I set two.

My eyes softly flutter open. I see the first woman is still cross-legged on her floor mat. Beside me, another woman has joined us. She wears hiking gear and is encircled by her backpack, windbreaker, and water bottle. Her eyes are closed, hands together.

It is time to follow the path. I descend from Seonbawi Rock. Ahead, an old woman sits in a tent camp, bundled warmly, surrounded by a colorful assortment of clothes, containers, plastics, and bags. She faces a beautiful view of Inwangsa Temple; its dirt road connects to paved and modern Seoul, high-rises just beyond, and like a mountainous bookend, Namsan Park in the haze.

To my left, steps lead to wall in Inwangsan. It is time to ascend.