My temple stay - Part 2

Ghosts

The temple breakfast is simple. 

It’s gathered on a plate buffet style, and eaten on the floor on a very long table segmented out into personal cubicles by plastic covid dividers. 

I rush to eat it, and already regret leaving Other Dog. For what? For a little steamed rice, sliced apples, some kind of namul and shishito-type peppers cooked in soy sauce. 

I convince myself Other Dog is waiting for me. 

It isn’t. 

After breakfast, I approach a stranger. 

“Did you see a small white dog up there?” I ask pointing to where I would have followed Other Dog. 

I do not care about the question’s superfluousness. In any case, the question is quickly becoming urgent: necessary. 

“Yes,” she says quietly. “It was up there for a bit, but I didn’t see him on my way down.” 

Her eyes dart away. This is awkward for both of us. A detail I left out here: I am speaking Korean. 

“Oh there he is,” she says, pointing to One Dog. 

“Oh it’s not the same dog,” I say. “There are two dogs.” 

Above her mask, I can see her eyes widen. 

***

It is almost 9 am and I have not found Other Dog. 

There is no one at the look out, so I take one of the chairs to stare at the city of my birth. It’s hazy white in the morning light. Fog. Maybe smog. The forest sun dapples though, and even as I sit there I can feel the shadows moving positions. 

A man’s voice from behind me. “Isn’t there [Korean phrase] here at nine?”

“Pardon?” I say in Korean. He repeats the sentence but I still don’t understand what he’s saying. 

“I think it’s at ten,” I say, to over-pretend I understood the Korean. From experience I know it’s way more awkward to explain, both my inability to understand, and to express that inability.

The man goes away and a few seconds later returns with a monk who’s carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a few cups. 

I’m already sitting, but the monk gives me and the man instructions on where to sit. She sits at one of the front tables, and the man and I are now sitting on one of the benches near her. 

I do not know what is happening. Why is she here? Why am I here? 

“Did you bring tea?” She asks me. I shake my head no. 

“I told you guys yesterday to bring your own tea,” she reprimands, and I know she told me no such thing yesterday. I’ve not seen her since introductory meditation. 

She begins to speak in Korean in a conversational tone and I think this is my chance to ask the thing that’s been on my mind.

“Does the temple have two dogs?” I ask in Korean. 

“No. The temple has one dog.” 

She pauses long enough that I think maybe just maybe something special has happened to me: I have seen a ghost. 

But she continues. “The uglier one is a not a temple dog. Just a mutt that lives in the mountains.” 

Then, rather at length, she goes on about how you can tell the difference because of how handsome the temple dog is, but the not temple dog is not. 

Shall we look: 

That’s temple dog (One Dog) on the left, and not temple dog (Other Dog) on the right.

A long story is told, of which I only understand about thirty percent. I nod, nevertheless, through a narrative of how One dog has fathered many offsprings because he is so handsome. 

The story comes to an end. I nod and smile. And the man next to me shifts in his seat to inch forward, closer to the monk.

“In our busy modern society, what can we do to achieve happiness?” He asks. 

I can feel the heat rising to my face for it dawns on me what this is. It’s the dedicated time they told us about yesterday, called “Conversations with a monk” during which you should be seeking wisdom about humanity and the universe. 

I have asked about a dog. 

I slink away as quietly as I can, leaving the man with his question, and the monk with her answer. 

There is still time before checkout to look for my answer. 

***

Down a steep set of of steps there is a little cave that’s been turned into a prayer room where there is a large stone Buddha.

Walk through it and you come out to a rocky gorge down to the the foot of the mountain. 

I spot a person coming up the stone steps. It is one of the women from the English orientation yesterday and I know that our paths will meet. 

I prepare. I think I will nod, and maybe smile. Should I make extended eye contact? I decide to leave it up the moment. 

But the moment is slow arriving. We are both walking so slow, in the way we were taught on the first day.

Heel down, arch your foot in the shape of a mezzaluna, lean forward making sure every part of your foot makes contact with the ground, finally letting your toes land. 

Repeat with intention. 

We pretend we don’t see each other but how can we not see each other? We are purple robed in temple smocks wandering around in slow motion in a mountain jagged and silent.

We are visitors to this borrowed context. We look like frigging ghosts.

Finally, I smile and nod, but she speaks: Hello, she says.

And instead of returning a hello, I say: “Did you see a dog around here?” 

This is the only thing I care about now. The universe is small.

“I did see one earlier,” she says, without a beat. “There are two of them.” 

I am disappointed that Other Dog has also visited her. 

“Are the monks looking for him?”

“No no, just me,” I say.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up.”

“Oh, that’s okay I don’t mind. I’m just walking.”

But that is a lie. I’m not just walking. I’m searching.