Inside is a small cafeteria. The perpetual silence is starting to make me nervous, or perhaps it is being here among the monks eating together. I keep my eyes on the marinated bean sprouts, steamed adlay roots, and pickled sesame leaves. Temple food is known to be very pungent, as they use the freshest greens seasoned only with salt. I finish every last bite despite the early hour. I wonder about the basic fear of being alone. I wonder if it is why the monks are here together, each one finding his own way within the shelter of Buddha. I wonder what brought them here, and if it still matters.
Outside, the sun has risen. I can finally see the gently sloping shingled roofs, the faded red pillars, and the spectacular mountain filling the horizon. I am humbled by the thought that I have spent the night here. I hear footsteps behind me.
I press my palms together and bow, the way I have seen others do. Monk Wonju motions for me to follow him. He explains that the most important hall is currently closed to the public, but since I came such a long way—he smiles—I must not leave without seeing it.
“This hall is the soul of Songgwangsa,” Monk Wonju declares. “This is where the greatest monks of Korean history have persevered to carry on the true spirit of sangha.” He then hands me a string of prayer beads made of agate. It is so beautiful that I hesitate before putting it on my wrist.
From a distance, a chant begins. It is the clearing of the morning sutra against the mountains, the sky, the birds, the shrines, exactly as they must have looked 1,000 years ago. Songgwangsa will soon brim with the bustle of its daytime visitors, but for now I sit on the stone and count beads.
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