Spirit of a Shaman

Religion and spirituality -- I can't deny that one of the magnetic forces which brought me to Korea was to experience the beauty of Eastern culture as it pertains to the spirit. I have for years been drawn to the ancient elements of religions such as Buddhism and Hinduism, and to the philosophies such as Taoism that guide life for modern society in Asia in much the same way that it has for centuries and centuries.
And so, when I found myself with an opportunity to spend a Sunday morning soaking in the tranquility of ancient rituals being carried out in the foothills of Seoul, I knew the experience would be its own reward. After exiting the metro at Dongnimmun, I followed north along a nondescript alley until it became a steep road leading up into the mountainside. I felt my breath escaping forcefully as drops of sweat fell from my face -- with monsoon season in full swing, the weight of the air was nearly suffocating. Still, I kept one foot in front of the other until, rounding a hairpin turn, I began to ascend a series of shallow, jagged steps cut into the mountain stone. Here, a Buddhist temple stood proudly atop a hill, its golden-painted rooftop shining out from among the deep-green trees. And there, a middle-aged man tossed handfuls of rice to pigeons clucking in symphony near a modest shrine which had been decorated with candles and fresh flowers.
Another turn and upward climb took me to a stairway leading to the Zen rocks, two monolithic rock formations eroded by centuries of wind and rain, a sacred spot for many, as I was about to find. As I crested the steps, I paused at the entrance, suddenly very aware that I was not alone. A simple platform flanked the rocks, and upon it were several men and women, in various stages of worship, their bodies posturing in prayer poses on soft woven mats. I slipped off my sandals and settled onto a mat at the far end of the platform, listening to and watching the humble prayers of these serene strangers. A door opened next to me and a wrinkly grandmother stepped out from her hut, the strong perfume of incense wafting through the cracked door. Behind me, pigeons pecked and gaggled, and she took a broom to sweep them away. To my right, an elderly woman kneeled with a thin book in Korean script and a chain of wooden prayer beads. Her mouth moved in silence, but nothing needed to be said. The atmosphere was spiritually charged yet peaceful. Though I looked a bit out of place, I felt a part of me connected to these people and the serenity which permeated the mountain air on Inwangsha.
I stepped back into my sandals and headed back towards the main gate, then turned east onto a pathway leading along the spine of Inwangsan Mountain. As I ventured further upward, I paused at the entrance to yet another shrine. Candles flickered from inside the dim cavity of a room, and I stood quietly as another elderly woman prostrated in bows of respect before a golden statue. Only a few paces separated us, and I continued on, not wanting my presence to distract her from her worship. I continued upward, minutes later glancing back through a clearing to view a remnant of the Seoul Fortress Wall, its gray stone rising up in a curving ridge along a lush, green background of rolling hillside. I contemplated what this wall has seen and heard in its 700 years of life.
Rounding the corner along the trail, something tinny and rhythmic filtered through the dense, cloudy air. I listened with interest, hoping I was climbing closer to the source of the drum and high-timbered voice which echoed throughout this little pocket of mountain foliage. At last, I found it, at the apex of the trail, in a spot marked with a large slab of flatrock yet somehow tucked neatly out of sight. From the stone steps where I stood, I leaned my torso over the wild brush and watched, my eyes and ears finally nodding to one another in agreement -- this is where the magic was happening. I felt transported, almost, as I gazed on this middle-aged woman, dressed simply yet colorfully in vibrant blue. Here I was, on a peaceful mountaintop, soaking in the fervor of this shaman's prayer, studying the melody, the rhythm, the solemnity with which she chanted. Never once did her eyes open or her voice weaken; her prayer went on in one continuous loop, beginning again and again where I could still not perceive that it had come to an end. I tiptoed quietly back the way I had came, feeling some kind of soulful satisfaction at having stumbled upon this mountain, this woman, her song.
For a few hours of my morning, I felt another world away, swept up in the spirit of the mountains and the religious traditions that coexist here. It has been awhile since I last sat on a church pew, listening to a sermon. Yet I felt spiritually satisfied and at peace. And for me, it was simply enough.