From Goyang to Rotterdam, the silver wave is rising. Korea now ages rapidly; the Netherlands follows not far behind. Behind the numbers sits a deeper question: how do we remain connected, dignified, and engaged — even in old age? This challenge reflects the realities of the Korean aging society. The Jijang Fractal illustrates the interconnectedness of aging societies.
In Korea, answers often grow from community and ritual; in the Netherlands, from welfare and healthcare systems. Perhaps the real key is what binds us: compassion — and the realization that being old is not an ending, but a phase full of meaning. Insights like these also resonate with my reflections in The Koreans and I.
A bird over the mountains — symbol of a world in transition.
I look out over a world stuck in transition, while I feel the beginning of something new. It’s as if I’m on a mountaintop, watching values, systems, and certainties expire. Growth exists, but it feels like the convulsions of an old model. Inflation and interest swing like mood shifts; what felt secure yesterday can feel like a panic attack today.
The planet has a fever; the poles melt like forgotten ice cubes. Climate meetings resemble therapy sessions caught in vague intentions. Fossil habits collide with green ideals, and the clock keeps ticking.
Power drifts. The U.S. ages; China moves with middle-aged confidence; Russia smolders like a bitter ex; Europe strains in the middle. And South Korea? High-tech and self-aware — facing the North, the silver wave, and the question: must we pretend to be young, or may we grow older on our own terms? The Netherlands, pragmatic and small, tries to adjust the thermostat in a house on fire.
And wars flare like pain in the body: Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan — old conflicts in new disguise. Dear reader, I’m not exaggerating. I’m paying attention. These reflections tie back to the cultural shifts I once explored in Journey to the West.
Walking route from Baedagol to the new Wondanggol garden in Goyang.
The journey from the old Baedagol Theme Park to the new Wondanggol garden is more than symbolic. It is a short walk of just 3–4 kilometers through Goyang-si, yet it represents a much greater transition: from childhood play to senior reflection, from noise to silence, from history to renewal. This path between Baedagol and Wondanggol shows how Korean culture weaves continuity into change.
Both Kim Young Soo and I feel this is not a time to do nothing. His original Baedagol theme park — a meeting place for children, animals, and living history — had to stop at its first site. Now, the new Baedagol grows in Wondanggol: a garden of rest and reflection for seniors, a place of plants, peace, and care.
I think of a poem I wrote in 2004 — first published on Mantifang and later revisited during my pilgrimage to Bogwangsa:
Human Nature
Qi rides the wind and scatters.
But not when she meets water.
Then she shatters and becomes wind,
rises and becomes a cloud.
If she is angry, it thunders.
Falling, it becomes rain.
Underground she becomes Qi again.
The Pungsu Jiri qi arises from the wind.
Thick or thin, but certainly invisible,
she imbues man with nature.
The oak tree at the new Baedagol in Wondanggol, Goyang.
The oak in Korea often symbolizes endurance — slow growth, strength, and long life. Villages speak of namu-shin, tree spirits and ancestral guardians. Such symbols bridge the visible and the spiritual.
The Jijang Fractal did not appear to me in isolation. It was in Korea, through its culture of ritual, nature, and quiet resilience, that the pattern first revealed itself. Without the gardens of Baedagol and the generosity of Kim Young Soo, I might have missed it. My study and creativity as a writer shaped the words, but the insight itself was born from Korean soil. In that sense, the Jijang Fractal is not only my discovery — it is also a gift of Korea’s culture, and of the friendship that helped me see how compassion and interconnection take root in daily life.
“True virtue is to serve quietly, with no thought of reward, yet with the whole heart.” To create a place where others can rest is the highest form of service. Such a place gives the silver wave enough energy to support those who come after us — grandchildren, neighbors, students, colleagues, community. They will inherit our exhausted earth; every gesture of care may tip the scale.
Baedagol Bakery in Wondanggol, Goyang — a place of food, care, and togetherness.
In Korea, food is more than sustenance. “밥 먹었어요?” — “Have you eaten rice?” — carries the care of generations that knew hunger. It is not formality; it is belonging. Baedagol Bakery in Goyang-si has that spirit: warm, generous, unhurried — a counterbalance to a faster Seoul.
A well-set table nourishes the body; a blooming garden nourishes the soul. Together, they make us whole.
The garden may be very Korean, but the desserts are European. Cream cakes and sugar — new flavors charming the Korean tongue. When I first came to Korea, bread was rare; now that Kim Young Soo bakes it, I am no longer allowed to eat it. Diabetes (type 2) asks for a stricter path: sugar-free, salt-free. After a severe hypo — ambulance and all — I set myself a regimen most would find joyless. Luckily, I have a Korean past.
While Baedagol serves cream cakes, I experiment with Jijang kombu sauce — with chicken and stir-fried vegetables — a dish even his wife would enjoy. I keep writing my book and helping Mickey care for the grandchildren. They grow up in a world in menopause. In their eyes I hear the silent question: give me the tools to restore this world.
If you’re in the mood for some pastries and want to enjoy the beautiful garden: Baedagol Bakery House155-3 Wondang-dong, Deogyang-gu Goyang-si.
That is the difference: my old age brings limits; the mess we leave is worse. Still, as long as we breathe, we can set the Fractal wheel in motion — like Kim Young Soo, who with trees, flowers, and bread quietly helps the world heal. Perhaps not grand — but enough to say: we still can. These reflections echo themes I first touched upon in Song of the Mantifang.
Two little ones walking forward towards the future — with the Buddha quietly present in the shadow.
Oh drop of water belonging to the grey wave — keep the Jijang Fractal in mind and start helping the little ones to create a world warm, generous, and unhurried. A place like the renewed Baedagol theme park, breathing in Wondanggol, South Korea.
As the little ones walk forward towards the future, even the shadows reveal more than we expect. In the outline of a Buddha in shade, and in the statue further down the path, presence becomes visible. The Jijang Fractal teaches that what seems hidden still shapes us — quietly, patiently, and with compassion.
These words close the circle, yet remain open — just as in Bogwansa, the story continues through memory, compassion, and renewal.
This personal letter reflects on a spiritual journey through Korean Buddhist imagery, the figure of Jijang Bosal, and the moral implications of the fractal as presence. It links Eastern and Western thought (Buddha, Jung, Sartre) and proposes a compassionate model of reality. A meditative offering, not a doctrine.
So this is what Jijang’s Fractal and I ask of you: Stay — with what is not resolved, not named, not escaped. Let this presence shape how you listen, how you walk, how you witness. Because what is truly witnessed, no longer needs to be denied. And what is no longer denied, begins to heal — in you, in others, in the world.
Hugo J. Smal 15 juli 2025
To the Sangha — near and far, past and present
This is not a canonical sūtra. But it was written as one might write a sūtra: in silence, in vow, and in offering.
Writing about Bogwangsa Pilgrimage to Bogwangsa in Five (and One) Stories turned out to be more than a journey through Buddhist icons. It became an inner path toward insight. A ritual. A practice of silence and reflection. A prolonged meditation on what I now call the Jijang Fractal. It urged me to stop. To be still. To listen.
“With my head directed toward Buddhahood, and my heart committed to the liberation of others…”
This is the vow I intend to live by in the two decades I may still be given. But to walk such a path requires realignment — of mind, of body, of spirit. That is why I turn to Akasagarbha (허공장보살, Heogongjang Bosal), often referred to as Jijang’s twin brother. His name means “Womb of Space” or “Essence of the Ether.” He is the protector of wisdom, creativity, and inner expansion — the vast silence in which compassion becomes possible.
Heogongjang Bosal
Heogongjang Bosal opens the kosmos in which the Jijang Fractal — and my vow — may unfold. That kosmos includes my own body and mind. In recognition of this, I admitted myself for a short stay in Zuyderland Hospital to have my medications recalibrated. Diabetes type 2 and high blood pressure forced me to radically change my diet: no sugar, no salt, no fat. Fortunately, Korean cuisine has always taught me that pleasure does not depend on these ingredients. There are other ways.
I am sixty-seven years old now. I want to give myself twenty more years — to be with the Buddha, and to help others. Concretely, that means focusing on the children and grandchildren of my beloved Mickey Paulssen. The world in which they must build their lives is one of crisis and fracture — ecological, social, spiritual. A world that often feels like a hell, pierced only now and then by slivers of sunlight. I ask Heogongjang Bosal to help shape that field. And I invite Jijang to guide me in carrying his Fractal into the world.
I wrote the following poem when I was about twenty. My literature teacher, Paula Gomes, once remarked that by writing it, I had already found her — the voice, the ground, perhaps even myself. But I disagreed. To me, the poem didn’t offer resolution. It pointed. It called. It gave not an answer, but a task.
You search for words, for years Of simply growing older Always vague and afraid
Yes — back then, I was indeed searching for words. Words that might help me understand the world, and plant my feet a little more firmly on the earth. Jung, Sartre, de Beauvoir: these were the thinkers I turned to for inspiration. I also immersed myself in Eastern philosophy, but could not truly grasp it. My mind — my rational understanding — was not yet capable of feeling it. Looking back, I now realize how often I must have needed Heogongjang Bosal to help me lay a deeper, inner path. Perhaps now, with the Jijang Fractal, I have finally found the words.
Three Voices: Sartre, Jung and the Buddha
Interpretation of the Poem by Three Voices
Line
Sartre
Jung
Buddha
You search for words
Existence precedes essence — freedom requires choice.
Call of the Self — the process of individuation begins.
Clinging to concepts — tanha obscures insight.
For years of simply growing older
Absurdity of time — facticity without higher meaning.
The ego ages, the Wise Old Man archetype ripens.
Anicca (impermanence), dukkha (suffering).
Always vague and afraid
Ontological angst — fear before radical freedom.
Encounter with the Shadow — unconscious material rises.
Avidya — ignorance just before awakening.
Jean Paul Sartre would probably read the poem as follows:
“You search for words” For Sartre, there is no pre-given essence. Existence precedes essence. You are — and only through choice do you define yourself. To search for words is to face the responsibility of becoming, without blueprint or certainty.
“For years of simply growing older” Time is absurd. Sartre would see this as the human being caught in facticity — you age, your body changes, and you must relate to this without any higher justification. You become, but to what end?
“Always vague and afraid” This fear (angoisse) is existential: it arises when one confronts the abyss of radical freedom. Every choice is both liberating and paralyzing. “Vague and afraid” is not weakness — it is authenticity, if you dare to move through it.
Sartre would read the poem as an expression of the human being in rebellious freedom — condemned to be free, in a world that offers no meaning except what you create.
Carl Gustaf Jung might interpret the poem differently:
“You search for words” This speaks to the archetype of the Self — the center of psychic totality, the goal of individuation. “Becoming” is the process by which one gradually grows into oneself, as an acorn becomes an oak. For Jung, it is an unfolding already seeded within you.
“For years of simply growing older” Time here is lived by the ego — the personality navigating the world. Aging brings not only decay, but ripening. The archetype of the wise old man becomes present — the one who knows that to age is to die and to deepen.
“Always vague and afraid” Here appears the Shadow: the parts of ourselves that we cannot name, that evade us, yet influence us deeply. Vague is the unknown unconscious. Fear is the ego’s response when nearing its edge.
Jung would see the poem as the voice of a young ego sensing the call of the Self, but not yet able to hear it clearly — caught between light and shadow, time and destiny.
The Gautama Buddha would likely say:
“You search for words” This is the human tendency to cling to concepts, categories, and language — a form of tanha (craving). The Buddha might remind us that insight arises not from speech, but from silence and direct experience. Words can become an obstacle when we mistake them for truth. They are a form of dukkha — the hunger for meaning in a world that is ultimately formless.
“For years of simply growing older”
This line recalls the three marks of existence: Anicca (impermanence), Dukkha (unsatisfactoriness), and Anatta (non-self).
Aging reveals suffering and impermanence. It was this insight — seeing the old man, the sick, the dead — that launched Siddhartha’s path.
“Always vague and afraid” These are symptoms of avidya — ignorance of the true nature of reality. For the Buddha, fear is not sin; it is the stage before wisdom (prajñā). Fear is the inner resistance to letting go of “I.”
He might see my poem as a reflection of suffering born from ego-clinging — a natural condition before awakening. The way forward lies not in more words, but in unfolding. In loosening. In seeing.
Of course, none of them ever read this poem. Their interpretations are, at best, imagined. And yet: where Sartre condemns us to freedom, Jung maps a deeper psyche, and the Buddha offers the path of cessation — I now sense how these three once-parallel voices begin to converge.
Nearly fifty years later, while trying to open the gates of Bogwangsa with my words, a path revealed itself — one I had long sensed, but never seen clearly. In retrospect, I see how these thinkers shaped me. This constellation of ideas is what I now share with you.
Jijang as Bridge Between Three Traditions
Sartre: Freedom, radical responsibility, no essence — Jijang honors freedom but redirects it toward presence.
Jung: Shadow, Self, individuation — Jijang appears when the ego dissolves and integration begins.
Jijang does not choose between these three voices — He absorbs, connects, and dwells at the intersection. His Fractal includes them all.
The Discovery of Jijang
Years ago, during a visit to Insadong — the famous artists’ district in Seoul — I discovered a small copper statue in a cluttered cabinet against a wall. It was Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva Mahasattva.
Of course, I had never heard of him. But after some research, I learned that this bodhisattva descends into the hell realms that people pass through on the path to awakening. In Korea, he is known as Jijang Bosal. He goes down not to judge — but to help. His vow speaks to the vastness of his compassion:
The Four Great Vows Sentient beings are without end — I vow to liberate them all. Suffering is infinite — I vow to understand it fully. The Dharma has countless forms — I vow to learn them all. The path of the Buddha is unsurpassed — I vow to realize it completely.
The Four Vows Interpreted Through the Fractal
1. Sentient beings are without end → f∞(v) includes all — no one is separate, no suffering isolated.
2. Suffering is infinite → Compassion repeats across time — fⁿ(w) is shared and carried.
3. The Dharma has countless forms → The network V reflects infinite expressions of awakening.
4. The Buddha’s path is unsurpassed → Each iteration moves toward integration — ∞ as practice.
Through the Fractal, the Vows Are Not Ideals Above Us
they are movements within us, unfolding endlessly.
To be awakened is to see through the illusion —
the illusion of distance, of hierarchy, of otherness.
The icons in the temples are not distant figures,
but reflections of the possible.
They do not ask for worship,
but for recognition.
These are not gods,
but inner forms —
embodied insights that remind us
of who we can become at our deepest.
Jijang is not a savior outside of me,
but a personification of an inner power:
the willingness to descend into suffering,
into darkness —
and remain there until light returns.
Until light shows itself in the other.
And in me.
Jijang as Inner Guide
Gradually, I began to realize: Jijang, this bodhisattva who enters the deepest shadows, was not just a statue. He was an invitation. An inner form that appears when the ego loses its grip — when we no longer strive upward, but dare to stay where it hurts. In this, I recognized what Jung called the encounter with the Shadow: those parts of ourselves we have hidden or denied for years, until they return, not as enemies, but as guides.
Jijang is such a guide. Born from darkness, Not to banish it, But to inhabit it — with compassion.
A figure of the Self, Not one who ascends, But one who descends.
Jung would have seen Jijang as an archetype — an image emerging from the collective unconscious, not meant to be worshipped, but integrated. And perhaps it is precisely there — in surrender to what is, to what Jung calls the Self and Buddhists call suchness — that emptiness no longer feels threatening. It simply is.
And you are allowed to be in it.
Jijang’s Fractal within Indra’s Net
Indra’s Net — a concept from ancient Indian cosmology — describes the universe as an endless web of connections, where each node reflects all others. Nothing exists in isolation; every point carries the imprint of the whole.
Jijang’s Fractal takes this one step further. It suggests not just reflection, but transformation:
Each node w emits influence — over time: fⁿ(w)
Each node v receives the sum of those influences: f∞(v)
The process never ends — karma becomes iteration, not fate
This is Indra’s Net as a living, moral system — dynamic, infinite, and tender with memory.
The Emergence of the Fractal
And then the fractal appeared:
f∞(v) = lim(n→∞) Ʃ(w∈V) fⁿ(w)
This diagram illustrates how Jijang’s Fractal works: w is a point of origin — a being who makes a choice. fⁿ(w) is that influence repeated over time. v is a being who receives those influences. f∞(v) is the infinite accumulation — not as fate, but as potential. The model shows karma not as punishment, but as pattern — a dynamic field of memory, influence and presence.
And the stories I had begun writing about Bogwangsa. What started as a stray thought, a scrap of dream, became a formula. And what looked like a formula turned out to be a bridge — between East and West. Between self and other. Between thought and silence.
It started with a simple question: what if the mind is not only shaped by what I choose, but also by what others have chosen — and continue to choose? What if memory, pain, compassion, and forgiveness are not isolated events, but repeated patterns? What if that repetition — like in a fractal — does not flatten meaning, but deepens it?
That’s how Jijang’s Fractal was born. A formula in which every choice made by every being leaves a trace. Something that returns. Something that accumulates — infinitely.
How Jijang’s Fractal Operates
A being (w) makes a choice — an action, a word, a silence.
That choice reverberates over time: fⁿ(w).
Other beings (v) receive these accumulated influences.
Jijang remains present in the field of these influences — not to judge, but to accompany.
Over infinite iterations, f∞(v) emerges — not as fixed fate, but as potential for insight, compassion, awakening.
This is karma as pattern — not punishment. This is Jijang’s work: staying where memory accumulates, until a being is ready to see clearly.
But this fractal is not a prison. The symbol f∞(v) contains ∞ — infinity. And in my experience, in all I saw, thought, wrote and withheld about Jijang Bosal, it became clear: this infinity is not abstract. It is a presence. A person. It is what Jijang is.
Jijang’s Fractal as Bridge Between Hinayana and Mahayana
Jijang’s Fractal shows that the path of individual liberation (Hinayana) and the path of universal compassion (Mahayana) are not separate roads — they meet, and even strengthen one another.
In Hinayana, the individual is central: v is the point of consciousness, the person responsible for their own choices. Here, freedom is personal — and liberation is pursued through insight, discipline, and moral clarity.
In Mahayana, the network is central: all beings are interconnected through causes, memories, and intentions. Here, freedom is relational — and liberation arises from compassion for all sentient life.
The Fractal unites both:
f∞(v) = lim(n→∞) Ʃ(w∈V) fⁿ(w)
The individual v is not awakened in isolation, but through the influence of the network. And the network is not just abstract kindness, but the sum of real, repeated choices — including your own.
Jijang’s Fractal becomes a living crossroads: of personal responsibility and collective influence, of moral action and formless emptiness, of Hinayana and Mahayana. Not as compromise — but as the very pivot of the Dharma wheel.
Bohyeon Bosal: The One Who Opens the Field
But as always: Jijang does not appear alone.
Before he descends, before he settles into the depth, before he unfolds his ∞ across the field of suffering — there must be space.
Not the space of stone, but the space of intention. A space without judgment. A space that says: yes, this too may hurt.
That space is opened by another: Heogongjang Bosal.
He is no preacher. He does not hover above suffering. He makes no promises he cannot carry. He embodies the promise — the action, the presence, the embodiment of compassion.
If Jijang is the one who dwells in Jiok — not as a distant hell, but as the lived reality of suffering, of clinging — as the Buddha taught, shadow — as Jung revealed, and disconnection — as Sartre exposed.
Then Bohyeon Bosal is the one who builds the temple without walls. He opens the field.
He says:
Let this be the place where Jijang remains. Let this be the place where nothing is hidden. Let this be the place where truth may repeat itself — without becoming shame.
Bohyeon Bosal is the stillness before Jijang arrives. The breath before the first tear. The moral space in which Jijang does not drown — but works.
And so I understand now: Jijang is ∞, but Bohyeon Bosal is the 0 in which infinity may appear.
Emptiness Before Form
In Korean spirituality — as in its architecture — creating a space before the form is not incidental. It is essential. The field must be opened before the structure may arise.
Because Jijang is the one who remains. In Jiok. At the crossroads. In the hell realms — not as punishment, but as promise. He is the limit. He is ∞. He is the hand that keeps touching everything — without holding on to anything.
Then I began to see: this fractal is not just a mathematical model. It is a moral space. A spiritual map. A bridge between Sartre and the Buddha. For in the West, we believe in choice. In freedom. In responsibility. While in the East, the focus lies on emptiness, interdependence, and the dissolution of self.
But in Jijang’s Fractal, all comes together. Here, freedom is not detachment — but connection. Emptiness is not disappearance — but passage. And Jijang, as ∞, stands precisely at the crossroads. In the silence between ‘I’ and ‘not-I.’ Between karma and liberation. Between story and stillness.
A Return to Bogwangsa
So I began to look back at my time in Bogwangsa. Not as memory — but as repetition. What returned? Which choice, which word, which look from another kept echoing in me? Which Jijang stood still — and watched me without judgment?
That’s the hard part. Not because it is complex. But because it is intimate. Because it is real. And because it requires me not only to look at the light — but also at the crossroads within myself. The place where Jijang’s hand rests. The place where the story begins again.
When the Image Breaks
Just as Wonhyo drank from foul water in the cave — mistaking it for something pure until daylight revealed its true nature — his awakening came not through doctrine, but through the body. Through shock. Through immediacy. He saw that it was not the water that changed, but his perception of it. And in that moment, something irreversible shifted.
Moments like these still happen — not within the structures of temples or texts, but in the messiness of real life. They arrive uninvited, without explanation, and often without language.
I once witnessed something similar, though quieter. Novi was barely one year old. In our little garden stood a small stone Buddha. One day, with the open curiosity only a child that age can have, she reached out and struck it. Not in anger — there was no malice, only movement. The statue fell. The head broke off.
There was no lesson. No explanation. Only stillness.
And yet that moment stayed with me.
Not because of the broken stone, but because of what it revealed in me.
What was it I had placed in that garden?
What image was I clinging to?
What part of me was decapitated when the Buddha fell?
Sometimes the world doesn’t whisper its teachings.
Sometimes, a child’s hand becomes the finger pointing at the moon.
It is in such small ruptures that the Dharma sometimes reveals itself.
Wonhyo – The Laugh and the Bridge
And then there is Wonhyo.
He, who drank water from a skull — and laughed. Because what first seemed impure turned sacred the moment perception shifted. That moment became his awakening: the realization that truth is not bound to form — but to experience.
Wonhyo, the monk who stopped traveling, because he understood that the journey took place within. The philosopher who worked to bring together the many Buddhist schools of Korea — not to oppose them, but to place them side by side. He did not wish to absolutize the sutras, but to integrate them. He became a bridge.
And that is what I hope to become.
Not to explain Korean Buddhism, but to make it touchable. Not to convert the West, but to offer it a hook — a pattern, a fractal, on which thoughts, feelings, stories, and experiences may rest.
Jijang’s Fractal is my way of saying: You are not alone. Not in your choices, not in your suffering, not in your freedom.
Just as with Wonhyo, I believe that truth is not possession — but movement. Not a system — but a current. Not an endpoint — but a crossroads.
The questions raised here are not new. They echo earlier reflections on mind and perception, explored in figures such as Wonhyo.
You decide what you see. You decide what you carry. You decide what you pass on.
And that is freedom. And that is responsibility. And that is the spirit of Jijang. And that is my mission.
If this speaks to you — if you recognize yourself in this field of influences — know this: the door is open. Jijang’s Fractal is not mine — it is ours.
And it lives in anyone who dares to stay where it is dark, until the light reveals itself.
“With my head directed toward Buddhahood, and my heart committed to the liberation of others…”
In Closing
This letter is written in trust — not in persuasion, but in resonance.
To those who recognize something of themselves in these words, I offer an invitation: not to agree, but to enter into dialogue.
Not to resolve, but to listen.
Not to be right, but to respond.
To every member of the Sangha — monastic or lay, Korean or not, spiritually rooted or still searching — I pose this question:
What is your response to these times?
If something in this work has stirred you — whether with recognition or resistance — don’t hesitate to reach out.
Not to me as a person, but to that which transcends us, and yet binds us together.
If you feel this letter may speak to others as well,
sharing it is deeply appreciated.
In presence, in vow,
Hugo J. Smal
This reflection is part of the Bogwangsa Series on Mantifang.com — written as both offering and inquiry.
1. What is the central theme of this letter to the Sangha?
The letter reflects on a personal journey through Korean Buddhist imagery, Jijang Bosal, and the moral implications of the Jijang Fractal as a model of presence, compassion, and responsibility.
2. How does the Jijang Fractal connect Eastern and Western thought?
The text weaves together ideas from Buddha, Jung, and Sartre, showing how freedom, shadow work, and compassion converge within the fractal as a shared field of influence and moral presence.
3. Why is Heogongjang Bosal important in this reflection?
Heogongjang Bosal represents the “space before the form” — the inner field in which transformation becomes possible. He opens the kosmos in which the Jijang Fractal unfolds.
4. What role does Jijang Bosal play in the author’s spiritual framework?
Jijang Bosal is seen as an inner guide who descends into suffering with compassion. His presence represents infinite accompaniment rather than judgment, forming the core of the Jijang Fractal.
5. How does the author describe the purpose of writing this letter?
The letter is framed not as doctrine but as an offering — an invitation to stay with what is unresolved, to witness reality with compassion, and to enter into dialogue rather than seek conclusions.
The philosophical roots of this work can be traced, in part, to figures such as Wonhyo, whose reflections on mind and perception continue to echo across time.
For years, the statue of Shakyamuni Buddha stood beside my koi pond. Not only because it gave the garden the right atmosphere, but because I cherished those quiet late evenings — listening to the water and the koi — letting his silent gaze wash over me. It was my way of meditating, feeling compassion. Sometimes I would light a candle. Or incense.
The pond had to be emptied. For Korea, for the breeders — like the passionate team at Goyang Koi — for a greater story. I let nature take over. Frogs and salamanders claimed the 30,000-liter basin. Siddhartha remained — solitary — at the edge of a small biotope.
Now, years later, my garden is too small. No more pond, no more room for Nishikigoi. Just a few square meters. Barely enough for an inflatable kiddie pool. And, of course, a Buddha.
That’s okay. I’ve given myself two tasks: To help Mickey care for the little ones. And to write my book: Koreans and I. Both tasks aim to make the world just a little more beautiful.
Liva and Novi Under the Parasol
Sisterhood in soft focus — one with wonder in her eyes, the other with the whole world in her smile.
Liva, nine years old, has already made grateful use of the kiddie pool. Under the parasol, playing with cups and plates. Making soup for us. Splashing, giggling. Shakyamuni stood nearby. Not lonely this time, but sprinkled with childlike life.
This year, four other little beings will join her. Novi — just one year old — can’t wait to play with her sister. Merih, six months, will enjoy his first splashes. Alpje (five) and Aleyna (three) may not be around as often, but they too will sit beneath the parasol, wet-haired in the sunlight.
While Novi Climbs and the Buddha Falls…
While uploading this story, something unexpected happened. A new pope was elected: Leo the Fourteenth, an Augustinian monk. His order, once home to Martin Luther. His name, once worn by emperors. And now he walks onto the world stage with a vow of humility.
His namesake, Leo the Thirteenth, steered the Church toward social justice in the late 19th century — calling for dignity, workers’ rights, and the care of the poor.
A man with his head turned toward Suchness, Just-this-ness and his heart committed to the liberation of others. I smiled. Not because I believe in omens — but because sometimes, things align. A child climbs off a couch. A Buddha loses his head. A monk becomes pope. And somewhere, in all that quiet noise, I hear Dylan sing:
“I can’t help it when I’m lucky.”
One hand holding on, the other offering peace. Two sisters, one swing — grounded and free.
I stood there. And suddenly, an ancient image struck me. A different blow. From another time. A monk. A cave. A skull.
The Cave of Wonhyo – A Buddhist Insight
The rain fell like thoughts on stone. Heavy. Rhythmic. Silent. The monk Wonhyo, on his way to faraway China in search of true dharma, sought shelter for the night. The mountains were quiet, and an opening in the rock called to him. He stepped inside — tired, but without fear.
The darkness was total, as if he had entered the belly of the earth. There, feeling his way, he found a bowl. The water tasted pure. He drank and fell asleep. Morning arrived, and with it, light that changed everything. The bowl turned out to be a skull.
Stagnant water. Silent, green, and thick with meaning. The surface lies. But underneath, insight waits.
The water — stagnant rainwater, filled with leaves and death. He recoiled, his stomach churned. And then, the insight came — sudden, and clear as morning itself: What had changed between night and day? Not the experience, but the mind. His mind had first drunk clarity, then disgust — but the water had remained the same.
In that cave — no temple, no scripture, no teacher — Wonhyo awakened to the essence. Truth did not need to be found in distant lands or complicated texts. It had awakened him. He turned back. To home. To the people. To simplicity. And from that moment on, he no longer spoke of enlightenment. He lived it.
What the skull and stagnant water did for Wonhyo, Novi did for me. The icon — the image of Gautama Buddha — did not give its power as a sacred figure, but as a mirror.
A Broken Icon, a Returned Insight
Insight doesn’t bloom in clarity — it rises from the mud, quietly unfolding toward light.
With my head directed toward Buddhahood and my heart committed to the liberation of others, Novi gave something back to me — with one single blow. The timing of the lantern parade in Korea felt like more than coincidence. In the Netherlands, we don’t celebrate Buddha’s birthday. But we do celebrate Liberation Day — on May 5th. It was on that same day that I published the final chapter of the Bogwangsa story. Unplanned. Just as it needed to be.
Bogwangsa – Four Stories, One Journey
Four stories. Four moments of pausing, observing, and continuing. When I started writing about Bogwangsa, I had no plan. At best, a direction: inward. What began as a travel account of a Buddhist temple in South Korea evolved into a polyphonic reflection — of silence, loss, myth, insight, and liberation.
What I learned is not easily put into words. But I try, because every story we share might open someone else’s inner door.
In the first story, I found silence. Not as the absence of sound, but as the presence of space. The pandemic brought everything to a halt — and at the same time, something opened. Bogwangsa became not a place, but a state of being. Lost in stilness
In the second story, I discovered the power of icons. Not as sacred objects, but as mirrors. They challenged me: What do I revere? Where do I seek protection? And what am I willing to face? Bogwangsa five Icons Bogwangsa temple, five icons
In the third story, I was moved by legends handed down for centuries. I learned: myths are not meant to prove truth — but to bring insight. Sometimes, a myth is the shortest route to the heart. mythical insights
And in the fourth story, everything came together. The child, the monk, the mountain, the dream. What began as a study of something outside me, brought me back within. And there, between the lines, I may have glimpsed what some call compassion. Bogwangsa: The Dream, the Mountain, and the Fractal of Compassion
These four stories together form a small pilgrimage. Not through time, but through attention. Not toward a sacred place, but toward a sacred posture.
Just-This-Ness – What Remains
I am not a Buddhist. But with my head directed toward Buddhahood and my heart committed to the liberation of others, I’ve found something I cautiously hope to share: a way of writing that is also a way of listening. Read the stories. Let them sink in. And maybe — just maybe — you’ll meet something of yourself within them. Just as I met myself in that strike from terror baby Novi — and discovered:
There is something in me that is not broken. Not because I’m perfect — far from it. Not because I understand — because most of the time, I don’t. But because, beyond all I’ve been, or endured, something remains.
Still and clear. Still and warm. Still and real.
I don’t call it God. I don’t call it Self. I don’t call it Soul. I don’t need to name it.
But I know: it watches with me. And when I am very quiet, I am it.
Sometimes I think I must be mad to feel this. Then I hear voices — inside or outside — saying: Who do you think you are? But I don’t think anything. I know I’m not it. I’m not that stillness. But it is in me.
Maybe this is what the Buddha saw when he said: “All beings already have it.” Maybe I don’t need to become anything. Maybe I just need to write. To point. To show:
Look — here something shines. Also in you. Suchness, Just-this-ness
Years ago, I first visited Bogwangsa Temple. Back then, I even climbed up to the large statue of Jijang-bosal. Today, his distant gaze is enough to greet me. I also visited the Yongmi-ri Maaebul at that time—two stone-carved Buddha statues high up on the mountainside. They are said to protect the land, especially the royal family.
Two Standing Yongmi Rock Buddhas
These figures are known as the “Two Standing Rock Buddhas of Yongmi-ri” (용미리 마애이불입상). Designated as Korean Treasure No. 93, they are considered significant examples of Goryeo dynasty Buddhist art. Their small stone hats are designed to shield them from the rain.
Legend of the Princess and the Monks at Bogwangsa Temple
According to a Goryeo-era tradition (918–1392), there once was a royal princess who could not bear children. One night, two enlightened monks appeared to her in a dream and said: “We live among the rocks on the southern slope of Mount Jangjisan. We are hungry. Please feed us.”
The princess told her dream to the king, who dispatched attendants to the location mentioned. There, they found two large rocks standing side by side. Suddenly, the monks appeared again and instructed the men to carve statues from the stones. From the left rock, Mireuk-bul—the Buddha of the Future—was carved. From the right, Mireuk-bosal—the Bodhisattva of the Future. A little boy Dongja is standing between them.
The monks promised that anyone who prayed to these images would have their wishes granted, especially those seeking children or healing. After the statues were completed, a temple was built at the site. That same year, Prince Hansan was born.
Royal Dedication: King Sejo and Queen Jeonghui at Bogwangsa Temple
In 1995, inscriptions were discovered on the stone-carved figures at Yongmi-ri, dating back to 1471 during the Joseon dynasty. These inscriptions suggest that the statues were created in honor of King Sejo (r. 1455–1468) and his consort, Queen Jeonghui. According to this interpretation, the left figure with the round hat represents King Sejo as Mireuk-bul (the Buddha of the Future), while the right figure with the square hat represents Queen Jeonghui as Mireuk-bosal (the Bodhisattva of the Future).
One of the inscriptions reads: “In the future, the great saint Mireuk-bul, Great King Sejo, will be reborn in the Pure Land.”
Although this theory remains unconfirmed, it highlights the profound spiritual and royal significance of these Buddhist statues.
The Shadow of Gounsa Temple: A Spiritual Loss for Korean Buddhism
2 suspects in massive Gyeongsang wildfires to be handed over to prosecution early May. Korea Herald
While writing about Bogwangsa Temple, I received heartbreaking news: the centuries-old Gounsa Temple in Gyeongsangbuk-do had been largely destroyed by fire. Founded in 681 by the eminent monk Uisang—a fellow traveler of Wonhyo and founder of the Korean Hwaeom school—Gounsa belonged to the Jogye Order and was revered for its profound silence, spiritual discipline, and an imposing gilded Buddha statue that proved too heavy to rescue.
The loss was far more than physical. For Korean Buddhism, it marked a spiritual wound—a break in a lineage that had been cherished for centuries through prayer and devotion.
Bodhisattva Francis: A Buddhist Tribute to the Pope in Korea
Around the same time, I was deeply moved by the death of Pope Francis. The Jogye Order, Korea’s largest Buddhist monastic order, released an official statement. Venerable Jinwoo, its leader, expressed condolences and described the Pope as a “true compassionate bodhisattva.” He praised the Pope’s dedication to vulnerable groups and his respect for other religions. Jinwoo also recalled the Pope’s historic 2014 visit to South Korea, during which he sought spiritual connection with leaders of the Jogye Order and other faiths.
Coincidence, perhaps—but it felt like more. While violence continued in Gaza and Ukraine, Korea lost a spiritual monument. And while world leaders like Putin, Trump, and Xi Jinping played games of ego and power, a true follower of Francis of Assisi departed this world.
Francis of Assisi (1181/82–1226), the Italian Catholic saint and founder of the Franciscan Order, was renowned for his radical poverty, love of nature, and deep compassion for all living beings. He saw God in everything and everyone, preached peace, humility, and simplicity, and became the patron saint of animals and the environment. His influence transcends religious boundaries and continues to inspire spiritual seekers around the world.
Sacred Juniper Tree at Bogwangsa Temple: A Royal Memorial
juniper tree sways solemnly
An ancient juniper tree sways solemnly in the rain. According to local tradition, the tree was planted by King Yeongjo of the Joseon dynasty (r. 1724–1776) in memory of his mother, Sukbin Choe, a royal concubine of King Sukjong. The tree stands beside Eosil-gak Hall, a memorial space that enshrines the spirit tablet of Sukbin Choe.
In Korean culture, such a tree symbolizes the connection between heaven and earth. It acts as a bridge between the spiritual and the material realms. The presence of this tree enhances the sacred atmosphere of the temple and reminds visitors of the deep spiritual traditions that are revered here.
Yeonggakjeon Memorial Hall at Bogwangsa Temple
This modest yet solemn shrine, known as Yeonggakjeon (영각전), serves as a sacred space for honoring the deceased. Visitors place small Buddha statues bearing name plaques inside, seeking spiritual merit and remembrance through light, prayer, and compassion.
At Bogwangsa Temple, the memorial space where small Buddha statues are enshrined is called Yeonggakjeon (영각전). This hall is dedicated to the deceased and serves as a sacred place for prayers and ceremonies for their souls. Visitors place small Buddha statues with name plaques to honor loved ones and accumulate spiritual merit.
The illuminated statues symbolize wisdom, enlightenment, and the presence of Buddha. The unlit golden Buddhas on the right side likely serve as personal or family memorials. Donating such a statue is considered an act of compassion—a source of merit and spiritual blessing.
Although such halls are often named Jijang-jeon (지장전), in reference to Jijang-bosal (Ksitigarbha), the protector of souls in the afterlife, this space at Bogwangsa specifically bears the name Yeonggakjeon.
Chilseongak and the Seven-Star Ritual in Korean Temple Tradition
Chilseong Taenghwa in Chilseonggak Depiction of the Seven Stars (Chilseong), celestial guardians of fate and longevity, central to rituals for protection and cosmic harmony.
The Chilseongjae is a ritual dedicated to the Seven Stars (Chilseong, 칠성), celestial beings that hold deep symbolic meaning in Korean Buddhist and folk tradition. In Korean cosmology, the Seven Stars represent:
Longevity and health
Wisdom and spiritual protection
Karma and destiny
Leadership and cosmic order
In temple paintings, Chilseong is often depicted as seven celestial kings beneath a starry sky. Surrounding scenes illustrate prayer, transition, purification, and rebirth. This Chilseongak is really a beauty of Korean Buddhist art. For me, these Seven Stars are inseparably linked to the Jijang Fractal—a spiritual structure of interconnection, transformation, and inner truth.
Bulhwa and the Jijang Taenghwa: Visual Dharma in Yeonggakjeon
Ritual painting of Jijang-bosal with underworld scenes and the Ten Kings of Judgment, used in ancestral rites for guiding departed souls.
Inside the Yeonggakjeon, a sacred painting known as a Taenghwa (hanging scroll) depicts Jijang-bosal (지장보살, Ksitigarbha), the bodhisattva who vows to save beings from hell. Flanking him on the left and right are likely celestial kings or spiritual guardians. Below them appear officials and warriors, most likely the Siwang, the Ten Kings of the Underworld, who preside over the fates of the dead.
The use of red and blue colors in the painting symbolizes vital energy and purification. The space is adorned with glowing lotus lanterns, each bearing a name tag dedicated to a deceased loved one—offering light, remembrance, and spiritual merit.
Beyond the Fractal: A Dream of Silence with Jijang and Avalokiteśvara
Sitting before the Jijang Taenghwa, lost in reflection, I recalled another dream:
A veil of mist cloaked the mountain’s peak. Jijang-bosal and Avalokiteśvara stood side by side. There were no calculations. No formulas. No fractals. Only breath.
“Today we don’t speak of the fractal,“ said Jijang. “What we seek cannot be calculated, but must be felt,” answered Gwanseum-bosal. “Wonhyo called it ‘saek’—color, yet not color. A projection of the mind.”
At their feet grew flowers of thought, pulsing with hues. A white bird fluttered past. Then the mist returned. No conclusion. Just a silent affirmation.
The Tea Ceremony with Head Priest Hye Sung: Wonhyo, Descartes, and the Mind
We were invited by Head Priest Hye Sung. He poured tea—slowly, deliberately, each motion attuned to his breath.
Then came the question that lingered: “Why is Descartes world-famous, and Wonhyo unknown?”
The answer came to me later. In the West, Buddha often appears as a garden ornament—placed beside koi ponds as a symbol of peace or decorative spirituality. Few there have experienced the profound support Korean Buddhism offers. Wonhyo brought that support to the people.
Descartes centered the act of thinking—“Cogito, ergo sum”—I think, therefore I am. Nietzsche shattered that certainty by declaring God dead. Sartre confronted us with radical freedom and existential emptiness. But centuries earlier, Wonhyo had already understood that all phenomena arise from the mind—projections of our inner state.
His pursuit of harmonization found little global resonance—not only because Korea lacked colonial power, but also because it deliberately closed itself off from the outside world.
It’s not just a story of cultural imperialism or wall-building over bridge-building—it’s about a deeper spiritual and intellectual alienation from human potential.
And I, I choose my own path.
The writer’s personal Jijang-bosal, with the dorye placed in front This bronze statue of Jijang-bosal (Ksitigarbha) holds his iconic staff of guidance, while the dorye—symbol of compassionate awakening—rests below, embodying a private link between remembrance and resolve.
Jijang’s Fractal as a Rule for Living: Conscious Action as Sacred Math
“I think, do good, and thereby I add.”
This phrase captures the heart of Jijang’s Fractal: every conscious act, every gesture of compassion, becomes a contribution to a greater whole. Each moment of thought and ethical action increases the total sum—just as in the recursive expression:
f(v) = ∑ f(w) and in the long term: f^∞(v) = lim(n→∞) ∑ f^n(w)
Like a fractal, this moral model suggests that goodness expands outward—layer by layer, influence by influence. It is a mathematical metaphor for karma, interbeing, and the sacred geometry of intention.
Building Bridges, Not Walls: Compassion as the Core of Fractal Living
This rule for living forms a bridge between the abstract concept that appeared to me and the tangible realities of daily life. It offers grounding in times of confusion—a moral compass in a world that often feels fragmented.
But the opposite is also true. Thought without compassion leads to alienation. Action without reflection can cause harm. Compassion is what makes the difference.
Still, I choose my own path. I think, therefore I am. God is not dead. And my freedom gives me the space to build bridges instead of walls.
Ecce Homo—“Behold the man”, as Nietzsche phrased his search for authenticity.
Waking in Color: The Gate Has Already Opened
Yeonggakjeon (left) and Chilseonggak (right) Two ritual halls at Bogwangsa: one honoring ancestral spirits (Yeonggakjeon), the other dedicated to the celestial Seven Stars (Chilseonggak).
I sat on the bench in front of the Yeonggakjeon. The sun hesitated, breaking through. In my hand lay a pebble. It changed color—blue. Gray. Pink. White.
The fractal was still present, but far in the background. What remained was an echo: “All appearances are states of mind. All colors, projections of the spirit.”
I looked at the wall of the temple. There she stood. She said nothing. A nod. A color. A condition. No forgiveness. No judgment. Only the realization: the gate is already open.
As we left Bogwangsa, I looked once more at the statue of Jijang-bosal. His gaze felt different. Perhaps there is no border between North and South—only mist. Perhaps no barrier between what we see and what we know—only the choice to walk through the gate.
Moments later, we saw a familiar woman in the temple’s kitchen. The same woman from the Baedagol Theme Park. A nod. A flash of recognition. Some paths cross without coincidence. Perhaps she always lived in both worlds. Perhaps there is no divide between temple and park. No present. No past.
“With my head directed toward Buddhahood, and my heart committed to the liberation of others…”
I cross the bridge. The bridge between the outer world and the stillness within me— the stillness where I know my awakening resides.
I’ve done my utmost to describe the icons, halls, and rituals of Bogwangsa with care and accuracy. Still, any misidentifications or symbolic misreadings are entirely my own. Should you spot any such errors, your insight is warmly welcome. But above all, I hope what resonates is the spirit of the story—the atmosphere it conjures, the openness it invites, and the sincerity with which it was written.
In the days after publishing part one and two about the Bogwangsa temple and its profound symbolism, I received a message from Venerable Lee Kong, a monk of the Jogye Order. His words weren’t a correction, but something subtler—something that felt more like a compass than a commentary:
“With my head directed toward Buddhahood, and my heart committed to the liberation of others…”
Though this moktak does not belong to Venerable Lee Kong, his chant carries the same steady rhythm—clear, grounding, inescapably present. It echoes not just through the hall, but through the silence within.
His voice, though distant, arrived with a quiet clarity. It wasn’t about verifying details—it was about staying aligned. Aligned with the Dharma, with sincerity, with compassion.
He resides in Haeryongsa, a small hermitage resting at the base of Seongbulsan, one of the outer ridges of Mount Biseulsan. It sits just beyond the edge of the city—close enough to be reached, yet far enough to breathe. He serves as a meditation guide, quietly offering practices that range from yoga to qi-gong to traditional Buddhist meditation. He resides in a small hermitage, where simplicity and silence form the ground for inner work. Though the place is modest, its spirit is vast.
He also serves Venerable Beopta, the revered josil (senior meditation teacher) at Eunhaesa, one of the main temples of the Jogye Order, nestled in the mountains of Palgongsan. His path has not been bound by one lineage alone—he also spent many years practicing alongside Thai monks, deepening his perspective through both Mahāyāna and Theravāda traditions.
A Dream of Alignment
Perhaps it was his voice. Or the quiet weight of the teachings that I carried with me into the mist of Bogwangsa temple. But somewhere in that mist, the dream returns—softly, without demand.
I see myself again, seated in the open square in Seoul, between two titans of Korean memory: Admiral Yi Sun-sin, standing in unwavering readiness, and King Sejong, seated in quiet contemplation. One defends with the sword. The other teaches with words. And between them—on a simple mat, Jijang-bosal and Gwanseum-bosal share a bowl of tea. No doctrine. No ceremony. Just presence. Just listening. It wasn’t a dream of meaning.
Bogwangsa Temple Korea
It was a dream of alignment.
The writer at the spring near the entrance of Bogwangsa temple, I pause beneath the drizzle to draw water. Behind me, the sign reads 圃田福 — Bojeon Bok — a phrase that translates as “blessing of the field” or “prosperity from the garden.”
And still, the sky over Goryeongsan hangs grey and damp. Yet I feel thirsty—not only spiritually, but physically too. What I saw in the main hall didn’t just move me emotionally—it touched something in my body as well. A sensation I know all too well: tight, burning nerves, and a mouth as dry as the ashes of incense. Thankfully, near the entrance, I remember a spring. From it, I draw water—renewing both body and spirit.
Gwanseum-bosal in Full Presence This full view of Gwanseum-bosal at Bogwangsa temple Korea reveals her surrounded by a mandala of a thousand compassionate hands and eyes. Every detail—from the golden lotus to the crowned head of Amitabha—embodies the essence of spiritual heritage in Asia. A visual hymn to Buddhist symbolism and fractal compassion.
At the core of the Bogwangsa temple, the Wontongjeon glows with quiet grace. The Wontongjeon (원통전) is dedicated to Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva—Gwanseum-bosal (관세음보살), the bodhisattva of compassion. The term Wontong means “universally penetrating” or “all-encompassing illumination,” reflecting Avalokiteshvara’s ability to hear and respond to the cries of suffering souls across all realms.
This image of Gwanseum-bosal is not merely a religious icon, but a profound visual expression of the fractal nature of compassion, awareness, and interconnection. Both the physical representation and the symbolic backdrop situate her within a cosmic field—one where every sorrow is seen, every soul heard.
She is, after all, the Bodhisattva Who Always Listens.
In her thousand-armed form, she reaches in all directions, responding to every call. Her presence in Bogwangsa suggests compassion not merely as emotion, but as a cosmic principle—woven into the fabric of transition, of life and death. Though this temple is primarily dedicated to Jijang-bosal, Avalokiteshvara stands here as the embodiment of universal receptivity—a listener beyond the boundary of self. Together, they form a sacred symmetry: one leads, the other listens.
Shared Compassion at Bogwangsa Temple Korea
The Golden Lotus of Bogwangsa Temple Korea Held with both hands, the golden lotus symbolizes shared compassion. Not merely offered, but uplifted together—between bodhisattva and seeker, between wisdom and action. A gesture deeply rooted in Buddhist symbolism.
What strikes me most is how Gwanseum-bosal does not simply hold the golden lotus—she supports it. Her left hand lifts it gently from below, as if to say: compassion is not only offered; it is also carried together. Her gesture suggests that compassion is a partnership—between bodhisattva and seeker, between wisdom and action.
Amitabha’s Crown and the Depth of Buddhist Symbolism at Bogwangsa Temple Korea
Crown of the Compassionate One The crown of Gwanseum-bosal at Bogwangsa temple Korea radiates symbolic depth. At its center sits Amitabha Buddha, linking her to the Western Pure Land—a key element in spiritual heritage Asia. The crown unites earthly compassion with celestial guidance.
Her crown is richly adorned and bears the image of Amitabha Buddha, a reflection of her spiritual origin and goal: the Western Pure Land of Liberation. Her face, radiant and serene, eyes half-closed, speaks of an inner peace that remains steadfast even in the face of cosmic sorrow. She seems to gaze both inward and outward at once. And I can’t help but wonder—what is it she sees?
Tea and Truth
Tea and Truth: A Spiritual Dialogue in Bogwangsa Temple Korea
And then I remember what they were saying. Not in words alone, but in the weight behind them. The tea, the silence, the question that still echoes.
In that dream—so vivid it feels like memory I found myself back in the spiritual quietude of Bogwangsa temple, where dreams and doctrine gently dissolve.
Jijang-bosal takes a sip of tea and turns to Gwanseum-bosal: “You listen to the voices of those who suffer in this world.
I guide those who search for their way after death. And yet, their burdens return again and again. How do we help them let go?”
Gwanseum-bosal smiles softly, her hands circling the warm cup. “Suffering is like this tea,” she says. “Warm. Bitter. But fleeting. Its taste does not stay. Still, many cling to it as if it were eternal.”
Jijang-bosal nods. “I show them the path, but many fear to take it. They fear what they must leave behind, or what awaits beyond. But in truth…”
Gwanseum-bosal finishes the thought: “…there is nothing to hold on to.” Jijang-bosal watches the steam rising from his cup. “Exactly. Just as tea was once water and will soon return to vapor, so are we always in motion. Suffering is not something to carry —but something to let flow.”
She lifts her cup one last time. “And when they realize this, there will be nothing left to release.” The tea is gone. The cups are placed down. No longer full. But not empty either.
The Thousand Eyes of Avalokiteshvara and Buddhist Symbolism
Fractal Hands of Compassion A close-up from Bogwangsa temple Korea, this sea of hands evokes the thousand-armed Gwanseum-bosal—each gesture a vow to listen, to heal, and to uphold the temple’s Buddhist symbolism in endless compassion.
Each hand is a vow. To see suffering—not in the abstract, but in the detail of every trembling soul. To reach out—not just from afar, but here, now, in the intimacy of shared breath.
A thousand hands. A thousand eyes. Not to overwhelm, but to reflect: compassion, too, is fractal. It repeats, not for redundancy, but for presence. And in that repetition, I find something: She does not need to move. The eyes move for her. She does not need to touch. The hands have already begun. And I—still, small, silent—am seen.
Sansin and the Arhats
Gwanseum and Mary: Shared Devotion in the Spiritual Heritage of Asia
Of course, Gwanseum reminds me of Mary. Back home, I had seen people weep before her statue, just as visitors here whisper their grief to Gwanseum. The devotion feels nearly identical. Surrounded by flowers, candlelight, and prayers, both embody the archetype of compassion.
I have no doubt this comparison will be met without resistance. Korean Buddhism is profoundly inclusive—after all, even Sansin, the shamanic mountain spirit, has found his place on temple grounds.
The main altar left me with a sense of reverence, a humble awe before Seokgamoni-bul and his companions. But when I bowed before Gwanseum, I felt something warmer. She is, indeed, like a loving mother. What hasn’t changed is the weather. The sky still weeps its soft drizzle. Thankfully, in the Sansingak (산신각), it is dry.
The Spirit of the Mountain: Sansin in His Pavilion
Sansin at Bogwangsa Temple Korea. Surrounded by offerings and lanterns, the mountain spirit Sansin sits with his tiger—honored in quiet rituals that reflect Korea’s rich spiritual heritage in Asia.
This is the pavilion dedicated to Sansin (산신), the mountain spirit of Korea. The space is intimate, almost humble in its simplicity. At its center sits Sansin himself—an elderly man with a long white beard, clothed in traditional Korean garments. By his side rests his tiger, a powerful symbol of protection and a link to the wildness of nature. Behind them, painted on the taenghwa, Sansin appears again—this time surrounded by attendants and mountain spirits, guardians of his mysterious domain.
Though Sansin’s roots lie in Korea’s shamanistic past, his worship is fully woven into the fabric of Korean Buddhism, especially in temples nestled deep in the mountains.
The Meaning of Sansin
Sansin is revered as the protector of wisdom, a guardian of health, and a granter of long life. He embodies the raw force of nature and the spiritual energy that flows through Korea’s mountainous landscapes. His role as a guardian of temples built on powerful geomantic sites—like Bogwangsa—is deeply respected.
Rituals and Reverence
Monks and visitors alike bring offerings of rice, fruit, water, or wine to Sansin. Their prayers seek protection, well-being, fertility, or success in spiritual practice. These rituals often lean toward the shamanic—more personal than ceremonial—but they live in quiet harmony with the Seon Buddhist traditions of Bogwangsa.
The Sansingak is more than a side building; it is a threshold. A place where nature, spirit, and humanity meet. It reminds me of the strength of the mountains, of unseen protectors who guard the sacred, and of the beautiful entanglement of shamanism and Buddhism in Korean culture.
In the quiet power of Sansin’s presence, I recognize echoes of another sacred encounter—one where Korean reverence and Tibetan ritual once converged.That story, too, continues in Holy Korean and Tibetan Transitions.
Guardians of the Dharma: The Arhats in the Nahan-jeon of Bogwangsa
Arhats at Bogwangsa Temple Korea These serene figures represent enlightened disciples of the Buddha, quietly guarding the Dharma in the sacred stillness of Bogwangsa temple Korea.
Deep within the Bogwangsa temple complex, nestled among ancient trees and mist-laden hills, lies the Nahan-jeon (나한전, Hall of the Arhats). This sacred space is dedicated to the enlightened disciples of the Buddha, known in Korean as Nahan (나한), or Arhats.
The Nahan-jeon radiates an atmosphere of deep contemplation. Upon entering, I am greeted by a row of serene icons, each seated on a vibrant, lotus-shaped cushion. Their faces—pale and tranquil—appear timeless, almost human, as if they embody silence itself. Clad in simple monk’s robes, their hands rest gently in their laps or fold softly into mudras. Behind them stretch richly decorated murals, filled with scenes of the Buddha’s teachings and spiritual journeys through distant lands and mystical realms.
In Korean temples, Arhats are often depicted as a group of sixteen or eighteen figures (십육나한 / 십팔나한, Sibyuk Nahan / Sibpal Nahan), each with unique expressions, gestures, and spiritual attributes. Some hold scrolls or malas (prayer beads), others a staff or symbolic objects like bowls or dragon pearls. Though they have attained enlightenment, they remain in the world—as guardians of the Dharma and protectors of the temple.
The most recognized among them is Pindola Bhāradvāja (빈두로 바라문, Binduro Baramun), often identified by his long eyebrows—a mark of deep wisdom. Challenged by the Buddha to demonstrate his spiritual powers, he became known as the Arhat who endures as long as the Dharma endures. Another highly regarded figure is Kāśyapa (가섭, Gaseop), protector of esoteric teachings and keeper of profound meditative practices.
In Bogwangsa’s Nahan-jeon, time seems to stand still. The soft glow of candlelight reflects in the polished eyes of the Arhats, while the air is thick with the scent of incense. Here, monks and visitors meditate and offer homage, seeking to awaken the Arhats’ wisdom and resolve within themselves.
As I leave the hall, a quiet sense of peace lingers. The Arhats remain unmoved on their cushions, keeping watch over the Dharma, ready to welcome the next traveler in search of awakening.
Nearby stands the Jijangjeon, a hall dedicated to Jijang-bosal (Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva, 지장보살), the bodhisattva of the afterlife and protector of souls in the underworld. People often pray here for the deceased, asking for their safe passage and favorable rebirth. Positioned closer to the entrance, it lies lower in elevation—closer to the earth, and thus to the realm of the dead.
Closing Vow
The air outside the hall is still damp, heavy with the scent of pine and mist. Somewhere behind me, the incense still burns. But I carry a different kind of smoke now—one that rises inward.
I think of the hands that reach. The eyes that see. The tiger beside the mountain god. And the Arhats at Bogwangsa Temple Korea who watch in silence, not because they demand anything, but because they already understand. And then I remember what they were saying.
Not in words alone, but in the weight behind them. The tea, the silence, the question that still echoes.
In that dream — so vivid it feels like memory — Jijang-bosal takes a sip of tea and turns to Gwanseum-bosal:
“You listen to the voices of those who suffer in this world. I guide those who search for their way after death. And yet, their burdens return again and again. How do we help them let go?”
Gwanseum-bosal smiles softly, her hands circling the warm cup. “Suffering is like this tea,” she says. “Warm. Bitter. But fleeting. Its taste does not stay. Still, many cling to it as if it were eternal.”
Jijang-bosal nods. “I show them the path, but many fear to take it. They fear what they must leave behind,
or what awaits beyond. But in truth…”
Gwanseum-bosal finishes the thought: “…there is nothing to hold on to.”Jijang-bosal watches the steam rising from his cup. “Exactly. Just as tea was once water and will soon return to vapor, so are we always in motion. Suffering is not something to carry — but something to let flow.”
She lifts her cup one last time. “And when they realize this, there will be nothing left to release.” The tea is gone. The cups are placed down. No longer full. But not empty either.
In the soft rain outside the Bogwangsa temple, I bow— not because I am close to enlightenment, but because I understand, now more than ever, that the path itself is sacred.
The great wheel turns. Not away from me, but with me. And I, still shaped by longing and learning, am not ready to leave it behind. But I can walk it with care.
With my head directed toward Buddhahood, and my heart committed to the liberation of others. Not as a destination — but as a vow.
I’ve done my utmost to describe the icons, halls, and rituals of Bogwangsa Temple Korea with care and accuracy. Still, any misidentifications or symbolic misreadings are entirely my own. Should you spot any such errors, your insight is warmly welcome. But above all, I hope what resonates is the spirit of the story—the atmosphere it conjures, the openness it invites, and the sincerity with which it was written.
There is a second altar in the main hall of Bogwangsa. It houses a group of five major Buddhist icons:
Five beings in stillness. Five manifestations of being. In the center, Seokgamoni-bul holds the earth with a single touch. Around him, compassion, healing, insight, and radiant light take form. This altar is not a display—it is a mirror.
At the center sits Shakyamuni Buddha (석가모니불, Seokgamoni-bul), the historical Buddha Siddhartha Gautama, who attained enlightenment and shared the Dharma. He is seated in the Bhumisparsha Mudra—his right hand gently touches the earth, a gesture that symbolizes his awakening under the Bodhi tree. His face is calm, his eyes half-closed in deep meditation.
To his left sits Amitabha Buddha (아미타불, Amita-bul), the Buddha of Infinite Light who rules over the Western Pure Land (Sukhavati). His right hand is raised in the Vitarka Mudra, a gesture of teaching and wisdom.
A compelling example of the Amitabha Triad in Korean Buddhist art is preserved in the Cleveland Museum of Art.
Healing and Ignorance: A Moment Before Shakyamuni Buddha
To the right of Shakyamuni is Medicine Buddha (약사여래, Yaksa Yeorae), also known as Bhaisajyaguru—a figure of healing and spiritual wellness. He is venerated in Mahayana Buddhism as a protector against both physical and mental suffering. Often depicted with a medicine pot or healing fruit in his hand, he symbolizes the promise to cure all beings of the ailments that arise from ignorance.
My state of mind makes me realize that Medicine Buddha is not merely a healing guide, but a mirror—an icon that reveals suffering, including my own, as a result of ignorance. Not just mental, but also physical. An ignorance that is not guilty, but formative. And perhaps healing begins there: in recognizing what I do not yet understand.
A notable example of a Korean Medicine Buddha can be found in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
Eyes half closed, as if watching both this world and the next. The right hand calls the earth to witness. The left offers no command—only openness. I did not speak, but he heard me.
On the outer left side stands Avalokiteshvara (관세음보살, Gwanseum-bosal), the Bodhisattva of Compassion—one of the most revered figures in Mahayana Buddhism, known for listening to the cries of all sentient beings. Avalokiteshvara can appear in various forms and genders, and is often depicted holding a lotus or a flask of holy water, radiating peaceful grace.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art holds a renowned 14th-century depiction of Water-Moon Avalokiteshvara, embodying the grace and serenity of this bodhisattva.
On the far right: Mahasthamaprapta (대세지보살, Daeseji-bosal), the Bodhisattva of Great Wisdom. A key figure in the Amitabha Triad, he embodies the spiritual strength and insight that lead toward liberation. Where Avalokiteshvara expresses compassion, Mahasthamaprapta represents the power of awareness and wisdom. He is often shown holding a lotus or a vessel, calm and resolute.
Between Wisdom and Compassion: Bogwangsa’s Fivefold Vision
I sat here, unsure if I belonged. But the silence did not ask for credentials. Only presence. Only breath. A place for stillness, no matter who you are.
The icons deeply move me. Their golden bodies, contemplative faces, and the exuberance of color seem to take hold of my soul. I don’t know if it is allowed, but I sit down in front of the altar and try to become one with my surroundings. I smell the rising smoke from the incense burners—like prayers drifting toward the spiritual world.
No… I’m not sure if I am allowed to sit there, or if it’s even presumptuous of me. But I do it with respect and dedication to the Buddhas and bodhisattvas. Jijang may not be present on this altar, but perhaps he rides on the curling smoke.
As part of the larger narrative “The Jijang Fractal,” this exploration weaves together place, memory, and spiritual inquiry. 👉 The Jijang Fractal – book hub
Murals, Memory, and Dialogue
The Murals Behind Shakyamuni: Visions of Bogwangsa
Behind the figures is a vivid thangka-like mural. I believe it shows Shakyamuni Buddha surrounded by bodhisattvas and celestial beings.
I say believe, because as someone raised in the Catholic tradition, distinguishing these figures is not always easy. Where I make mistakes, I hope to be gently corrected—and forgiven.
The central figure appears to be an exalted form of Shakyamuni, seated within a golden halo. Around him are disciples, bodhisattvas, and guardian deities, symbolic of his teachings. The painting is rendered in bright reds, blues, and golds—hallmarks of Korean Buddhist art.
The boy from Rotterdam still feels the pull of Catholic iconography. I remember watching the smoke rise as the Requiem by Verdi filled the church. I was part of the boys’ choir then—allowed to sing along, even if I barely understood what we sang.
And yet, I remember the moment my heart hesitated: my fingers tapping my chest as I whispered, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”
Here, in the hall of Siddhartha, I realize: while Jesus invites the heart to open, the Buddha invites the mind to become still. They do not cancel each other out.
They coexist—just like the icons on this mural.
Where the Ceiling Whispers Prayer
Above the altar hang lotus lanterns (Yeondeung, 연등), each bearing a name or prayer. They symbolize enlightenment and spiritual protection. In the background I discern rows of small golden Buddha statues—likely dedicated by pilgrims or families in memory of deceased loved ones.
When the Icons Mirror Us: Insight at Bogwangsa
From this angle, I see their profiles—thoughtful, grounded, listening. Their hands speak, though they never move. What would I say, if I could answer them?From the side, they look like a river of gold. Each one turned just slightly, as if in conversation with the other. This is not hierarchy. It’s harmony.
In that silence, a dream returns.
Once again, I find myself seated in the plaza in Seoul, between two giants of Korean history: Admiral Yi Sun-sin, who protected the people with his sword, and King Sejong, who enlightened them with his words. One stands, unwavering. The other sits, immersed in thought. Between them, on a simple mat, Jijang-bosal and Gwanseum-bosal share a cup of tea.
And so the conversation begins.
Jijang-bosal takes a sip and looks at Gwanseum-bosal.
“You listen to the cries of those who suffer in this world. I guide those who seek their way beyond it. And still, their sorrows return. How can we help them let go?”
Gwanseum-bosal smiles and gently turns her teacup.
“Suffering is like this tea. Warm, bitter, but fleeting. The taste does not remain. Yet many cling to it, as if it were eternal.”
Jijang-bosal nods.
“I show them the path, but few dare to walk it. They fear what they must leave behind—or what awaits them. But in truth…” Gwanseum-bosal finishes his thought: “…there is nothing to hold on to.” Jijang-bosal watches the steam rise from his cup. “Exactly. Just as tea was once water and will soon evaporate again, so are we always in motion. Suffering is not something to carry—but to let flow.”
Gwanseum-bosal lifts her cup.
“And when they realize that, there will be nothing left to release.” The tea is gone. The cups are placed down. No longer full—but not empty either.
The city fades. The dream dissolves. What remains is the scent of incense, the shadow of Jijang, and the realization that none of the icons here stand alone. They mirror each other. They mirror us.
I look once more at the altar. Perhaps it’s not what I’ve seen that matters, but what it has stirred within me. Just as the Jijang fractal reveals itself when attention meets surrender, insight too does not grow from certainty, but from stillness.
But this temple holds more layers. Beyond this hall lie other spaces, other voices, other rituals. The story does not end here. It deepens.
I rise. The air is still. My footsteps echo softly on the stone floor, as if the temple itself says: you’re not finished yet.
As I leave the hall, the echo of the icons still resonates—not as doctrine, but as presence. They are not answers, but companions. And though this altar offered a deep and quiet wisdom, I know that Bogwangsa has not yet spoken its last.
There are other halls to enter. Other guardians to meet. Other silences to sit with.
In the next part of this journey, I return to the temple grounds—with eyes attuned to detail, and a heart still learning how to bow.
I’ve done my utmost to describe the icons, halls, and rituals of Bogwangsa with care and accuracy. Still, any misidentifications or symbolic misreadings are entirely my own. Should you spot any such errors, your insight is warmly welcome. But above all, I hope what resonates is the spirit of the story—the atmosphere it conjures, the openness it invites, and the sincerity with which it was written.
People disappeared behind doors. Newspapers spoke of rising death tolls, collapsing markets, and borders that refused to open. COVID-19 had the world in a grip no one could fully understand—except those who lived through it. And us? Mickey and I were stuck in South Korea.
Well, stuck? Maybe not in the way most would imagine. Kim Young Soo, president of Baedagol Theme Park and Goyang Koi Farm, had made sure we had a place to stay. Above the closed Baedagol Museum, he had arranged a small apartment for us. The park’s gates remained shut to the outside world, but we were free to wander the gardens. In a time when most people were confined to their living rooms, that felt like a gift.
Still, something felt missing. Perhaps it was the awareness that the world was in crisis—that one could be safe, yet still trapped in an invisible structure. Or maybe it was a longing for something deeper than mere comfort.
Kim Jae Ho, our friend and translator, saw it. Perhaps he saw it before we did. One day, he suggested we visit Bogwangsa(보광사), a temple nestled deep in the hills of Paju. Kim Young Soo, as always, arranged everything. It began on August 1, 2019—under the stars of Goyang, when a pattern quietly took shape: the Jijang fractal. I did not know then that the world was also shifting, that a hidden storm—later known as COVID-19—was already forming.
The date was December 1, 2019.
That day, the temple gate would open for us. That day, the Jijang fractal would no longer reside only in my thoughts—but take on a tangible form.
🔹 More on the Origins of the Jijang Fractal
The Jijang fractal first revealed itself to me during walks through Goyang. In a seemingly ordinary neighborhood, something extraordinary appeared. You can read the full experience and explanation in my reflection: 👉 Neighbourhood & Jijang fractal
The Road to Stillness
The rain gently tapped against the car windows as we wound our way through the mountains of Paju. The Imjin River flowed sullen and grey. We had left early, hoping to catch a glimpse of North Korea from the nearby observatory, but the mist had erased the horizon. What we expected to see—a border, a divide, a clear contrast—had vanished into a haze of gray tones. Disappointed, Kim Jae Ho restarted the car and turned into the mountains.
The road to Bogwangsa Temple was short. Gradually, the landscape shifted; buildings gave way to forest and near silence. And then, even before we reached the temple grounds, he appeared: Jijang-bosal—immovable—standing on a pedestal as if he himself were a gateway to another reality. His gaze rested far into the distance, yet felt deeply fixed on us. Behind him rose Goryeongsan (고령산), a 436-meter-high mountain, and Gamaksan, reaching up to 675 meters. Along with the Imjingang River, they form a harmonious geomantic configuration believed to enhance the spiritual energy of Bogwangsa. For me, it turned out to be the perfect place for contemplation.
Bogwangsa Temple – Description and Layout
A large signboard near the entrance shows a detailed map of Bogwangsa. Mounted within a traditional wooden structure topped by a black-tiled roof, the board offers visitors an overview of the temple layout—including major halls, pathways, and natural features. The entire complex is surrounded by forested hills, amplifying its serene and spiritual atmosphere.
Click to enlarge the Bogwangsa Temple map
Main Structures of Bogwangsa Temple:
1️⃣ Daeungbojeon (대웅보전) – Main Buddha Hall
2️⃣ Eosil-gak (어실각) – Eosil Pavilion
3️⃣ Wontongjeon (원통전) – Wontong Hall
4️⃣ Eungjinjeon (응진전) – Hall of Arhats
5️⃣ Sansingak (산신각) – Pavilion for the Mountain Spirit
6️⃣ Jijangjeon (지장전) – Hall of Jijang-bosal, Bodhisattva of the Afterlife
7️⃣ Manseru (만세루) – Manse Pavilion
8️⃣ Huwon (후원) – Rear Garden
9️⃣ Jonggak (종각) – Bell Pavilion
🔟 Suguam (수구암) – Sugu Hermitage
1️⃣1️⃣ Seokbuljeon (석불전) – Hall of the Stone Buddha
1️⃣2️⃣ Iljumun (일주문) – Main Temple Gate
1️⃣3️⃣ Seolbeopjeon (설법전) – Hall of Dharma Teachings
1️⃣4️⃣ Yeonggakjeon (영각전) – Hall of Ancestral Spirits
…
Bogwansa (보광사) and Doseon Guksa
Bogwansa temple was founded in 894 CE by the renowned monk Doseon Guksa, under the order of Queen Jinseong during the Silla period. At that time, it was considered a hidden national treasure and one of the six grand temples north of the Hangang River.
Doseon Guksa (827–898) was a prominent Korean Buddhist monk and geomancer. He is often associated with the introduction and development of pungsu-jiri (풍수지리), the Korean adaptation of feng shui.
At the age of 15, Doseon entered monastic life and began his studies at Hwaeomsa Temple in Gurye County. His dedication and intellect quickly earned him recognition. Around 850, he traveled to Tang China to further immerse himself in esoteric Buddhist and Taoist teachings, including astronomy, astrology, and geomancy. After returning to Korea, Doseon journeyed across the peninsula, studying how geographical features influenced human life. He adapted Chinese feng shui principles to the Korean context, emphasizing the harmonious relationship between humans and nature. His approach, known as bibo-pungsu-jiri, focused on enhancing positive energies through the strategic placement of cities, temples, and other structures. His expertise in geomancy made him a valued advisor. He is credited with the establishment of approximately 70 temples and monasteries, including Bogwangsa Temple in Paju.
During the Imjin War (1592–1598), Bogwangsa was destroyed but was rebuilt in 1622 by monks Seolmi and Deogin. Since then, the temple has undergone various renovations to preserve its historical and cultural significance. A notable feature of Bogwangsa is the large Buddha statue, known as the ‘Hoeguk Dae Bul.’ Standing as a guardian of compassion and transition, the grand stone Jijang-bosal is visible from afar. His presence is more than symbolic; in his majesty and serenity, he embodies the character of a Hoeguk Dae Bul—a ‘Great Buddha who saves the nation.’ Not only does he welcome visitors, but he also marks a threshold: between the mundane and the sacred, between the known and the karmically unknown. As a guide for souls and protector of the land, he unites individual and collective salvation.
A misty morning at Bogwangsa Temple. In the foreground stands a small red pavilion, possibly the Sansingak, nestled just before the sacred 300-year-old juniper tree. Behind it, traditional temple halls emerge through the autumn trees, embraced by the quiet slopes of Goryeongsan. The scene breathes stillness, reverence, and geomantic harmony.
The temple also houses nine cultural properties, including the historic ‘Daeungbojeon’ (the main hall) and a 300-year-old juniper tree. According to tradition, this tree was planted by King Yeongjo in honor of the spirit of his mother, Sukbin Choi.
Bogwangsa and Jogye Order
Bogwangsa is managed by monks of the Jogye Order, the largest sect within Korean Buddhism. Unlike, for example, the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, where the Tibetan Book of the Dead (Bardo Thödol, 바르도 퇴돌) plays a central role, the Jogye Order follows the Seon tradition. They strive for direct enlightenment through meditation and direct experience of the true nature of the mind, beyond concepts and illusions. The emphasis is on releasing attachment to a ‘fixed’ death experience—the idea that death is an absolute, unchanging process—and instead, the transition is seen as a fluid, karmic manifestation dependent on one’s state of consciousness and actions in life. In Korean Buddhism, a Jijangjae (지장재) is often performed at death, a ritual dedicated to Jijang-bosal (Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva), who assists souls in safely navigating the afterlife.
intriguing tension
So within the temple exists an intriguing tension, though not necessarily a contradiction. Bogwangsa does indeed belong to the Jogye Order and follows the Seon (Zen) Buddhist tradition, where enlightenment through meditation is central. At the same time, Bogwangsa is devoted to Jijang-bosal (Ksitigarbha), who is precisely the guide through the Bardo—the intermediate state after death.
How can this be reconciled?
🔹Seon Buddhism and Meditation as the Core of the Jogye Order
•The Jogye Order primarily focuses on direct experience and meditation (Seon).
•Its ultimate goal is enlightenment here and now, without reliance on external forces or intermediary states.
🔹The Role of Jijang-bosal in Temples Like Bogwangsa
•Jijang-bosal is the savior of souls in the Bardo, helping them toward enlightenment or reincarnation.
•This parallels the Tibetan Bardo Thödol(Tibetan Book of the Dead), where a guide is essential for the transition into a new state of existence.
•This suggests that Bogwangsa is not solely focused on direct enlightenment, but also on guiding souls after death.
Bridging Seon and Jijang-bosal
Bogwangsa’s emphasis on Jijang-bosal points to a pragmatic approach to enlightenment:
🔹 For the living: Seon meditation is highlighted as the path to enlightenment during life.
🔹 For the dead: Jijang-bosal plays a role for those who missed the chance for enlightenment and are now in the Bardo.
🔹 Rituals like Sasipgujae (the 49-day mourning ceremony) help guide souls toward eventual liberation.
In essence, Bogwangsa fulfills a spiritual need that the pure Seon tradition does not always address explicitly: the care for the dead and the ancestors. This is not unique—many Korean Seon temples include shamanistic and Mahayana elements to fulfill broader religious and cultural needs.
A Quiet Moment in the Hall of Jijang
Painting of the heavenly court where souls are judged, featuring prominent figures in red robes. One of the Siwang (Ten Kings of the Underworld) paintings inside the Jijangjeon Hall.
I don’t remember how long I sat there. Maybe it was just a few minutes. Maybe half a lifetime. The air inside the hall was still, carried by incense and expectation. Jijang-bosal did not look at me, and yet it felt as if I had already been seen.
I am not a Buddhist. I was raised Catholic. Images, rituals, prayer—they are familiar to me. But what does a European mind, shaped by grace and sin, do in a hall devoted to karma and rebirth?
And yet, in this silence, I understood that the question wasn’t whether I believed in the Bardo, but whether I had ever dared to admit that I was in it. Not after my death, but now. In transition. Between knowing and unknowing. Between control and surrender.
Jijang-bosal offers no dogma, no judgment. He doesn’t extend his staff to condemn, but to guide. He doesn’t judge my origin, only my willingness to let go. To find trust in transitions instead of fear.
Perhaps that’s what the temple gave me. Not conversion, not an answer, but a calm. A deep knowing that when the time comes, even a soul shaped at the foot of a cross can find its path with the help of a bodhisattva with golden eyes.
Because if the Bardo is a space between, then Jijang is not the owner of that space. He is its guide. And guides don’t demand. They wait. Until you ask: may I come with you?
The Daeungbojeon – The Heart of the Temple
Passing through the main gate, we entered the temple grounds. The rain had ceased, leaving the scent of wet wood and lingering incense in the air. Before us stood the Daeungbojeon (대웅보전, Great Hero Hall), the spiritual center of Bogwangsa.
At the center, Shakyamuni Buddha (석가모니불, Seokgamoni-bul) sits in the lotus position. His serene face exudes a peaceful expression, surrounded by a halo symbolizing enlightenment and spiritual power. To his left stands, I believe, one of the Four Heavenly Kings (사천왕, Sacheonwang), respectfully folding his hands in protection of the Buddha and the Dharma. To the right stands Jijang-bosal (Kṣitigarbha, 지장보살), the bodhisattva of the afterlife.
Jijang-bosal’s staff (Shakujō, 석장) symbolizes his role as a guide for souls in the Bardo, with the sound of its rings awakening them and leading them toward enlightenment. The six rings represent the Six Realms of Existence, while the staff itself embodies Jijang-bosal’s determination and dedication. In Bogwangsa’s Jijangjeon, the staff signifies spiritual protection and guidance, especially in rituals like the 49-day transition ceremony (Sasipgujae).
Detailed depiction of four of the Ten Kings seated in formal posture, inside a decoratively painted hall. Symbols of justice and karmic balance are visible
Also present at the altar are the Siwang (십왕), the Ten Kings of the Underworld, suggesting that this hall is dedicated not only to enlightenment (Shakyamuni) and meditation but also serves as a space for transitional rituals. The combination of the Buddha, protectors, and underworld icons makes this altar a significant intersection between enlightenment, protection, and the karmic cycle of rebirth. The Ten Kings of the Underworld are symbolic judges, each representing a stage of the soul’s journey, assessing the karma of the deceased and determining their next destination in the cycle of rebirth.
This altar thus forms the spiritual heart of Bogwangsa, where both monks and visitors come together to meditate, pray, and pay respects to the forces that influence both this life and the next.
As I turned away from the main altar—its presence still lingering in the incense-thick air—my eyes were drawn upward. Not to a specific icon, but to the silent gaze of many. Eyes carved in patience, cast in compassion, painted in timeless serenity.They didn’t demand belief. They didn’t offer escape. They simply were. In that moment, I felt a shift—not in my faith, but in my understanding.
A detailed painted scene depicting the great Korean monk Wonhyo, accompanied by a celestial figure. This imagery reflects his journey inward—a spiritual awakening that transcended dogma, pointing to the living heart of the Dharma. Davin A. Mason kindly told me that it is not Wonhyo. It is Dokseong.Thanks for your kindness.
“The substance of Mahāyāna is truly calm and immensely profound,” wrote Wonhyo, the great Korean monk, in his commentary on The Awakening of Faith in Mahāyāna. He pointed not to dogma, but to experience—to the still and boundless heart of the Dharma itself. Perhaps that was what had watched me all along.Not a deity. Not an idea. But the path itself: not built of words, but of insight. The Dharma—not as scripture, but as living truth. A calm that opens, a depth that listens. Between stone and silence, between breath and blessing. And so I turned, ready to meet what waited behind the second altar.
As I turned from the main altar—its silence still echoing in my breath—I didn’t know another presence awaited me. Tucked just behind the Hall’s center, shrouded in shadows and time, stood a second altar.
What secrets did it hold? What story would unfold there?Next: The Second Altar – Between Earth and Afterlife 🕊️ Coming soon on Mantifang
Disclaimer: While every effort has been made to accurately describe and name the icons, halls, and rituals within Bogwangsa, it’s possible that some inaccuracies remain. If you notice any errors in naming or placement, please feel free to let me know. More than correctness, however, what matters most to me is the feeling the story evokes—its atmosphere, its intention, and its sincerity. Hugo J. Smal
There are stories that touch me because they are woven into the very fabric of tradition, community, and compassion. And then there is Chuseok, the Korean harvest festival, which brings together all those layers of culture in one deep breath, emanating from its core. But it becomes even richer when I combine it with a philosophical concept that was revealed to me. The concept of Jijang’s Fractal, as I will detail in my book The Koreans and I emerged from deep reflection on compassion and interconnection Its roots in my reflection on Buddhism and religion in general: Jijang’s Fractal.
A Dol-tap (돌탑) is a traditional Korean stone tower, typically made by carefully stacking stones. These towers are often found along mountain trails or near temples and are built by people as symbols of wishes, prayers, or respect for nature and spirits. The act of stacking stones in a Dol-tap represents a personal offering or a desire for good fortune and harmony.
Chuseok tradition is about more than just family; it is about reverence, a sense of community, and the realization that every small action reverberates throughout the larger whole. This is where Jijang’s Fractal shines – my concept that embodies infinite interconnection and compassion, inspired by the bodhisattva Jijang Bosal and the mathematical idea of fractals. Jijang’s Fractal symbolizes how every action, no matter how small, multiplies infinitely and echoes through the community and the universe. During the Korean harvest festival, the network of compassion becomes especially strong. Read about how Jijang’s fractal came to me now.
The Story of Chuseok and the Stone Tower
In a small mountain village, far from the splendor of the Manwoldae Palace in Gaegyeong (now Kaesong), a family lived high in the mountains. Their name has long been forgotten. They had no rice, no wine, no offerings to present to their ancestors during Chuseok. Yet, they felt that unbreakable connection. They knew that even without material wealth, their actions would speak.
The mother of the family, a woman of great wisdom and gentle hands, decided to offer no material sacrifice but rather one of labor and service. The day before Chuseok, the family descended to her birth village. Along the way, they carefully collected the most beautiful stones. On the village square, near the village altar and the guarding **Changseung**, they washed their precious finds. With these self-gathered offerings, they created a small shrine. Every carefully placed stone became part of a modest tower – a small monument, but one full of meaning.
When the village elders saw this, they were initially saddened. They saw it as a sign of the family’s poverty. But when they looked closer, they saw the care with which the stones had been chosen and stacked, and they realized its significance. This was not a sign of poverty but a testament to their unbreakable spirit. The family may not have had material means, but their dedication to their ancestors and their community was deep and strong.
The village elders were so moved by this gesture that they honored the family by organizing a feast for them. The whole village came together, and for one day, wealth and poverty were forgotten. They shared everything they had, and the small stone tower became the center of their celebration. That Chuseok was not only a tribute to the ancestors but also a symbol of the strength of community, independence, and filial piety, even in the hardest of times.
Compassion and community in Korea’s Chuseok tradition
The Stream is where it begins, with that first act of reverence, like placing the first stone in the tower. The stream flows gently, and just as the stream grows, so does compassion.
Each stone stood for more than just a simple act. It was part of a larger pattern, the connected flow of Jijang’s compassion. Just as Jijang Bosal promises to leave no soul behind, no matter how small or lost, this family showed that even the smallest actions resonate within the larger community. That day, their tower became a symbol of connection – a monument to their ancestors but also to the community itself.
Just as a stream begins with a single drop and eventually flows into the sea, the family’s gesture started small, but it grew, it flowed, and it connected them to something greater. From a small gesture to a powerful ritual, every part of nature seemed to reflect this message.
The Waterfall represents the intensity of the gesture, the power of action. Once compassion is set in motion, it gains strength, just as the waterfall thunders down, drenching its surroundings in water.
In the story of the family who, despite their poverty, built a stone tower as a tribute to their ancestors during Chuseok, you can see the echo of **Jijang’s Fractal**. As in the formula:
\[ f(v) = \sum_{w \in V} f(w) \]
where each value is influenced by all others, each stone in that tower becomes part of a greater pattern of reverence and community. And just like in:
the family’s gesture reaches its deepest power as it repeats, multiplies, and grows into a symbolic whole that touches the community and extends beyond their individual acts.
My Writing as a Contribution to the Flow
The River is the next phase, where connection broadens and flows more calmly yet deeply. Here, we see the maturity of the acts of compassion. The river continues to flow, nourishing the community, just as the river embraces the earth.
Reflecting on this story, Chuseok tradition, and the concept of Jijang’s Fractal, I also see my own writings as a small contribution to this flow. Just as every small gesture connects us to something greater, my words, too, aim to be part of that larger network of compassion and connection. Each story, each thought, each sentence I write is like a small stone added to the tower – a humble offering, yet part of the infinite pattern of connection that we all create together. I feel one with Indra’s net.
The Wish of Jijang’s Fractal, it’s Chuseok tradition
Based on this thought, I share a Chuseok wish, something that goes beyond the moment and resonates with the essence of Jijang’s Fractal:
May this Chuseok remind us of the power of small deeds. Just as a stream begins with a single drop, our gestures of love and reverence contribute to the infinite connection of our community and ancestors. Let us cherish every stone, every action, as part of a greater whole, and remember that in every simple act lies an endless pattern of compassion.”
With Jijang’s Fractal in mind, Chuseok tradition reminds us that our smallest actions form part of a larger whole. It is a celebration of connection, not only with the past but also with the future and with each other. Every stone in the tower, every fractal in the river, every drop in the sea – everything is part of the same eternal network. Every action, every stone, every step is part of the eternal flow of water. Jijang’s Fractal shows us that what starts small can multiply into something infinite.
The Sea, finally, symbolizes the ultimate destination: infinite connection. Just as the sea never stops, every act of compassion echoes endlessly through time and space.
After you have bowed to those dear to you, take a moment to enjoy what has been offered to them. When you pour Makgeolli or Soju:
Geonbae 건배 – and drink one for me. It brings me joy to know that the infinite pattern of Jijang’s Fractal in Korea will continue, as the remaining food is shared with those in need.
I wish you a very pleasant Chuseok 2024. Should you wish to delve deeper into my work, please do not hesitate to do so promptly.
This chapter of Goyang neighbourhood tracks a lived contrast: Rotterdam directness against Korean relational form, individual impulse against collective role, speech against context. It circles through neighbourhood, stream, memory, ritual, food, shame, and vision, not as separate topics but as one field of experience. Confucian social roles, Korean kibun and nunchi, and the unfolding logic of The Jijang Fractal are tested in body-language, hierarchy, table manners, and misread moments. The narrative descends into a darker textual intrusion, where voice, violence, and fractured identity pressure the narrator’s own reflections. Out of this tension, the fractal intuition reappears: not invented, but encountered.
Rotterdam and Goyang: Two Communication Worlds in Goyang neighbourhood
From Rotterdam to a Goyang neighbourhood
During my explorations of the Goyang neighbourhood, I came to understand that communication in Korea involves much more than just words and sentences. The context, the speaker, and the way something is expressed are all crucial. To truly grasp the meaning, one must read between the lines. Coming from Rotterdam, where people are straightforward and open-hearted, I noticed the contrast. In the Netherlands, directness is valued, and stepping outside the lines isn’t frowned upon. In fact, it’s often seen as a sign of creativity and initiative.
Goyang neighbourhood
Losing face isn’t much of a problem for me. In my country, people quickly forgive a mistake or a blunder. Just be honest! You don’t make a career without making mistakes. But in Korea, things are different. The deeply crying Koi breeder showed me that.
Confucian Pillars, Kibun, and Selfhood in Goyang neighbourhood
Pillars in Goyang neighbourhood
Pride also has a different connotation here. I feel proud when Feyenoord becomes champion, but a Korean feels pride when he fulfills the five Confucian relationships (Oryun). Confucius, Mencius, Yi Hwang (Toe gye), and Yi I (Yul gok) remain the pillars of Korean culture. These scholars outline the relationships between parents and children, elder and younger siblings, husband and wife, friends, and ruler and subject. In each relationship, Koreans follow a specific role pattern.
Parents owe their children education, care, and moral development. In return, children owe their parents obedience, respect, and care. They look after them when they can no longer work, and they pray and make offerings at their graves. These rules form the foundation for all other relationships and the social structure as a whole.
According to Confucian philosophy, when the Korean soccer team wins, it’s considered a victory for the entire community. The triumph of the Korean people is more significant than that of the players on the field. The collective is far more dominant than the individual who scores.
We also interpret the concept of Kibun, which encompasses feeling, mind, and mood, quite differently. We Dutchmen tend to be overly sensitive and are certainly not inclined to discuss our inner thoughts and feelings. However, in the land of the Mudang, the seunim, the Neo-Confucian scholar, and even the Christian priest, feeling, mind, and mood hold great significance. Dive into the concept of Kibun or Nunchi
But expressing individuality isn’t highly appreciated. We certainly don’t discuss it as some do in Bloodhounds by Kim Ju-wan. We also need our personal space. “Don’t stand so close to me!” I survive Korea with The Fragrance of the Mantifang by Wu Cheng’en in mind.
“Watching the chess game, I cut through the rotten,
Felling trees, ding ding,
Strolling at the edge of the cloud and the mouth of the valley.
I sell firewood to buy wine,
Cackling with laughter and perfectly happy.
I pillow myself on a pine root, looking at the moon.
When I wake up it is light.
Recognizing the old forest,
I scale cliffs and cross ridges,
Cutting down withered creepers with my axe.
When I’ve gathered a basketful,
I walk down to the market with a song,
And trade it for three pints of rice.
Nobody else competes with me,
So prices are stable.
I don’t speculate or try sharp practice,
Couldn’t care less what people think of me,
Calmly lengthening my days.
The people I meet
Are Taoists and Immortals,
Sitting quietly and expounding the Yellow Court.”
I try to act Korean. It doesn’t work. Our cultures are too different, too opposite. When I try to use Nunchi, I only make mistakes. I don’t just want to master the language. Although? Am I forced to use Nunchi because I don’t know the language? I survive by being myself. Most Koreans forgive a lot.
Contemplating Goyang Neighbourhoods
At the Stream: Reflection and Recall in Goyang neighbourhood
Jijang at Bogwan Sa
As these thoughts weigh on my mind, I climb down the embankment towards the now gently babbling Goyang Seongsaheon stream. Of course, it’s dangerous. But the Soju makes me fearless, and sometimes you just have to do things. Amidst the lush vegetation, a stone invites me to sit. I take off my shoes and let the coolness wash over me as I rest my feet in the sparkling water.
The Budeul’s (부들) tails stand still. Rubiela Lobelia Cardinalis (루비엘라) proudly displays her red flowers. The Mulchucho (물수초) is the only thing that moves with the flow of the water. I sink into deep reflection, recalling a climbing experience I wrote about in my twenties.
Larghetto in the Goyang Neighbourhoods
Why was I so drawn to that one spot on the beautiful island of Crete? How did the small white church come to dominate my entire vacation? It sat high on the mountain behind Hera Village, a villa town on the Gulf of Mirrabellou, halfway between Agios Nikolaos and Elounda.
I had visited Knossos, where the discovery of a five-thousand-year-old civilization—one that would eventually culminate in the Greeks—was overshadowed by the crowds of noisy tourists. Even though prayers were no longer said in the temple, it still felt like sacrilege.
In this way, my vacation was largely a failure. I hadn’t found what I was looking for, though I didn’t even know what I was seeking. Some primordial feeling? The relationship between body and clay that had inspired Van Gogh to paint and Beethoven to compose? It was all approached the wrong way. Excursions don’t lead to the discovery of feelings.
Two days before the return trip, I decided to climb up. There was no path leading to that church. Well, I would just see how it went. My way started straight up, through bushes full of sharp thorns. The result: bloody scratches on my legs. But the only thing that mattered was the goal.
After half an hour, I found a barely passable path that led me to an olive grove. Now, only the blazing sun and the stone walls remained to be overcome. Anyway, after two and a half hours, I made it to the top.
The church was disappointing, but what I saw beyond it exceeded all expectations. On the other side of the mountain was a vast valley, covered with bushes that stood apart in a strange, almost deliberate manner. Ruins, low, sunken houses, lay scattered on the slope opposite me. I could no longer stand; my legs gave way under the purity of this place. My breath caught, sweat ran down my back. The violin concerto swelled in my head. It felt as though the valley was flooded with these gentle sounds. Or was it the other way around? Was my head filled with the composition of this valley? Unconsciously, I folded my hands and whispered:
“You who are, help me. For my ignorance is too great, my feelings too overwhelming, to comprehend you. You who are, help me.”
Tears streamed down my face. To die here with this feeling, so powerful and all-encompassing. This valley is sacred. My thoughts drifted back to the distant and cold Netherlands. Did I really have to go back there? That place could never touch me again, not after this revelation.
Completely dazed, I began the descent, quickly losing my way. After hours of stumbling, climbing back up, sometimes teetering on the edge of death, I found myself miles away, down towards Elounda.
What did it matter? I had become millions richer. That little church had saved my vacation. It had used its pull to teach me a firework of emotions. Since then, Larghetto and Rondo Allegro have remained my most beloved pieces of music. But it’s still a struggle.
Back to the River
Goyang neighbourhood Big dipper sky
“You who are, help me.” This theme would continue to dominate my life. The earth has always appeared to me as a planet in need of help. Too much dull, exhausting misery, both large and small. Here, on this stone by the babbling water, it feels right, but I know that the world around me keeps turning. I sink further into an even deeper reflection—or should I call it meditation?
The stars of the Big Dipper began to dance. Each star, a king, sung about in the Muga as guardians of the cosmic order. Suddenly, an extra star appeared, brighter than the rest, joining the constellation as the “King of Kings”—Jijang’s’s fractal, a manifestation of ultimate wisdom and power, surpassing the seven kings. This new star seemed to become the center of the constellation, a divine presence guiding the Buddhas and preserving the harmony of the universe. Read about the Muga
Pulsating before my eyes, it formed the King of Kings within the constellation. This almighty light suddenly transformed into
The, to me, unreadable formulas continued to rotate before my mind’s eye, occasionally interspersed with the beautiful image of a white Lotus. Softly, the almighty Om Mani Padme Hum flowed with the babbling river. Amazed, I crossed my legs and surrendered.
The stone beneath me turned icy cold. The plants became still, and the stream resumed its gentle flow. It flowed towards the Han River, past Ganghwa-do, into a world that continued to turn on its own. I wasn’t afraid, only slightly unsettled. Was it the Soju, or perhaps that violent email? Somehow, the mathematical formulas gave me enough strength to climb back up the embankment. I must interpret them, but because they filled me with compassion, I collectively named them Jijang’s Fractal.
Dinner, Bae Jong-Ok, and the Fracturing Voice in Goyang neighbourhood
Goyang Neighbourhood dinner
A few years ago, it was hard to find a European breakfast. I prefer to start my day with some bread, cheese, and peanut butter—just simple, hearty food that fills the stomach. The locals, on the other hand, eat the food prepared the night before. The dishes are delicious, but the spices are too strong for me in the morning. So, bread it must be—no Kimchi for me at breakfast.
One day, after shopping at the Lotte supermarket, I went to a Pojangmacha on Chungjang-ro for some beer and chicken. The National Korean soccer team was playing on the widescreen television. A group of Korean gentlemen was talking and cheering loudly. They were watching the game and enjoying Chimac—chicken and maekjju. I love that word. Just hearing it gives beer a flavor. The more you drink, the better it sounds.
I ordered my dinner and noticed the men watching me. It’s always awkward eating alone, especially in Korea. The youngest one at their table walked over to me with a bottle of soju and some glasses. He poured me a glass, which I drank, then returned the favor.
“Americano?” he asked. “No, no, from the Netherlands,” I replied. Judging by his expression, he didn’t quite understand. But when I said “Hidonggu,” he got it. His friends cheered and chanted the name of the most popular coach. Only the oldest man at the table didn’t join in.
I returned to my spicy and very tasty chicken. The group grew louder and louder, with the old man commanding the most attention. I don’t think he was older than me—just the top dog barking. He was the boss, though I doubt he was top-rank. That’s why I called him Cha-jang.
You might wonder how many men would choose to watch a soccer game with their family or friends instead of doing unpaid overtime. But not Cha-jang. He was wasted, drunk as a skunk.
Bae Jong-Ok wrote:
“I went from hand to hand until I eventually didn’t come back, not to the people, nor myself. What happened while I was gone? They didn’t tell me either. The fools, the idiots, the beasts were too busy shaming me. The shame became so great that my body rebelled.
I could hardly eat; there wasn’t much either. Some bowls of rice. On the days when I had enough energy to go outside, I picked Nokdu. It’s edible when cooked. The soybeans were for you. There wasn’t much meat in Amsil. There was more fish, but that was for Kim’s Yang Bang. You ate that with your friends, the party spies, and made fun of me when I looked too hungry.
In the corner of the room, I heard you all bragging and babbling. And you, Mom, had the loudest mouth, screaming above everybody. You were so happy that Dad had found eternal work in camp 15, Yodok in South Hamgyong, about halfway towards the heavenly lake on Baekdu San. ‘Too far to walk for him and me,’ was pretty much your motto, and your buddies shouted it loudly with you.
One evening, the conversations were more poisoned vomit than drunken wisdom. We heard the neighbor at the front door. Obu, the fisherman, asked for forgiveness for the late disturbance. Rubbing his hands and bowing, he told us that the wind, the dirty east wind, had prevented the boat from arriving on time. Your screaming, your friends laughing, and Obu’s humiliation went through marrow and bone. Obu was used to it.
Exhausted, I watched as you took over the fish and showed it to your friends. Brazenly, you held a wriggling one in front of Obu’s mouth. ‘Bite, bastard, bite,’ you screamed. ‘I don’t want to take everything from you. But that idiot over there,’ you said, pointing at me, ‘isn’t going to cook one for you.’ He had no choice but to place his teeth on the scales and tear off a large piece of flesh. Your entourage laughed, clapped, and bowed several times.
I understand why you have so much power. Dad regularly went deep into the mountains. He brewed Soju, which he sold to your friends. Of course, he kept enough behind to get drunk every night. One of your friends disagreed and drunkenly betrayed the lucrative mountain brewery to the ministry. He was arrested and disappeared to number 15.
You and your friends missed the alcohol and blamed the traitor. He disappeared during a hiking tour. ‘He went that way,’ you said, looking innocent to the guide. Your friends found a new bush distillery. You enjoyed the drink because the traitor was never found again.
Obu had mackerel with him for the barbecue and sogarli for the maeuntang. He bowed constantly, asked for forgiveness again, and held out his hand for his money. ‘No,’ you slurred. ‘You get nothing! The fish aren’t cleaned, so this bitch has to do it. I’m so hungry that I can’t defecate, and your dawdling has only made it worse. Get lost, bastard!’
It was unbelievable how quickly the drunken fossils chased after Obu. But they came back again. Suddenly there were side dishes, spices, and all that other stuff needed for a festive feast. Party members can get it with some effort. But fish? A bacchanal of Godeungu-gui and sogarli? I don’t know, Mother, what you had to do for all that.
Of course, the ships are checked upon arrival. Obu counted because many already tried to swim across the Hankang to Paju. The fish are also taken off the boat by party officials. Hence, you don’t just get fish on your table easily, being a single woman with a man in prison. But your body wasn’t holy when Dad was still at home either. Not that he had much trouble with that. As long as there was Soju.
I was still the only one able to cut the fish. Exhausted, I put the barbecue in front of the open window. Mother liked it when the neighbors could enjoy it too. I cut open the mackerel and pressed the tasty flesh onto the grill. Fifteen minutes, and the pigs could go to the trough. The maeuntang would take much longer. I saw those drunken heads, and I was sure; they wouldn’t enjoy it tonight.
You tried to rush me along. First, you cursed! I was no longer impressed by that. The emptiness had taken possession of me. My mind was like trampled water lily ground. The stench of loneliness not only filled my nose. My heart also felt like an abandoned fish factory. The hope of even a bite now seemed like a tucked-away treasure. You and your guests enjoyed it well enough. That others—Obu, neighbors who would certainly smell the fish, and I—didn’t taste it made the meal tastier for you.
A squid crawled between the dying fish. You grabbed the beast and stretched it out. You twisted it tightly around your roughly carved chopsticks. Your most prominent guest, the mayor, watched intently. I crawled back into the corner of the room. You licked at the moving flesh and babbled unintelligible words. He and the other men became horny—hot in a drunken, nowhere-leading way.
You pulled me up and put me in the middle of the room. You, Mother, forced me to sing a Mudang song. I felt empty, exhausted, and at the mercy of beasts that would tear me apart.
“Here ye, here ye, one and all! The Ritual of Princess A-Wang and Yõ-Yõng is about to be held.” I shuddered. “Today, at this time, I begin this song: No mean song this.” I replaced the drums and flute with my hands clapping. “’Tis the song of Sakayamuni’s blessing, and the God Chesok.”
That was the last you heard from me. When I regained consciousness, I saw you in a pool of blood in my corner of the room. Your drunken friends were still drinking. They babbled and sang around the barbecue and enjoyed the mackerel. They had long since forgotten what had happened. I fled outside.
Yes, I went from hand to hand until I eventually didn’t come back. Not to those beasts and not to myself. I don’t know what happened while I was gone. They didn’t tell me either. The fools, the idiots, the beasts were too busy shaming me. The shame became so great that my body rebelled. I got lost in myself.
But I remembered the dream and that his thousand-times-thousand-year reign had begun. He knew that henceforth, goodness would be repaid with evil. That his anger would not be matched. He was the devil and sought silence. The goodness had to be silenced forever, the stinking lie exposed.”
Aftertone: Sadness, Detachment, and Given Form in Goyang neighbourhood
Reflecting Goyang Neighbourhoods
I didn’t enjoy my meal anymore. Why am I getting these emails? Is it a joke? Or is someone just making up a story? They should send it to a publisher instead. The words left me feeling sad.
I paid for my food and bowed to the office men. Cha-jang still looked angry. When I went outside, I saw a woman who was about to enter. So I opened the door and let her pass. She looked a bit haughty. Then it struck me—most Korean men aren’t that polite to women. Lancelot is not in the Korean mindset.
The words from Bae Jong-Ok lingered in my mind, echoing in the hollow spaces left by years of isolation. Could it be that the darkness she described was not so different from my own? As I stepped outside, the cool night air hit me, and I felt a strange sense of detachment, as though the world around me was losing its form, dissolving into the fractals of my thoughts.
I did not invent Jijang’s fractal; it was given to me. I simply stumbled upon it. Naturally, I hope it will fulfill its purpose.
Jijang as Bridge Between Three Traditions
