Bogwangsa: With my head directed toward Buddhahood and my heart committed to the liberation of others
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.
Koi Pond Reflection and the Buddha’s Gaze
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
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.
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.
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
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: 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.
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.
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 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 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 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.
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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.
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.
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
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:
