The world seems to slow down when Buddha’s Birthday comes around in Korea. It does not stop, not really, but for a little while, the noise softens. The streets feel lighter. The air carries the smell of incense if you are anywhere near a temple. It is not a loud celebration. It is a quiet one, but that quiet carries a weight you can feel in your chest.
Temples across the country glow with paper lanterns strung from every rooftop and tree. Red, blue, yellow, green, and white, bobbing gently in the breeze like colourful prayers made visible. Some temples sit high in the mountains, their steps worn smooth by thousands of visitors. Some are tucked in between glass towers in the middle of busy cities. It does not matter. On Buddha’s Birthday, they all shine the same way.
Families wake early, dress, and make their way to the temples. Some carry lotus-shaped lanterns. Some carry fruit or rice cakes to leave as offerings. You see little kids clutching their parents’ hands, trying to walk properly up the temple stairs, but getting distracted by everything around them. You see old men lighting incense sticks with hands that tremble slightly, bowing three times, their heads touching the ground.
There is chanting. Low and steady. It wraps itself around you, not in a way that demands anything, but in a way that makes you want to sit down and listen. Monks in simple grey robes move through the courtyards. Some smile at the children. Some sit in silent meditation, their faces calm and unreadable.
At night, the Lantern Festivals begin. The cities light up with parades of giant illuminated floats shaped like dragons, lotus flowers, and Buddhas, gliding down the streets like slow-moving rivers of colour. Children sit on their parents’ shoulders to get a better view. Couples walk hand in hand, taking pictures that never capture the glow properly. It is the kind of night when everyone feels softer toward each other, even if no one says it out loud.
[Photo by Joel M B Marrinan]
