The Tune of Temples

Like three loyal, over-eager and unabating puppies, Commotion, Vibrancy, and Loudness follow me closer than my own shadow, each simultaneously vying for attention and rarely taking turns or resting. They draw my focus regardless if I want the preoccupation; they test my patience during moments of vexation; they provide excitement and novelty, bolding and italicizing what would otherwise be routine activities. They can be positively galvanizing and inspiring but can also leave me weary and spent.

This is life in Hong Kong. 

Teaching English and working with kids undoubtedly has its bright junctures, though at the end of a work week that’s closer to 50 hours than to 40, the weight of the accumulated effort is—to put it mildly—discernible. To mitigate this and recharge, I have visited a temple or monastery here in Hong Kong each of the last five weeks. Currently I visit under the guise of “tourist,” though these visits will likely continue long after I’ve familiarized myself with the angles of every tiled rooftop and individually named and befriended each of the white and orange fish inhabiting the Koi ponds. I have spent long afternoons at each place of worship, taking my time and only leaving once I’m fully saturated with the peaceful subtleties of the temple. Whether Taoist or Buddhist or another philosophy, each location provides an escape from the city, an isolated pocket of tranquility amidst the hyperactive buzz unrelenting outside the walls.

My favorite thus far has been the connected Nan Lian Garden and Chi Lin Nunnery, a Buddhist temple. Upon entering the Garden, there is a gradual diminishing of the city sounds and smells (not to mention those allegorical puppies I alluded to earlier). They are replaced with a pleasant bombardment of foliage, rocks, waterfalls, and pagodas. There is a pathway that gently circumnavigates the garden, which is centered around a sharply reflective and dark blue pond that is vaguely evocative of something metaphysical. In the center of the pond is a magnificent and golden octagonal structure, called the “Pavilion of Absolute Perfection.” Though it is self-proclaimed as “perfect” (potentially a lasting remnant of the architect’s vanity), this is actually a descriptive inadequacy—it is a sight and structure that words will fail over and over again. The surrounding variations of boulders with the winding, broad pathways adorned with trees—some gracefully drooped and some conspicuously erect—work in concert to compliment the timber pagodas and traditional structures which alternate between thatched, cottage-like tops and traditional tiled roofs.

The garden leads directly to the temple above up a few flights of clean, concrete steps. Entering the Chi Lin Nunnery has given me a new understanding of silence. Notwithstanding the steady flow of tourists and the omnipresent monks, the silence itself was so silent that you could actually hear it: a pristine, lucid symphony of nothingness. Inaudible notes of tranquility filled in as the makeshift baritone, harmonizing with a wholly muted tenor. The overture provided by the previous garden’s ambiance was quiet in its own right, but the temple was silent—a magnitude of quietness that, ironically, needs to be heard.

In defiance of its outdoor, open-air structure, the Nunnery seemed to insulate the soundless euphony and forbid the entry of outside chatter. There were neither stolen whispers nor clicking camera shutters (the photos I included are of the temples and ponds immediately outside the actual nunnery, as photography is prohibited once inside), and the result was a spectacular absence of sound. The thick columns supporting the archetypal upturned, Chinese rooftops matched the tinge of the coffee-colored cushions that were distributed across the floors in front of various monuments, awaiting the kneeling prayers of patrons.

The convent was noiseless without being eerie, and it exhibited half-a-dozen large, golden Buddhas. The statues radiated with divinity. Each had a short description of what the figure symbolized, the words often revolving around gratitude and impermanence—two matters that seem to be overshadowed here in Hong Kong. There is a common theme of either coming or going at all hours of the day here. People are either commuting somewhere or they are on their way out the door, rushing to avoid tardiness while abbreviating their present moment.

I too am guilty of this, and the world I navigate now is pushing me in this direction more and more.

The stillness of the temples that I’ve visited, however, have been a reminder to just be there. “There” in this context is not in reference to a specific, peaceful spot I fancied in a temple, but I mean to describe each waking breath. These spiritual sites remind me to be present in each passing moment to the best of my ability. The difficulty lies in being constantly engrossed in anticipation: looking forward to the next meal, meeting, class, holiday—I do not want to see myself wish away time, constantly fast-forwarding to a subsequent item on the to-do list. I am still grappling with how to swim in this swift current without necessarily becoming it.

Life moves fast. But it seems to move twice that speed if you live in Hong Kong.

Just as there are dog-lovers to adopt real life puppies, there are “dog-lovers” for my proverbial ones, Commotion, Vibrancy, and Loudness too. I myself have no problems with the former, though the latter have been more elusive of my endearment. I do not dislike these things that follow me so close, though to me they remain as part the extreme end of a long spectrum, a great many notches beyond the incomparable mellowness of California.

The temples I visit provide a momentary hiatus, an intermission, from the lively cacophony of everyday life. They exist as microcosms of unmoving quietude, as if suspended upon their own peaceful, autonomous plane reserved for those seeking a change of pace. As I look forward to my next week of teaching, I’ll do my best to recognize both the beauty in Hong Kong’s hurriedness, while also trying not to hurry myself.

No matter how fast or slow I make my way through the week, or how well I tolerate the inevitable presence of Commotion, Vibrancy, and Loudness, the next temple I go to will still be there, patiently awaiting my visit.