Like a Seon monk who passed away while standing, the temple bell stood alone in the ashes. The bell was cracked from top to bottom, and appeared it might split in two at any moment.

In the afternoon when the teachings of the old pine trees on the 1,000-year-old forest path fell silent, and only a light rain fell, you called me. You said that the smell of burnt cinders was still strong in the temple compound. The voice I heard over the phone kept cutting in and out as if it was being drowned out by the sound of rain. You spoke of trees with stumps resembling burnt charcoal, broken roof tiles, collapsed walls, and the remains of buddha halls. You said that more than ten buddha halls, including Yeonsujeon and Gaunnu Pavilion—both designated Korean general treasures—as well as Yeonjiam, Ageogak, Uhwaru, and Yeolbandang, had burnt down. You also said that the postulants’ dormitory in Mandeokdang had collapsed.

You lived as a postulant (haengja) in that temple. Does “haengja (行者)” mean “one who walks”? It’s not hard to imagine the way you were back then. You would have done hard work without any fuss, without making it too obvious. When we lived as neighbors at the temple for a short time, I saw you hanging lanterns on the scaffolding all day long, even though you had hurt your shoulder. Strictly speaking, that wasn’t your job.

When you were a postulant, your main job was temple bell ringer. At dawn, you would strike the bell in a crescendo to awaken all the creatures living around the temple, and in the evening, you would strike it in a decrescendo to announce the setting sun.

Could it be that the bell cracked because of the intense heat? Looking at the place where the bell pavilion once stood must have been painful. In Korea, temple bells are usually hung low to the ground, and the ground below the bell mouth is either dug out or a large jar is placed underneath it. This makes the sound of the bell reverberate inside the pit (or jar) and reflect back into the bell, prolonging the sound. This pit (or jar) is called the “myeongdong” or “umtong,” meaning “reverberation chamber.”

Judging from the fact that the bell didn’t melt even in a fire burning at over 1,000 degrees, the bell may have contained less tin than traditional bells, which would affect its melting point. What would have been the outcome if someone had preheated the bell by lighting a fire in the umtong? Would it have cracked? However, it is said that less than ten minutes after the evacuation order was given, gusts of wind blew the flames in all directions, so there was no time to do anything. Thus, a small act of carelessness destroyed a temple imbued with the energy of centuries of Buddhist practice.

The bell is silent now, and the royal azaleas beside Cheonwangmun Gate are in full bloom. The bell’s spirit must have wanted to ring out even as it was engulfed in flames. Perhaps it shattered when it fell to the ground. What kind of sound does a burnt temple bell make?

Probably more of a scream than a loud clear ring. It can never return to being what it once was; I guess bells too can die. The bell has been carrying the spirit of fire since it was first cast. Without fire, its beauty could not have been created. On the day it first rang, its sound shattered the silence of the world and brought us deeper silence. It was like a mantra that led us to a world of peace, to another world. However, fire then callously turned that beauty to ash. Fire was both the beginning and end of the bell.

Paradoxically, the bell’s death makes me think of impermanence. All things are impermanent. The bell proved the truth that ultimately, everything changes and disappears. Even as the bell burned, buddhas must have been expounding the teachings. The presence of fire means that there is change, and the presence of change is proof that time is passing.

All things come from fire and return to fire, said an ancient Greek philosopher. Fire is the primordial logos that symbolizes change. It is not fixed but flows, and it has the roots of both creation and destruction. Fire is thus a paradoxical element that simultaneously embraces birth and death. It is the beginning of life, the prophet of loss, and the point where deep love and cruel hatred reside at the same time. Fire also represents creation and destruction. It is purity and danger, the cradle and the grave. Fire exists through things that disappear, and it makes a new order possible through destruction of the old.

Fire cannot be explained by reason. It must be experienced, sensed, and it must prove its existence only by rising from the very bottom of existence. Therefore, fire is the way that you, I, and we come into existence. There is fire inside us too. The fire of anxiety, the fire of greed, the fire of jealousy. There is a fierce desire to sweep everything away and start anew. Fire is not static, but moves constantly. Fire knows that from the moment it is born, it will eventually cease. That is why fire never burns in vain even for a moment. And then it willingly disappears.

Humans are like fire. Humans are beings that bring light and destruction at the same time. That is why fire is like emotion; it also feels like life itself. It is soft yet strong, warm yet dangerous, warm like love yet cruel like hatred. Thus, it is fire that can represent every human aspect. The fires of greed, hate, and delusion can engulf the house we call “I.” The whole world can become a burning house.

We were fire at one time or another. Burning something because of love, because of loss in quiet despair, and blooming again as something else, we inscribed our existence on the world. Some with the fire called anger, some with the light called love. Some carry a fire they aren’t even aware of throughout their lives. Also, some keep a fire burning for their children, and some keep a fire burning for someone they’ve lost. Some keep a fire burning for art or faith, and are not afraid to feed it with dedication day in and day out. Some fires extinguish something, thus making way for a new beginning.

Right now, I am in the eye of the storm, in the calm center, gathering and controlling the fire that inspires me to write. I am like an alchemist of language who controls the flame words create. That fire can be translated into the warmth of quiet writing and dreams of a small lamp that warms someone’s life. I exist today to keep the fire within me from going out. It is a way to love someone, a way to mourn what has been lost, and a way to prepare to go forth into the world again. My fire is an aesthetic of a precarious balance that does not burn others and does not turn myself into ash. That fire is small, silent, and burns slowly like the dust of time, warming my heart, slowly and steadily.

To live is, in the end, to safeguard the embers inside me. Even when the winds outside blow hard and reality pours down like rain, I must shelter the fire with both hands and keep it burning quietly. Sometimes, there are things that I only learn after the fire has done its damage; what really harmed me and what enlightened me; what wounds are left and what memories are still faintly warm.

You and I are like tools tempered by fire. I think of the strength of tempered metal and the sharp words carved by a lifetime. Fire does not just burn inside us; it creates, shapes, refines, and leads to something else. We are among those who endure fire and are shaped by it. And at the same time, we control the fire. The world is still dark and cold, but we endure the fire.

Something cautious and fully matured radiates from you, like a hand pulling something out of the ashes while quietly kneeling down. The promises you kept are bright, and so is the blue evening that burned without crying.

Greenery grows again out of the ashes. How desperate and wistful are those who only look in one direction, toward the light. In front of the charred temple bell, you meditate on the concept that death is not separate from life; and about the principle of non-duality. About the truth that waves arise because the ocean exists, and waves are not separate from the ocean. About the impermanence of change, arising and ceasing. You see the space that the fire occupied. Where is that wild and violent fire now? Your shadow, which occupies no space, is crossing the ruins that have been washed clean by the rain.

This past March, Gounsa Temple, a 1,000-year-old temple of the Silla Dynasty, was devastated by a wildfire in Uiseong, Gyeongbuk Province. Let us pray together that it will be restored as soon as possible so that the temple can regain its former glory.