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You can't achieve everything you want

Published: 31 Dec. 2024, 20:02

Won Young

The author is a Buddhist monk and abbot of temple Cheongnyongam

Someone once turned to me and asked: “Aren’t you lonely, monk?” The question stretched across my mind, eliciting a faint, bitter smile. “What kind of question is this?” I thought. “Who isn’t lonely?” It seems there’s a preconceived notion that a monk must live a solitary, desolate life. Instead of answering outright, I redirected the question: “Are you not lonely yourself?” They admitted, “I’m lonely all the time. Even the sound of the wind feels cold, and I ache with emptiness. Around the New Year, it only gets worse — lonelier and more hollow,” pouring out unresolved emotions.

Truthfully, I don’t enjoy lingering on such conversations for long. Even on the hottest summer days, a practitioner’s life is about steeling oneself against the cold — like bracing for a sudden chill in the sweltering heat. Sometimes, revealing these inner struggles to comfort someone feels unwelcome, almost as if I were peddling the story of my life’s hardships.

Still, the sensation of cold inevitably invites loneliness. That loneliness brings on unwelcome guests, like a cold that weakens the body, which in turn amplifies the thought of being alone — a Möbius strip of interconnected feelings. This cycle reminds us of how vital our thoughts are, how one fleeting notion can shape so much.

While no one can achieve everything in life, we all share a common desire: to pursue something better than our current reality, whether materially or spiritually. As the New Year begins, this longing often intensifies, urging us to chart a path forward. Yet loneliness makes us fear our ambitions, stifling the courage to move forward. Left unchecked, it obscures the road ahead.

I recalled my mother’s parting words when I left home: “If it ever gets too hard, you can always come back.” At the time, those words didn’t seem worth keeping deep in my heart. But years later, they finally resonated, lodging so firmly in my mind that I’ve never been able to let them go. Her words have often brought comfort, reminding me that I always have somewhere to return to. Yet, paradoxically, they have also shaken me deeply during my loneliest, most difficult moments. Whether one has something to lean on or not, both states come with their own blessings and burdens.

Contrary to popular belief, the monastic life has its own allure, capturing the heart with its ability to soften a hardened spirit. However, it’s not a life where one can have or do everything they wish. Filled with constraints and prohibitions, it demands unrelenting discipline, making it an arduous path. This discipline begins with the body, reflecting the heart and mind. After all, how many people truly live a life where they get everything they desire? Even fervent wants eventually fade when we relinquish them.

In the spring of 2023, the world bid farewell to Ryuichi Sakamoto, the globally renowned composer and pianist who had a deep affection for Korea. In his later years, he poured his soul into expressing the Buddhist concept of emptiness through his music. During my challenging years abroad, his work was a refuge, helping me retain compassion and resilience. His posthumously published book, "How Many Full Moons Will I See?" [translated] (2023), reveals a deeply human struggle beneath his brilliant fame. In his understated prose, particularly in his recollections of his mother, I found subtle yet profound empathy. One passage stands out.

“In an experiment called ‘Returning to Nature,’ I decided to leave a piano outside in the yard. Over the years, it has been battered by rain and wind, its lacquer peeling off, and now it resembles raw wood more closely than ever. How it will decay over time feels connected to how we, as humans, age and decline.”

Through this metaphor, Sakamoto reflects on life and death as a journey toward returning to one’s essence. His poignant view equates the process of aging to a tree gradually rotting, leaving us with a question that we, too, must answer: How will we live, and how will we die?

As the first day of 2025 begins, perhaps it’s time to rethink how we approach resolutions. Instead of setting lofty, unrealistic goals or making promises destined to fade within days, why not adjust our expectations to avoid falling into despair? After all, we still have twelve full moons ahead of us this Eulsa year. Let’s make each one count.

Translated using generative AI and edited by Korea JoongAng Daily staff.