The dead receive two bows, the living only one. And each bow is not the familiar bend-forward-stiffly-at-the-waist variety, but rather, a full and solemn forehead-to-the-ground kowtow-style keun jul to be held for a few reverential moments before rising back up to stand. It is a time-honored Confucian custom deeply ingrained in any Korean who visits the gravesites of deceased relatives and ancestors. The tradition has become diluted in recent decades by the swelling chorus of Christians who regard such prostrations as shamanistic worshipping of spirits, and therefore of false idols. Nevertheless, the practice endures as a uniquely Korean way of expressing piety.
Luckily, today is a clear and warm spring day, perfect weather for an outdoor jae-sah memorial ceremony deep within the age-worn mountains around Andong. The trees boast fresh lime-green leaves, and golden forsythia and purple grandmother-flowers splash across the wooded slopes. Fortunately for our group of relatives, especially the elderly or those carrying boxes of food and drink, the ground is dry. Climbing the steep dirt path to the family grave plot wearing dress shoes will be easier. We are thankful that bowing in front of the burial mounds will not be a mud-drenched affair.
The path takes us past the 350-year-old structures of the Jirye Artist Colony, the former home of a village yangban aristocrat, someone who once owned over one hundred cows. The buildings had been moved to higher ground when a dam built downstream on the Nakdong River twenty years ago flooded the valley and its centuries-old villages. As we crest the ridge above the colony, we look down the far slope towards the three burial mounds and their headstones. Through a clearing in the trees, we can see the lake that has formed behind the dam. Despite the drowning of the historic villages, the water adds to the tranquil setting for the deceased.
We begin at the gravesite of First Uncle, laying out a bamboo mat and performing our double bows. He was a man who in life never experienced much luck. His was hardscrabble and impoverished, before finally succumbed ignominiously to the silent agony of throat cancer. Even after his death, a curious absence of good luck continued to plague his children. It was only after a poong-soo (feng shui) master inspected First Uncle’s grave and recommended that it be angled fifteen degrees towards the lake that fortune finally began to touch his descendants. Within a year of rebuilding the burial mound, a son was born to First Uncle’s first son.
We then move to Grandparents’ grave. A simple meal of dried pollack and fresh fruit and a bottle of rice wine are laid out on the marble offering altar at the foot of the mound. Two pairs of chopsticks and spoons are placed on the fish. My First Cousin, the oldest male member of my generation, kneels before the altar, and pours wine from a porcelain cup along the foot of the grave. The cup is refilled and replaced on the altar. First Cousin then signals for us to kneel and bow towards the mound and divert our eyes, thereby inviting Grandparents’ spirits to the meal. The Christians among us remain standing but lower their heads and close their eyes in prayer. Silence descends. The only visible movements are the bending of the surrounding wild grass by a cool breeze and the fluttering of a tiger-striped butterfly. After a suitable amount of time passes with us waiting in our prone positions for Grandparents to eat, First Cousin clears his throat – eh hem eh hem – to signal to the spirits that mealtime is over and warn them that we are about to lift our eyes. We rise to our feet, perform double-bows, and move on to the final gravesite.
This one is my father’s, and visiting him is the main reason that I am here. Twenty years ago, after investing ten years to establish and lead a science university, Father died in a freak accident while playing kickball – a kid’s game – with students and faculty to celebrate the school’s success. To commemorate the anniversary of the shocking death, a large contingent of his friends and colleagues have dressed in black suits and neckties and journeyed for hours along the narrow and winding country roads.
Suitably, the food offering set down on Father’s altar is a veritable feast. In addition to dried fish, there are skewers of egg-battered meats and a heaped platter of Korean dduk rice cakes. Fresh watermelon, pears and apples are laid out, as are dried persimmons and dessicated dates seasoned with black sesame seeds. To drink, there is both plum wine and traditional beobju rice wine. Father had always enjoyed his share of good food and tipple.
Each of his children is instructed to pour wine into the grass of his burial mound and perform a double-bow. His daughter – my sister – performs the ritual with her face wet with tears. The entire assemblage is then asked to invite Father’s spirit to feed. As a group, we lower ourselves and touch our foreheads to the ground. As the world is again hushed, the loamy smell of earth – dry but fertile – rises to me. The spring wind brushes against my face. It carries the scents of the woods and the moisture from the lake. It sweeps in Father’s ghost. It whispers countless stories of fortune received and taken from one generation to the next, over hundreds of years. It roots me more closely to this place, inviting me to linger among its spirits.