금선사 (Geumsunsa) and the Art of Stillness: A Temple Stay Experience

Some places demand something from you. They aren’t just stops on an itinerary or scenic backdrops for a well-framed photo. They ask for introspection, reverence, and patience.

I knew from the moment I saw our itinerary that the temple stay would be one of those places.

I grew up around Buddhism, and while living in Hawaii, I visited Byodo-In Temple on Oahu more times than I can count. But Korean Buddhism? That was something else entirely—woven into the country’s ancient shamanistic roots, blended with folk traditions, carved into the very mountains. I wanted to see it, experience it, understand how it had evolved.

We were headed to Geumsunsa (금선사), a temple perched high in the mountains overlooking the city below. The moment we arrived, the temple representative greeted us with a knowing smile.

“You took the hard way,” he said, nodding toward the steep, rain-slicked trail we had just climbed.

Apparently, most people take a different route—a winding path through caves beneath the mountain. Instead, we had opted for the brutal, straight-up ascent. It had rained earlier, making the stone steps treacherously slick, and the incline was no joke. The kind of hike that burns your lungs, forces your heart into overdrive, and leaves you drenched in sweat. I understood now why the representative was saying that locals respected this climb.

Geumsunsa is not just a place; it’s a practice. A way of being.

Most temple stays last overnight or even multiple days, but our schedule only allowed for a single day—a brief glimpse into monastic life. But even in just a few hours, the temple made an impression.

We walked through three gates leading to the heart of the temple, each symbolizing a different step toward enlightenment. Near the main Buddha hall, we were told, stood a second shrine—dedicated not to Buddha, but to the mountain god who presided over this land. It was a reminder that faith and nature are inseparable here. That mountains aren’t just landmarks, but sacred spaces.

In order to see these, though, we had to climb (yes, more climbing) the 108 steps leading up to the hall. 108 steps, 108 beads in a traditional Buddhist prayer necklace, 108 earthly desires that must be overcome on the path to enlightenment. Everything meant something.

The monks guided us through a singing bowl meditation, the hum of the bowls vibrating through our bones, settling somewhere deep in the chest. Then, they taught us to make our own meditation beads, carefully threading them, one by one, onto string. It was slow, repetitive, almost hypnotic. And then, there was Geum-dol. The Guardian of Geumsunsa.

Every sacred place has a guardian, and at Geumsunsa, it wasn’t a monk. It was a dog. Geum-dol, a 10-year-old wild dog, had been a wanderer once—just another stray navigating the dangers of the mountain, dodging wild boars and other feral dogs. Injured, alone, he started showing up at the temple doors. The monks took him in, tended to his wounds, and in return, he never left.

Now, he belonged to the temple, watching over its halls with quiet loyalty.

I have always been an animal person. It’s just who I am. So the moment I met Geum-dol, I was smitten. While we busied ourselves with meditation and temple lessons, he watched, ever patient. When we tried to shower him with affection, he tolerated us with quiet dignity. And then, just before our meditation session, he snapped into action.

Two wild dogs wandered into the temple grounds. In an instant, Geum-dol was up, alert, ready to defend his home. He paced, growled, and made his presence known. The other dogs hesitated, then slunk away, and even after they had gone, he wouldn’t rest. He kept pacing, ears pricked, muscles tense, as if he was waiting for them to come back. The temple staff tried to calm him down, speaking to him softly. But duty is duty, and Geum-dol wasn’t one to let his guard down so easily.

As we prepared to leave, I found myself feeling strangely emotional. Maybe it was the meditation, the stillness, the reminder that I hadn’t given myself enough time to truly process everything happening in my life at that point in time. Maybe it was Geum-dol—his story, his presence, the quiet weight of what he had endured.

One of the temple representatives noticed my face and asked, “Are you all right?”

I nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. “Sometimes,” he said, “places like this show you what your soul needs to heal.” His words hit me harder than I expected, and I’ve carried them with me ever since.

After a day like this, you’d think we’d retreat to our hotel rooms for quiet reflection. Instead, we went back out into the chaos of Seoul. A group of us wandered into Insadong’s art district, weaving through alleyways packed with shops, galleries, and hidden cafés. We had just spent the day in a mountaintop monastery, and now, we were stepping into a different kind of temple—one of creativity, commerce, and movement.

And amidst the art and commerce, we stumbled upon another Buddhist temple. This one was nothing like Geumsunsa. Where Geumsunsa had been quiet, remote, tucked into the mountains, this temple was bold, vibrant, and alive with thousands of colorful lanterns. It stood in the middle of Seoul’s urban sprawl, designed to hold hundreds, maybe even thousands of visitors at a time.

We had just missed Buddha’s birthday celebrations a volunteer told us, but remnants of the festival remained: lanterns.

Thousands upon thousands of glowing lanterns covered the temple grounds, strung overhead like a canopy of stars. Some were gathered in tunnels, creating long corridors of soft, floating light. Others hung in dense clusters, painting the sky in shades of red, blue, yellow, pink, and green.

We wandered beneath them, our feet aching but our eyes wide with wonder. The contrast between the two temples was staggering. One was secluded, solemn, a place of discipline and meditation. The other was open, welcoming, buzzing with life. But both were sacred. Both meant something. Eventually, exhaustion caught up with us. We grabbed ice cream from a corner shop, let the sugar melt on our tongues, and headed back to our hotel.

Somewhere along the way, I caught myself thinking about Geum-dol, about the 108 steps, and about the monk’s words.

Healing isn’t always something you seek.

Sometimes, it finds you.