Latest news with #monk
CNA
2 hours ago
- CNA
What's it like to attend a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, or chanoyu?
An unusually hot April sun blazed over Kyoto as we arrived for a private tea ceremony, or chanoyu, in a centuries-old temple usually closed to outsiders. Our rare access came through Aman Kyoto where we were staying, and our travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes who had organised our three-week Japan journey. At the imposing wooden gate, we were greeted by an imperiously statuesque, monk, the hauteur of his high cheekbones matched by dignified black robes with white trim, an elegant fan in hand. We were immediately struck by the simplicity and beauty of the perfectly manicured garden of small shrubs and young saplings, its soft green punctuated by granite boulders and bordered by stone pavement – all compactly set against interlocking, single-storey buildings of black-tiled roofs and shaded porticos. Shadowed eaves provided welcome shade from the heat, and a profound stillness enveloped us. Dating back to 1631, the temple exists in another dimension entirely. I won't name it here out of respect for its privacy. Many of Kyoto's sacred sites maintain their seclusion not from exclusivity, but to preserve their essential purpose as places of worship rather than tourist attractions. The cultural treasures housed within also require thoughtful preservation, and daily spiritual practices would lose their essence if constantly intruded on. Our host monk led us along shaded timber corridors framed by a second interior garden. Like the first, this one contained few colours beyond varying shades of green, its moss-cloaked rocks, peppered with azaleas, pine and maple trees, showcasing a restrained palette typical of Zen aesthetics. Every so often, he'd pause and direct our attention through sliding fusuma doors to high-ceilinged rooms lined with exquisite paintings, including works by masters of the Kanno school dating from the 16th-century Momoyama to early Edo periods. Polished cypress floors, cool underfoot, and beautifully aged cedar doors spoke of centuries of care. Rather than using the traditional tea house, made of bamboo and tree bark, tucked at the back of the grounds, we entered a vast tatami room with perfectly framed views of the garden – a kindness toward foreign guests unaccustomed to kneeling in the traditional seiza position for long periods. Here the contrast was striking: Inside this quiet sanctuary, time seemed to slow, while just beyond this room, tourists hurried through Kyoto's more accessible attractions. 'The tea ceremony you'll experience today is abbreviated,' our host explained as he settled behind a low table dressed with pots and utensils. 'The full traditional version takes over two hours.' Shorter than Avengers: Endgame, I thought. The service unfolded mostly in silence. Mesmerised, we watched the monk ladle water into a heated pot, and whisk the matcha, each movement precise, graceful. It was like a slow dance. Each gesture had purpose, infused by ritual; nothing existed without meaning. It had taken our host 10 years to master the art. Every chanoyu is uniquely crafted to honour the guests, the season, and even the time of day. This attention to context was reflected in the scroll hanging in the tokonoma alcove bearing the phrase 'every day is a good day' – undoubtedly more poetic in its original Japanese – and in the carefully selected seasonal tsubaki, or camellia, flower arrangement. Our host set before each of us a black lacquered plate so perfectly polished it resembled a lake at midnight, bearing a seasonal wagashi sweet with a kuromoji wooden skewer. To my untrained ear, the red-bean sweet's name sounded like 'haru ulala' which he explained was meant to capture 'the bright, clear quality of the season'. Siri later informed me that the name of the sweet likely rhymed with haru uta, a traditional Japanese song performed only in spring. As he prepared the matcha, our host shared insights that shaped our appreciation of a traditional chanoyu. The earthen tea bowl's shape should respond to the seasons – flared lips for summer to cool the brew, tighter rims for winter to preserve warmth. Even the selection of the bowl reflects the gender of the tea master. Pale green powder in hot water became frothy liquid as he worked the bamboo whisk with both grace and an economy of movement, every gesture choreographed by centuries of tea lore. Eventually, he rose from his seat. Padding towards us on white-stockinged feet, he placed the bowl of frothy matcha beside the wagashi. 'Please eat the sweet first, then drink the tea,' he murmured. He noticed my rings. 'These are low-fired bowls, so they are delicate. Best to remove metal jewellery before handling.' Even the way one drinks the matcha is prescribed. With the bowl balanced on the left palm, you turn it clockwise with the right hand so the front, marked by a delicate design faces you before drinking. The tea was intensely bitter yet complex in a way that demanded complete presence. Our host, a member of the Myoshinji sect – one of Kyoto's eight major Zen Buddhist lineages – explained that the chanoyu isn't merely about tea but about creating a space apart from worldly concerns and drawing participants fully into the moment. As I held the warm ceramic bowl, I felt inexplicably connected to something timeless. We were also refreshed in a way that surprised us. The intentional slowness had created an internal clearing for reflection that's rarely possible in our usual pace of life. I understood then why so many of Kyoto's most precious spiritual sites remain closed to the general public. For what we had experienced wasn't a performance but a practice – one that has continued for centuries, preserved not as a relic but as a living expression of a philosophical approach to life. At the end, as we passed back through the gate into the afternoon heat and crowds, I carried with me a tangible sense of ma – the Japanese concept of negative space that isn't empty but charged with possibility. In the measured pauses of the tea ceremony, we had found something increasingly elusive in our hurried world: A chance to simply stop, breathe and be present.
CNA
2 hours ago
- CNA
What's it like at a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, or chanoyu?
An unusually hot April sun blazed over Kyoto as we arrived for a private tea ceremony, or chanoyu, in a centuries-old temple usually closed to outsiders. Our rare access came through Aman Kyoto where we were staying, and our travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes who had organised our three-week Japan journey. At the imposing wooden gate, we were greeted by an imperiously statuesque, monk, the hauteur of his high cheekbones matched by dignified black robes with white trim, an elegant fan in hand. We were immediately struck by the simplicity and beauty of the perfectly manicured garden of small shrubs and young saplings, its soft green punctuated by granite boulders and bordered by stone pavement – all compactly set against interlocking, single-storey buildings of black-tiled roofs and shaded porticos. Shadowed eaves provided welcome shade from the heat, and a profound stillness enveloped us. Dating back to 1631, the temple exists in another dimension entirely. I won't name it here out of respect for its privacy. Many of Kyoto's sacred sites maintain their seclusion not from exclusivity, but to preserve their essential purpose as places of worship rather than tourist attractions. The cultural treasures housed within also require thoughtful preservation, and daily spiritual practices would lose their essence if constantly intruded on. Our host monk led us along shaded timber corridors framed by a second interior garden. Like the first, this one contained few colours beyond varying shades of green, its moss-cloaked rocks, peppered with azaleas, pine and maple trees, showcasing a restrained palette typical of Zen aesthetics. Every so often, he'd pause and direct our attention through sliding fusuma doors to high-ceilinged rooms lined with exquisite paintings, including works by masters of the Kanno school dating from the 16th-century Momoyama to early Edo periods. Polished cypress floors, cool underfoot, and beautifully aged cedar doors spoke of centuries of care. Rather than using the traditional tea house, made of bamboo and tree bark, tucked at the back of the grounds, we entered a vast tatami room with perfectly framed views of the garden – a kindness toward foreign guests unaccustomed to kneeling in the traditional seiza position for long periods. Here the contrast was striking: Inside this quiet sanctuary, time seemed to slow, while just beyond this room, tourists hurried through Kyoto's more accessible attractions. 'The tea ceremony you'll experience today is abbreviated,' our host explained as he settled behind a low table dressed with pots and utensils. 'The full traditional version takes over two hours.' Shorter than Avengers: Endgame, I thought. The service unfolded mostly in silence. Mesmerised, we watched the monk ladle water into a heated pot, and whisk the matcha, each movement precise, graceful. It was like a slow dance. Each gesture had purpose, infused by ritual; nothing existed without meaning. It had taken our host 10 years to master the art. Every chanoyu is uniquely crafted to honour the guests, the season, and even the time of day. This attention to context was reflected in the scroll hanging in the tokonoma alcove bearing the phrase 'every day is a good day' – undoubtedly more poetic in its original Japanese – and in the carefully selected seasonal tsubaki, or camellia, flower arrangement. Our host set before each of us a black lacquered plate so perfectly polished it resembled a lake at midnight, bearing a seasonal wagashi sweet with a kuromoji wooden skewer. To my untrained ear, the red-bean sweet's name sounded like 'haru ulala' which he explained was meant to capture 'the bright, clear quality of the season'. Siri later informed me that the name of the sweet likely rhymed with haru uta, a traditional Japanese song performed only in spring. As he prepared the matcha, our host shared insights that shaped our appreciation of a traditional chanoyu. The earthen tea bowl's shape should respond to the seasons – flared lips for summer to cool the brew, tighter rims for winter to preserve warmth. Even the selection of the bowl reflects the gender of the tea master. Pale green powder in hot water became frothy liquid as he worked the bamboo whisk with both grace and an economy of movement, every gesture choreographed by centuries of tea lore. Eventually, he rose from his seat. Padding towards us on white-stockinged feet, he placed the bowl of frothy matcha beside the wagashi. 'Please eat the sweet first, then drink the tea,' he murmured. He noticed my rings. 'These are low-fired bowls, so they are delicate. Best to remove metal jewellery before handling.' Even the way one drinks the matcha is prescribed. With the bowl balanced on the left palm, you turn it clockwise with the right hand so the front, marked by a delicate design faces you before drinking. The tea was intensely bitter yet complex in a way that demanded complete presence. Our host, a member of the Myoshinji sect – one of Kyoto's eight major Zen Buddhist lineages – explained that the chanoyu isn't merely about tea but about creating a space apart from worldly concerns and drawing participants fully into the moment. As I held the warm ceramic bowl, I felt inexplicably connected to something timeless. We were also refreshed in a way that surprised us. The intentional slowness had created an internal clearing for reflection that's rarely possible in our usual pace of life. I understood then why so many of Kyoto's most precious spiritual sites remain closed to the general public. For what we had experienced wasn't a performance but a practice – one that has continued for centuries, preserved not as a relic but as a living expression of a philosophical approach to life. At the end, as we passed back through the gate into the afternoon heat and crowds, I carried with me a tangible sense of ma – the Japanese concept of negative space that isn't empty but charged with possibility. In the measured pauses of the tea ceremony, we had found something increasingly elusive in our hurried world: A chance to simply stop, breathe and be present.
The Sun
29-06-2025
- The Sun
Buddhist monk guns down cleric in temple after being ‘irritated' by him not shutting toilet door and playing loud music
A BUDDHIST monk gunned down a cleric at a temple after he became enraged by his fellow brother playing loud music with the bathroom door open. Pious monk Phra Niwat, 36, was found brutally murdered with four gunshots wounds to the neck, right arm and chest at the monastery in Thailand. 3 3 3 His agitated killer, 47-year-old Phra Jaruek, fled to his room moments after the horrific shooting in Wat Khao Rang in tambon Talad Yai, Phuket. Local police inspector Jaruwit Juabkwarmsuk said four spent .38 calibre cartridges and a bullet casing were found at the scene. After fleeing to his room just before 6am on Sunday morning, police surrounded the area and called on him to surrender. The guilty monk eventually came out of hiding in his room and gave himself up. Cops made another shocking discovery after finding a loaded .38 revolver and 14 rounds of ammunition in his bedroom. Killer Jaruek told police he had allegedly been the target of a prolonged bullying campaign orchestrated against him by Niwat. He said the victim had provoked him on the morning of the fatal shooting. Jaruek said: "Phra Niwat went into the bathroom without locking the door and played something loudly on his phone." The holy man said of his fellow brother 's behaviour: "It irritated me." He explained that the annoying noise provoked him to take the "gun from my room". Orthodox priest's 'throat slit in front of family' in Russia 'terror' attack Jaruek said: "I shot him, and reloaded another six rounds." The crazed monk was detained immediately by local police. He was escorted to the ecclesiastical district governor of Muang Phuket. There, the governor formally expelled the rebellious cleric from the prestigious monkhood. Jareuk is now facing legal prosecution. The temple has yet to comment publicly on the incident. Wat Khao Rang temple is located on the island holiday hotspot of Phuket. It is known for its association with the late monk Luang Pu Supha, who founded and revitalised numerous temples. The temple also features a large golden sitting Buddha statue and is decorated with carvings depicting Thai myths. Located near the Khao Rang Viewpoint, it has become a popular spot for both locals and tourists.
South China Morning Post
22-06-2025
- South China Morning Post
Mix martial arts with meditation at a South Korean temple retreat
The hollow donnngg of a bell gently burrows into my sleep. It is a comforting, if unfamiliar, sound, accompanying the strange new dreams of a foreign place, a new bed, an unfamiliar night. Again and again, with increasing persistence, the bell calls me out of my sleep, sounding like a bullfrog in the woods. Donnngg … donnngg. I am still swimming towards consciousness when the ringing stops and the deep baritone chanting of a monk fills the predawn air. As I awake, I slowly remember where I am: in a narrow bunk bed in a dormitory at the Golgulsa Templestay, on South Korea's Hamwolsan mountain, about to start a second day learning an ancient meditative martial art. I have signed up to be a Buddhist warrior for a few days. To practise or to pretend, I am not sure. A painting of a seonmudo master adorns a temple window. Photo: Fiona Ching As the monk's voice drones over the loudspeakers, I rise, wash and walk through the morning dark to the practice hall for meditation. When I arrived at Golgulsa, I was issued with a temple uniform – baggy, faded-orange cotton trousers held up with a string, and a matching vest – and then assigned a bed in an undecorated room with six bunks, two toilets and glaring fluorescent lights. I am sharing it with a Korean and an American. New arrivals are repeatedly reminded of the strict rules: be punctual; don't smoke, drink alcohol or eat meat; stay out of the rooms occupied by the opposite sex; and wear modest clothing. I am here to learn, or at least learn about, seonmudo ('meditative martial art'), which combines spiritual elements such as meditation , yoga and qigong with striking and defensive techniques. It is said to have been practised by Korean monks for centuries and perhaps even used against foreign invaders. Master Hyunwoong and temple volunteers give a seonmudo demonstration. Photo: Fiona Ching Exponents claim seonmudo improves energy flow and opens the joints, helps with spinal problems and lumbago, improves digestion and alleviates depression, obesity and constipation. My middle-aged body felt eager for the benefits, even if I was not ready for the effort involved in achieving them.
NHK
29-05-2025
- General
- NHK
Hardship continues 2 months after Myanmar quake
A monk in Myanmar is helping children left homeless due to a devastating earthquake that hit in March. The country has also been dealing with fighting between the military junta and pro-democracy forces. NHK World's Yamaka Michitaka explains the challenges and the needs.
