Buddha’s Birthday has come and gone once again.
The years seem to move faster now. Maybe it’s because life gets busier as you get older. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older myself. Either way, these moments that once felt like entire seasons now feel like brief flashes in the rearview mirror.
There was a time when the lanterns seemed to appear by magic. One day the temples were bare, and the next they were draped in thousands of glowing lanterns that hung overhead for weeks. They became part of the landscape. Something you could return to again and again.
Now they seem to disappear almost as quickly as they arrive. Here today, gone tomorrow.
Last year I managed to visit a handful of temples during lantern season. This year, Tongdosa was the only one I made it to before exhaustion knocked me flat on my ass. Still, if I was only going to visit one temple, I was glad it was that one. Tongdosa has always felt special.
The biggest challenge with photographing these events these days is their popularity.
Years ago, visiting a temple during lantern season felt almost cathartic. Ancient temples draped in blankets of color. People moving quietly beneath the warm glow. The smell of incense hanging in the evening air. It felt sacred.
Now it’s often a circus.
Concerts. Livestreams. Influencers. Endless reels.
I don’t even bother with Samgwangsa anymore. It’s become overrun with tourists chasing viral content and Instagram glory. The photographs that once required patience, planning, and a bit of luck now flood social media feeds every spring.
You know the type.
A kid with a 5,000 won tripod, filming a TikTok reel titled “Can I retire after taking this photo?” while standing in the middle of a centuries-old temple pretending they’ve discovered some hidden gem.
They haven’t.
Tongdosa felt different this year.
It was busy, sure, but more subdued than I remembered. There was no massive lantern parade. No overwhelming light show. The temple simply existed beneath the lanterns, quietly doing what it has done for centuries.
I arrived early and made my usual rounds.
I caught the bell-ringing ceremony, though I wasn’t particularly invested in photographing it this year. I grabbed a few frames, let people step in front of me without getting annoyed, and moved on.
The older I get, the less interested I am in fighting for photographs.
Instead, I did what I always do: a reconnaissance walk.
I wandered the grounds, taking mental notes. Where would the light be at blue hour? Which lantern tunnels looked strongest? Which corners would be empty once the crowds settled into their routines?
Once I have that mental map, everything becomes easier.
No wandering aimlessly. No standing around confused while the light disappears.
I simply move from spot to spot, collecting the photographs I came for.
Only after that do I start looking for the more creative images. The same kinds of shots that end up in social media reels, except without pretending I’ve reinvented photography or personally discovered HDR.
As I worked my way through the grounds, I found myself messaging Mom.
Tongdosa always reminds me of my parents.
I brought them there when they visited Korea for my wedding. Years before that, I had taken one of my favorite photographs at the temple: a curious child watching a monk bow before a shrine near the main hall.
Mom loved that photograph.
When my parents visited, I took them to the exact same spot and photographed them there too.
For years, those two photographs hung side by side in the downstairs bathroom.
Standing there this year, I stopped for a moment and sent Mom a picture.
And then, despite my best efforts, my mind drifted back to the last time I stood in that bathroom. The photographs were still hanging there when I returned home after my brother passed away. Memories of a different time. Peaking out from the filth and cigarette butts.
I remember cleaning the basement until my body gave into exhaustion and grief.
The bathroom still showed evidence of how badly things had deteriorated before his body finally gave up the fight. I spent hours scrubbing every inch of it clean while running on insomnia, grief, depression, and jet lag.
Sometimes memories don’t arrive gently.
Sometimes they hit you in the chest when you’re standing beneath a thousand lanterns in one of the most beautiful places in Korea. I stood there for a moment, shook it off, and kept walking. I clenched my fist for a moment, then my jaw tightened up. I let out muffled “gah…” for some reason and moved on.
That’s all any of us can really do.
Eventually, I finished my circuit of the temple grounds and started the long trek back to my vehicle. Somewhere along the way I began regretting my decision to park in the overflow lot near Tongdo Fantasia.
By then my legs were done.
But I made it back.
I made it home.
And as I looked through the photographs later that night, I realized something. Another lantern season had come and gone. Another year had slipped by.
And despite everything—the crowds, the exhaustion, the memories, and the miles—I was happy with the images.
Sometimes that’s enough.