Chuseok

My name is Seo-yeon, and my story begins under the wide, clear skies of the Silla Kingdom, long before you would know it as Korea. The air in the 8th lunar month is crisp, carrying the sweet, earthy scent of ripened grain. All around my village, the fields are a sea of gold, and the persimmon trees are heavy with bright orange fruit. This is the time of the harvest, the culmination of a year of hard work. There is a special feeling in the air, a hum of excitement, because we are preparing for Gabae, the greatest celebration of the year. Some call it Hangawi, meaning the great middle of autumn. Our elders tell us that the festival began generations ago, under the rule of our third king, Yuri. He proposed a friendly challenge to the women of the capital city. For a whole month, from the 16th day of the 7th month to the 14th day of the 8th month, two teams would compete to see who could weave the most cloth. On the day of Gabae, the 15th day of the 8th month, the weaving would be judged. The losing team, in good spirits, would then prepare a grand feast for the winners. That is how it started, as a celebration of skill and hard work. But over the years, it has become so much more. It is a day to thank the heavens for a bountiful harvest and to honor the family that surrounds us.

As the day of Gabae approaches, my family and I pack our belongings for the journey to my grandfather’s home. The roads are filled with other families, their carts laden with gifts and the best foods from their land. The feeling of everyone coming together is like a warm river flowing toward the heart of the family. When we arrive, the entire household is bustling with energy. My grandmother, her hands dusted with rice flour, directs the preparations in the kitchen. The most important food we make is songpyeon, special rice cakes. We use newly harvested rice to make the dough, and then we fill small pieces with sweet red beans, toasted sesame seeds, or chestnuts. I love shaping the dough. We form it into a perfect circle, add the filling, and then fold it into a half-moon shape. My mother told me the half-moon is a symbol of a bright future, of things growing and improving. We steam the songpyeon on a bed of fresh pine needles, which gives them a wonderfully fresh, forest-like scent. The centerpiece of our celebration is a ceremony called Charye. Early in the morning, we set a large table with the finest foods from the harvest: polished rice, colorful fruits, freshly made rice cakes, and savory dishes. This table is not for us, but for the spirits of our ancestors. We arrange the food beautifully and bow deeply, showing our respect and gratitude. It is our way of telling them that we remember them and are thankful for the life they gave us. Later in the day, we perform Seongmyo, which is the visiting of our ancestors’ tombs. We walk to the grassy mounds on the hillside, clear away any weeds that have grown, and bow once more. It is a quiet, peaceful time for reflection, feeling connected to the generations that came before me.

As evening falls and the great harvest moon rises, full and bright like a silver plate in the sky, the whole village gathers in the open square. The mood shifts from quiet reverence to joyful celebration. The strongest men in the village compete in ssireum, our form of wrestling. They tie a cloth sash, a satba, around their waist and thigh, and try to bring their opponent to the ground. We all cheer for our favorites, marveling at their strength and skill. While the men wrestle, the women and girls gather in a large circle. Holding hands, we begin the Ganggangsullae. We sing and dance in a circle under the full moon, our steps getting faster and faster. The circle represents the full moon, and the dance is a prayer for continued prosperity and another good harvest next year. As I dance, hand in hand with my mother and my aunts, I look up at that brilliant moon. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the food on our table, for the love of my family, and for the strength of my community. It is amazing to think that centuries from now, you might be looking at the very same moon, celebrating this very same harvest festival, which you may call Chuseok. My hope is that the feeling remains the same: a deep thankfulness for family, and a connection that stretches across time, as constant as the moon itself.