Under the Autumn Moon: Experiencing the Heart of Chuseok
As the sweltering heat of the Korean summer finally gives way to a crisp, cool breeze, a familiar sense of anticipation always settles over me. It is time for Chuseok, our grand autumn harvest festival. Many people around the world call it the Korean Thanksgiving, but to me and my family, it has always been simply Hangawi—the great middle of autumn. It is that magical time of year when the moon shines its absolute brightest and my entire country seems to take a collective breath, drawn inevitably back to our roots.
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| "A family wearing traditional hanbok preparing holiday food for Chuseok." |
For me, the holiday always begins with the journey. Like millions of others participating in what we jokingly call the "Great Exodus," I find myself joining the endless stream of cars on the highway, leaving the bustling, neon-lit heart of the city to return to my ancestral hometown. The traffic can be notoriously grueling, stretching a short drive into an hours-long pilgrimage. Yet, gazing out the window at the changing autumn leaves, there is a deep, comforting rhythm in knowing that families all across the peninsula are moving together with the exact same purpose: to reunite.
My fondest memories of the holiday always stem from Chuseok Eve. As soon as I arrive, the kitchen becomes the vibrant, chaotic heart of the home. We sit together on the floor, our hands dusted with finely ground rice flour, crafting Songpyeon. These delicate, half-moon-shaped rice cakes are the defining flavor of the holiday. As I carefully fold the dough over sweet sesame, red bean, and chestnut fillings, I am always reminded of the old proverb my elders would repeat: if you shape your Songpyeon beautifully, you will meet a good spouse or have a beautiful child. The earthy scent of fresh pine needles steaming alongside the cakes fills the house, mingling effortlessly with the savory, rich aroma of endless batches of jeon—savory pancakes—sizzling in the pan. We eat, we laugh, and we catch up on months of lost time.
However, the true, solemn weight of Chuseok arrives with the dawn. Waking up early, we dress neatly—often in traditional hanbok or formal attire—and gather for the Charye, the ancestral memorial rite. Watching my family prepare the ceremonial table is like watching a meticulously choreographed dance governed by centuries of tradition. We carefully place red apples to the east and peeled white pears to the west, arranging the absolute best of the newly harvested crops.
As the eldest family members pour the clear, newly brewed rice wine and we drop to our knees to perform our deep, synchronized bows, a profound stillness washes over the room. It is an incredibly humbling experience. In that quiet moment of reverence, surrounded by the scent of burning incense, I do not just feel like a modern person navigating a fast-paced world; I feel like a living link in an unbroken chain of generations. We are offering the first fruits of our harvest in deep, unwavering gratitude to the ancestors who endured so that we could thrive.
Later in the day, the solemnity shifts to active care as we head to the mountain hillsides for Seongmyo. We visit the ancestral graves, respectfully cutting away the overgrown summer grass in a practice called beolcho. It is physical, grounding work that tangibly connects me to the earth and to my family's history. While we might not gather in the village square to wrestle in a Ssireum match or dance the dizzying, ancient circles of the Ganggangsullae under the stars like our ancestors did centuries ago, the joyous, communal spirit of those old traditions still lives on in our shared meals and storytelling.
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| Traditional Chuseok Rice Cake |
As the evening draws in and the festivities quiet down, I always make sure to step outside and look up at the night sky. The Chuseok moon is undeniably breathtaking—heavy, golden, and perfectly round. Staring up at it, feeling completely full from the season's bounty and surrounded by the people I love most, I truly understand why ancient Koreans prayed to it. Chuseok is so much more than just a holiday on the calendar; it is my anchor. It reminds me to pause, to honor the past, and to be deeply, profoundly grateful for the abundant blessings of the present.