Are Lindenbaum and Bodhi the Same Tree?
 |
| Lindenbaum vs. Bodhi |
A passing sign, a passing thought
Yesterday afternoon, while out for a walk, I happened to pass by a preschool named "Lindenbaum Forest Kindergarten." At that moment, a familiar melody surfaced in my mind—Schubert’s "Der Lindenbaum," from Winterreise.
"Bodhi tree"—that’s how the title is often translated in Korean. The name made me pause. I remembered the two trees labeled as "bodhi trees" that I had seen years ago at Beopjusa Temple in Songnisan, when I was there with my late mother-in-law. I remember how peaceful it felt standing before them, unaware that someday I’d reflect on them like this.
But wait… could the lindenbaum really be the same tree as the one at the temple? And isn't the lindenbaum a European tree?
Buddha’s Bodhi Tree vs. Schubert’s Lindenbaum
The Buddha, as the story goes, attained enlightenment under a bodhi tree. Could Schubert’s “bodhi tree” and the Buddha’s tree be the same? That didn’t make sense. The bodhi tree is native to tropical India. How could it possibly survive the winters of Germany?
A little research answered the question. They are, in fact, completely different species. The bodhi tree is Ficus religiosa, commonly called the sacred fig. The lindenbaum, on the other hand, belongs to the Tilia genus, a temperate-climate tree commonly found in Europe.
Which made me wonder: the trees I saw at Beopjusa—were they really bodhi trees? Most likely not. They were probably linden trees, misidentified under a name that had traveled too far.
The Strange Journey of a Mistranslation
So how did this mistranslation begin? A Brunch article by Gyeongin () offered a clear explanation. In the 1920s, Japanese botanical dictionaries began referring to European linden trees (Tilia) as 菩提樹—Chinese characters meaning "bodhi tree." Later, a 1946 Korean-English dictionary adopted the same definition. From there, the misunderstanding became common knowledge.
What amazed me about the article was the level of research—complete with photos of historical texts. It’s the kind of thing that’s hard to find, and easy to appreciate.
Olive or Camphor? Apricot or Almond?
This isn’t an isolated case. Consider how the olive tree became known as 감람나무 (gamnamu) in Korean Bibles—a word influenced by Chinese readings of an entirely different plant. Or how the Hebrew “almond tree” became 살구나무 (salgunamu, apricot tree) in some older translations. These shifts often came through centuries of layered interpretation, rather than direct contact with the original cultures.
They might seem minor, but they shape our understanding of nature, symbolism, and history. (Related article: )
A World with No Translation at All
These days, we face the opposite trend. Foreign words flood in faster than we can translate them. Café menus, movie titles, even academic terms arrive unfiltered. Sometimes, it seems like we’re losing the art of translation altogether.
Between Name and Essence
What makes a translation "correct"? What do we lose or gain when we choose a familiar name over a foreign one? A small moment in front of a kindergarten sign somehow led me down a path of botanical mislabels and cultural shifts.
And maybe, just maybe, the linden tree really does invite quiet reflection.
🎵
Comments
Post a Comment