Spotlight Interview: SoYoung Lee

SoYoung Lee's profound dedication to exploring spirituality, art, and humanity resonates deeply in both her work and life journey. Her commitment to sharing the wisdom of Seon meditation and establishing organic farms truly reflects her unwavering passion for nurturing society.

With a diverse background encompassing writing, translation, and photography, SoYoung Lee's film project, "Seon Actually (2025) - Episode 1," intricately portrays the inception of 'Sacred Ancient Seon (Korean Zen) Meditation' by Seon Master Seung Sahn in 1972. The project underscores the essence of 'becoming a true human being' by embracing the present moment.

Embarking on a personal evolution spanning five years, SoYoung Lee immersed herself in meditation at a Korean Zen Meditation Temple in Rhode Island, USA. Her profound Seon practice, which commenced at the age of 9 under the guidance of a Seon master, allowed her to absorb the profound wisdom of this ancient tradition.

Within a vibrant community comprising over 80 individuals, our collective pursuit revolves around attaining inner peace through meditation. Our shared goal is to cultivate tranquility within ourselves and contribute to fostering a harmonious global society. Through SoYoung Lee's distinctive storytelling approach, known as 'Contemplative Documentary,' her photographic perspective beautifully illuminates the essence of our journey.

Can you tell us a bit about your film and what inspired you to bring this story to the screen?

Seon, Actually is a contemplative film composed of intimate interviews and visual, photographic meditation experiences, inviting audiences into a relay of personal connection and inner reflection. Developed over six years of global shooting and interviews, the film centers on an ancient and sacred mind technique transmitted by the Zen master Seung Sahn, who arrived in the Western world in 1972.

Seung Sahn introduced Korean Seon (Zen) practice to Western seekers curious about Eastern philosophy—teachings deeply rooted in spiritual faith and an unseen connection to nature's energy. Traditionally, this technique was communicated only among Korean Seon monks for historic culture in Korea and was often associated with the possibility of enlightenment.

In the modern Western world, underground spiritual landscapes have evolved through diverse cultural interpretations and personal adaptations. Seon, Actually focuses on Western practitioners with no Korean cultural or genetic lineage, yet who commit themselves to this practice for its genuine, transformative benefits—seeking clarity, compassion, and the ability to become better human beings.

Perhaps it is the only technique. Or perhaps it is simply the most honest one.
Rather than asking the audience to be consumed by characters or conventional narratives, the film offers an alternative space for self-reflection—inviting viewers to turn inward and encounter their own inner landscape through the experiences shared on screen.

What themes or messages are you hoping to convey to the audience through this project?

At its core, the film is about returning to oneself.

I hope to convey that self-reflection does not have to come from spectacle, conflict, or narrative resolution, but from stillness, attention, and honest presence. In a world that constantly asks us to consume stories, images, and identities, Seon, Actually offers a pause—an invitation to look inward rather than outward. Another central theme is transmission beyond culture. The film explores how an ancient Korean Seon practice, once shared only among monks, has traveled across time and geography to reach people with no cultural or genetic connection to its origins. What remains essential is not tradition as form, but sincerity of practice and lived experience.

The project also reflects on letting go of control—of outcomes, explanations, and fixed identities. Many of the participants are not seeking enlightenment as an abstract goal, but clarity, compassion, and a more truthful way of being human. Through their experiences, the film suggests that transformation is often quiet, gradual, and deeply personal.

Ultimately, I hope the audience leaves not with answers, but with a heightened awareness of their own inner landscape—and perhaps the courage to sit with themselves, even briefly, in silence.

What was the production process like for you — did anything about the shoot surprise you?

The production process was slow, patient, and often unpredictable—very much aligned with the spirit of Seon itself. The film unfolded over six years, with no fixed roadmap. Interviews took place across different countries, cultures, and moments in people's lives, while my own life was also unfolding—often scattered and entangled with personal challenges. I had to allow the process to breathe, rather than forcing it into a conventional production schedule.

What surprised me most was how little control I ultimately had—and how necessary that was. I had to remain constantly ready: to shoot, to listen, to interview whenever I encountered new participants in the life I was living. Many of the most meaningful moments emerged when nothing "cinematic" was supposed to happen—long silences, subtle gestures, pauses in speech, or the way someone sat quietly before answering a question. These moments could not be planned or directed; they revealed themselves only through time, trust, and patience.

I was also surprised by how deeply the practice itself affected the act of filming. The process became meditative. The camera was not there to capture action, but presence. This shifted my role as a filmmaker—from observer or storyteller to listener and participant. In the end, the production mirrored the essence of the technique the film explores: letting go of expectation, allowing things to unfold naturally, and learning to stay with what is.

Were there any particular challenges you faced on set or during post-production, and how did you overcome them?

Indeed. So there were challenges, and they were as internal as they were practical.

Because the film was made over such a long period of time, one of the greatest challenges was continuity—of vision, energy, and purpose. Life kept changing around the project. Financial limitations, travel constraints, and personal responsibilities often interrupted the process, and there were long pauses where the film had to wait. I learned to accept these gaps not as failures, but as part of the film's natural rhythm.

On set, the challenge was learning when not to intervene. Silence can feel uncomfortable, especially with a camera present, and my instinct at times was to fill space or guide the moment. Over time, I learned to trust stillness. Allowing participants to arrive at their own pace became more important than capturing anything overtly dramatic.

Post-production was perhaps the most demanding phase. Shaping years of material—recorded in different places, emotional states, and visual textures—into a cohesive experience required restraint. The temptation was to explain too much. I overcame this by returning to the core question of the film: not what the audience should understand, but what they should feel. Editing became an act of subtraction, guided by intuition rather than logic.

Ultimately, the way through each challenge was the same lesson the practice itself teaches: patience, surrender, and attention. The film taught me how it wanted to be made.

How do you approach working with actors to develop their characters, and which performance in the film are you most proud of?

That's an interesting question, because Seon, Actually doesn't work with actors in the traditional sense—and that difference is central to the film.

I don't approach participants as performers or characters to be developed. Instead, I approach them as people, meeting them where they are. There is no script, no role to inhabit, and no expectation to "perform" insight or spirituality. My responsibility is to create a space that feels safe enough for honesty to emerge. That often means spending time without the camera, listening first, and allowing trust to build before any filming begins.

Rather than directing behavior, I pay attention to presence. I observe how someone sits, pauses, breathes, or struggles to find words. Those moments—when people are not trying to explain themselves—are where their truth often appears. In that sense, the work is less about developing characters and more about removing obstacles so people can simply be themselves.

Because of that, I don't think of any single "performance" as something to be proud of. What I value most are the moments of vulnerability and stillness shared by all participants—especially when nothing dramatic is happening. The collective honesty of the practitioners, and their willingness to sit openly in front of the camera, is what I'm most proud of. The film belongs to them as much as it belongs to me.

What kind of audience do you envision for this film? Who do you hope it speaks to most?

I imagine the audience for Seon, Actually as people who are searching—not necessarily for answers, but for space.

The film may resonate most with those who feel overwhelmed by constant stimulation, narrative noise, and the pressure to always be productive or defined. It's for viewers who are open to slowing down, who are curious about inner life, mindfulness, or alternative ways of understanding themselves beyond conventional storytelling.

At the same time, I hope it speaks to people who may not identify as spiritual at all. The film isn't asking anyone to believe in a philosophy or adopt a practice. It simply offers an experience—one that invites reflection, quiet attention, and a different relationship to time and presence.

Ultimately, I hope it reaches anyone who feels slightly displaced in the modern world and is longing for reconnection—with themselves, with others, or with something more essential. If the film gives even a brief sense of stillness or recognition, then it has found its audience.

How do you balance your visual style with the narrative? Do you storyboard every shot, or do you prefer to find the magic in the moment?

For Seon, Actually, the visual narrative emerges from a balance between careful planning and openness to the moment. While much of the film relies on spontaneous, meditative occurrences, the production involved extensive pre-research and preparation. I study locations, weather, light, and environmental textures long before interviews. I coordinate travel, flights, and schedules, anticipate delays, and even plan around potential sickness or unforeseen incidents. Every detail—from lens choice to depth of field—is considered to ensure the environment itself becomes a meaningful part of the story.

Yet, no matter how much I plan, the magic often happens when I least expect it. Some of the most powerful sequences arose from long silences, subtle gestures, or the quiet presence of participants—moments that couldn't be directed or scripted. In those instances, the camera isn't capturing action; it is bearing witness.

The combination of preparation and presence allows the film to breathe. The architecture of storytelling—the choice of locations, textures, and timing—creates the conditions for meaning, while the participants and the moment themselves reveal the truth. In this way, Seon, Actually lives in the space between deliberate design and attentive surrender, where both planning and serendipity shape the narrative rhythm and visual poetry of the film.

What are your distribution goals for the film? Are you currently looking for new collaborations or representation?

I hope Seon, Actually reaches audiences seeking reflective, contemplative cinema—through festivals, art-house cinemas, streaming, arts centers, galleries, meditation spaces, and community screenings. Beyond the film, I'm developing it into a series: I've already created three episodes (two published) and aim to produce 20-minute episodes for public streaming platforms like Netflix, PBS, or mainstream cinema, continuing to explore the concept of "reflective cinema."

I'm also open to collaborations and representation with partners who can help connect the film and series to audiences who will engage thoughtfully with its meditative, contemplative approach.

Who or what has influenced your directorial style the most — any favorite directors or iconic films?

For Seon, Actually, my directorial style is shaped by philosophy, meditative practice, and cinema that attends to time, silence, and presence. Zen practice taught me patience, presence, and attention to subtle gestures, which informs how I frame shots and pace the film. I also use musical balance deliberately, shaping sound and silence to bring out diverse moods within each Seon moment.

I'm inspired by filmmakers like Andrei Tarkovsky, for his stillness and flow of time; Chantal Akerman, for her minimalist, observational approach; and Giuseppe Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso, especially the moment when Toto, as an adult, watches the montage of censored kisses—demonstrating how memory, absence, and subtle human emotion can carry immense weight. I'm also inspired by John Cage's 4′33″, which shows how meaning can emerge from ambient sound and silence itself.

Ultimately, the greatest influence comes from the lived experience of the participants and the Seon practice. Their gestures, silences, and presence—enhanced through visual and musical composition—shape the rhythm, mood, and emotional landscape of the film more than any cinematic template.

What's next for you as a filmmaker? Are you working on a new project or developing a feature version of this story?

Next for me is expanding the world of Seon, Actually. I'm developing it into a series of 20-minute episodes for public streaming platforms, hopefully some public and global platform like Netflix or PBS, continuing to explore reflective, meditative cinema and bringing the practice of Seon to a wider audience. Beyond that, I'm also envisioning a feature-length version that weaves together the global interviews, visual meditations, and thematic threads into a cohesive cinematic journey.

At the same time, I remain open to new collaborations and creative experiments—whether in film, visual arts, or immersive experiences—that allow me to continue exploring presence, stillness, and human connection as central cinematic elements