No matter how many times I visit Taoist temples, I always stop and think about where to put my hands together and in what order to incense them

Whenever I visit a Taoist temple like Lukang Mazu Temple, I find myself just a little disoriented. Having grown up with the quiet austerity of Japanese Buddhist temples, this space feels unfamiliar—yet strangely magnetic. Pillars line the corridors, golden ornaments dangle from the eaves, and the entire temple shimmers with bold, saturated colors. Within this vivid world, people burn incense, whisper wishes, and offer their silent prayers.

In a sunlit corner of the temple grounds, a woman worked quietly. A large sack lay open before her as her hands moved with practiced rhythm. Perhaps she was preparing offerings or sorting donations. Behind her, the weathered grain of an old wooden door and a row of stacked cardboard boxes reminded me that this was not just a monument to the past, but a living, breathing place of worship.

Even though I’ve visited many Taoist temples, I still haven’t quite figured out the rituals. Where should I bow? In what order should the incense be lit? I always find myself pausing, unsure. But maybe that uncertainty is part of what makes it all so compelling.

Lukang Mazu Temple on Google Map

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