by Taylor DiMeglio
I’ve been thinking about our butter knives. We keep them in
the horizontal section of our silverware organizer in an allocated drawer. Like
the dinner and dessert forks and serving and table spoons, they have their
place. Everyone agrees to store them in standard fashion with the handles
facing south and the tips facing north. Yet, when it comes to the butter knives
no such concord exists.
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| Cheonggyecheon in Seoul, South Korea |
I
use the law of common sense: handles should face east. After all, in our family
everyone is right handed; this should make things easier, more natural. It’s a minority opinion. Still, I wage a silent war, returning
the knives time and again to their “natural” position, despite knowing the very next time I pull out the
drawer, west-facing handles will stare at me with unabashed mocking and
converts will follow until order is wholly abandoned. Should I stage a protest?
Post signs? Hand out pamphlets declaiming the benefits of handles facing right
(No smudged blades! No hyperextended wrists!)? Forget it. I’ll ban butter knives altogether—and extend the battle to include the marauding crumbs who
invade every nook and cranny.
Kidding
aside, it’s not really our butter knives I’ve been thinking of, but how they relate to a central tenet
of the um-yang: the acceptance of constant change, how change is inevitable,
even in the silverware drawer, and how closing yourself off to change closes
yourself off to possibilities, to openness itself. If a knife handle faces
left, my left hand is available. My youngest daughter easily points this out.
Ah, I think, beginner’s mind, infinitely open. And, it’s true. I have two hands; I may as well use them.
Change
one part of your life and you change in myriad others. It’s been nearly a year since I crossed the threshold of the
dojang floor. From the outside I look about the same, though, perhaps, I’m a little more toned. I remember doing ten push ups that
first morning all belts class. It took me so long. From the dazed looks of the
other students’
faces when I’d finished I had the feeling they’d been watching me for quite some time. Nevertheless, I’m used to push ups now and can roughly keep pace for twenty
to thirty in a set.
Meditating
on constant change is natural, as with every belt level change marches forth
with a strong, sequential cadence: new kicks, strikes, self-defense techniques
and poomsaes—and the challenge to build the whole
of them into a integrated repertoire. Doing well requires focus, intention,
practice and a willingness to be loose, flexible, adaptive. In other words,
being willing to grow. I have always been willing, but I have never taken
growth so seriously as I have in taekwondo. To the contrary, I have often lived
my life like a leaf in stream, perceptibly content to either flow swiftly with
the current or ensnare myself in the debris of a bend.
It’s been only a year. Change manifests itself subtly and
overtly. I’m more engaged in life, more relaxed,
more willing to surrender ego in the service of a broader confidence, less
anxious and less likely to become entwined in the emotional vortexes that arise
from within and without. My ability to focus has increased. I’m faster in the kitchen, faster with domestic chores, more
efficient overall. When I toss something in the trash, I often hit the basket.
In the dojang, I’m comfortable among fellow students,
comfortable with the hierarchy and routines, more willing to learn through
mistakes and failure. Beyond this, I sense within myself an opening, a deeper
understanding and appreciation of life’s
flowing nature.
Taekwondo
inspires within me a reckoning. What are my intentions? Am I present with them?
Fulfilling them? Ignoring them? Taekwondo keeps me, if not on, then mindful of
the path, and the path is life itself. If life is a river, I need not be a leaf
but a tree, deeply rooted in the stream, withstanding the gush of wind and
rain, contemplating stillness and calm, accepting the changes that come and go.
I suspect the further I go with taekwondo and the sincerity of my practice has
much to do with the perspective through which I approach all of life. What I do
within the dojang, and the consequent contemplations of my mind flows outward
into everything else. In-class meditations inspire me to learn about and
meditate on my own; sporadic interest is manifesting itself into a routine,
focused practice.
Some
kicks require jumping. Yop chagi (side kick) requires a torque of the hips
unnatural for many my age, myself included. Knife hand, executed properly, is
entirely foreign. Yet, having an open mind and a willing spirit, I know I will
persevere. Physical changes, physical challenges. When you change something
outside, it changes something inside. Physical challenges induce resilience and
strength. Between inner and outer life, there is no distinction. One mirrors
the other. I may not be the fireball of reckless daring I once was—recklessness is a folly of the young!—but my spirit remains; it burns strong. I can kick. I can
jump. I won’t just persevere. I will succeed in
all the ways it’s possible. One thing flows into
another; change is with us always. Crisscrossed knives, missing forks, the
rosebud spoon of unknown origin. Accept change here and you can accept it
elsewhere. You won’t need to stop and wonder what
silverware has to do with taekwondo. You’ll
already know. Nothing. Everything.
