I woke up a little behind the beat this morning. Some mornings are like that. Maybe it was an excess of frozen seafood and soba noodles or a new angle to the sun in my room which opened my eyes a little more slowly. Lingering conversations or dreams, it's hard to say.
Despite my tepid attitude I biked to the river to do a morning Tae Kwon Do practice. It's been interesting to be my own teacher, especially in times like these. In class there was a start time, and a group voice, and instructors pushing me to do more than I thought I could do physically and mentally. At every belt test, I learned something about myself from the challenges that I overcame. But here, a silent reflective river awaits me in the morning. A new sort of challenge.
This morning I didn't feel moved to kihop fully. I had a new type of practice, partially inspired by this new mood, partially so as not to disturb the dog across the way that kept barking. While I generally don't shy from communicating with a canine friend, I decided to try a mostly silent practice. I thought about the value of the kihop, it's something that I've thought about a lot here. In a solo practice, why is it important to express the fullness of one's voice?
As I biked towards the hall, I remembered a previous belt test in which I witnessed a mental discipline exercise that one of the red belts had to perform. In the plank position with his fists in two bowls of snow, he had to instruct a white belt how to do a side kick. At the time, I just thought this was super hardcore. I didn't realize that perhaps there was something else being taught and tested here. Something about inner resources and limitations and offering the full extent of one's being to others.
Why do we say good morning when we see one another? Does the sincerity with which we say it affect us? Does it affect others?
I feel lucky to be a musician. On days when I'm on the backside of the beat, I can go into a rehearsal and experience the expression of those around me. And I can offer an expression to them, with all the resources that I have that day. And somehow, they grow. Something in the act of offering actually increases these resources. It is a reminder that they exist, not just for those to whom they are given, but for the giver.
The people in this orchestra feel like a family. Perhaps it's the nature of our rehearsal and performance schedule, or the fact that many of us are living in a home far away from family and friends and the comforts of our native culture. We live together and play together, and commute by trains and bikes together. Like family, we can't lose one another. And maybe for this reason it feels even more personal to play music together. It isn't instruments to which I listen or with whom I play, but people. I hear my friends and I play with them. I can share a voice with the same people to whom I say good morning.
Some mornings it is harder to kihop fully, harder to say hello and meet someone's eyes, harder to listen, to give and receive. If it is harder, is it impossible? And why does it matter? What is the value of expression? Why is it important and how does it affect us? How can we share more of ourselves, more fully? Why should we try to do this, and for whose sake?
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