I enjoyed my morning in a café near my home, drinking a hot Americano and organizing ideas for an hour.
When I came home, I felt energized.
“Why don’t I prepare lunch and dinner
all at once?”
“Then I could spend the evening writing.”
It sounded like a simple plan.
Lately,
it had been so hot
that by the time I finished making dinner and cleaning up,
I rarely felt like writing.
So I started moving.
Dinner Had Already Started in My Mind
The day before,
a package of salted mackerel had arrived,
and I wanted to see how it tasted.
There were two fish inside.
I put one into the frying pan
and the other into the freezer.
One fish won’t be enough.
Another one for my husband.
So I took it back out
and grilled them both.
As the rich smell of grilled mackerel filled the kitchen,
my husband walked over with a smile.
“You make something this good
just when I’m about to leave.”
Then he added,
“I have lunch plans.”
I was just about to start the rice cooker
for my husband, too.
Instead,
I stopped.
“What about dinner?”
I asked.
“I’ll come home and eat,”
he said,
and left.
The Questions Kept Growing
A little later,
my son came into the kitchen.
He tasted the mackerel straight from the pan.
“Oh, nice.”
“It’s already salted.”
Then he noticed
another plate on the table.
“Who’s going to eat that?
Didn’t you cook too much?”
“That’s for Dad.
I’ll have some.
Your sister will too.
You can finish what’s in the pan.”
Then came more questions.
“When should we put it in the refrigerator?
Will it still taste good tomorrow?”
“The mackerel won’t taste as good
after it’s been refrigerated.
Dad won’t mind.
You probably will.”
I was getting tired.
Then he brought back
his bowl of soybean soup.
“It tastes like water.”
“I can’t eat it.”
He looked at me.
“Who’s going to eat this?
Should we throw it away?”
I smiled.
“Just throw it away.”
“Or Dad can have it.”
Meanwhile,
I was happily eating that same soup
with rice, tofu, and grilled mackerel.
To me,
it tasted just right.
My son quietly put the bowl
into the refrigerator.
I Finally Left the Kitchen
I didn’t solve anything.
I simply left the kitchen.
I stood up
from the table.
Today isn’t going the way I expected.
I opened the refrigerator,
took out a cold face mask,
put it on,
and lay down on the bed.
“I’m taking my fifteen-minute rest.”
At first,
my body felt heavy.
Then,
little by little,
it began to relax.
While I was lying there,
my son asked,
“Where’s the lid?
We should cover everything.”
“It’s somewhere over there.”
“I can’t find it.”
“Then just use whatever you can find.”
The Kitchen Was Quiet Again
A little later,
I got up.
Everything had already been covered.
Not perfectly.
Just in his own way.
I smiled.
Oh.
I didn’t have to do it.
The kitchen was quiet again.
I felt like moving.
This time,
I started the rice cooker for some mixed-grain rice.
While it cooked,
I made a big bowl of bibim noodles.
A little more soy sauce.
A little more syrup.
It tasted just right.
I left one plate for my daughter.
Put another portion into the refrigerator.
Just then,
my son came out.
“Oh,
you made bibim noodles.
Feeling better now?”
“Yeah.
I rested.”
Then he asked,
“Is it better to eat it now?
How long can it stay out?”
I smiled.
“I’ve had it the next day.
Cold,
straight from the refrigerator.
I actually liked it.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s fair.
Fresh is best.”
He quietly finished the whole bowl.
He really likes it.
I walked into the bedroom.
I picked up my bag,
put my laptop inside,
then took it back out.
The café?
Or the indoor driving range?
Just then,
my son looked at me.
“Going to practice?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d better practice.”
I put my tumbler into the bag
instead,
pulled on my cap,
and headed out.
The Driving Range Was Quiet
When I arrived
at the indoor driving range,
there was no one
on my floor.
I sat down
for a while
with my iced Americano,
watching golf balls
fly through the air.
Some climbed high
into the sky.
Some stayed low
before falling.
One shot
flew past
the 250-meter marker.
I’ve never seen one go that far.
A cool mountain breeze
drifted through
the open side
of the building.
The afternoon sun
was softer
than I expected.
Yesterday,
I had stayed
in thinking mode
without even realizing it.
I kept swinging,
trying to fix
what wasn’t working.
When I finished,
I didn’t feel refreshed.
Today,
I wanted
to do something different.
I decided
to stay
in sensing mode.
I didn’t keep swinging.
I watched
the mountains.
The sky.
The birds.
When a swing
didn’t feel right,
I stopped.
I sat down again.
Then I picked up
my sand wedge,
found the feeling,
and slowly moved
to my 8-iron
and 7-iron.
For the first time
that day,
nothing
felt rushed.
When I Came Back
When I came home,
my daughter said
she had already eaten the bibim noodles.
I looked at the frying pan.
The grilled mackerel
my son had covered
was gone.
I smiled.
I served myself
some mixed-grain rice,
a little
of the grilled mackerel
I had saved
for my husband,
and the bowl
of soybean soup
my son couldn’t eat.
To me,
it was
a wonderful meal.
After my shower,
I walked back
into the kitchen.
My son looked inside
the refrigerator.
“There’s still
some bibim noodles.”
“Those are
for Dad.”
“What if
he doesn’t eat them?”
“You can.”
He smiled,
and finished
the rest.
Then he looked
at the plate
of grilled mackerel.
“Is Dad
going to eat
all of that?”
“He can.
But you can have
half of it
if you want.”
He quietly went back
to his room.
The kitchen
was quiet.
I put on
my headphones
again.
Music
filled the room.
I felt like
making baekseolgi,
a simple Korean rice cake.
While it steamed,
I mixed
bread dough,
folding it
over and over.
The dough feels
really good today.
I placed it
in the refrigerator
for an overnight rise.
Then I happened
to look
into the mirror.
Wow.
I look
twenty years younger.
That Night
It was
past nine.
My husband
still hadn’t
come home.
No message.
No phone call.
I brewed
a light cup
of green tea
and sat down
at my desk.
The fan
turned quietly
beside me.
The house
was peaceful.
I took
a slow sip
of tea
and began
to write.
A little later,
my son
walked in.
“Should I put
the mackerel
in the refrigerator?”
“Yeah.”
A moment later,
I heard
the refrigerator door
close.
Then he came back.
“I put it
on the top shelf
of the kimchi refrigerator.”
“Okay.”
I smiled.
Looking back,
I had spent
the whole day
living around
a plate of grilled mackerel.
It
stayed there
all day.
But my mind
didn’t.
Only later
did I realize
I had been
in thinking mode.
→ A Simple Reset: I Thought Thinking Was the Opposite of Sensing
