The Weight Of Old Things

I was in the basement with my five-year old son the other day, looking for something among the boxes, furniture, and other assorted cruft that accumulates when you have a home. The basement becomes a repository of discarded and forgotten items. Things that were once important, now replaced or upgraded. The dresser you had through college. The box that your computer came in. Old clothes that are supposed to be given to charity that you never get around to donating.

My son is helping me look through the boxes. That is, he’s looking for something to play with while I actually look for the thing I need. When he eventually gets to a corner of the basement and says, “Daddy, daddy! Look what I found!” Behind my old heavy bag, worn and held together with duct tape, are a pile of bokken (木剣) — wooden practice swords. “I found pirate swords!”

Bokken are regularly used for practice in martial arts such as kendo, aikido and kenjutsu. Certainly much safer than using actual swords. They are used singularly, by one person for practice cuts, thrusts, and forms. Bokken are also used between two people for paired sets — a pre-arranged set of attacks and defenses to be rehearsed over and over again.

“Can I pick one up Daddy?” I smile and nod. He looks over the bokken and eventually finds one he likes. He picks it up and says “Ohh! It’s heavy!”

He pulls the bokken out from the corner and steps into an open space in the basement. I stop looking through the boxes and sit down to watch him. He awkwardly swings it around a few times, making sounds with his mouth. He is a pirate, or a ninja, or a Jedi. After a couple minutes, he gets tired.

“Were these your swords Daddy?”

“Yes they were. A long time ago.”

“I think they might be too big for me right now. Why don’t you use it Daddy?”

The one he picked out was actually my primary practice bokken. I haven’t actually held it in a long time. At least five years. Probably more. He hands it to me.

The proper manner in which to hold it is instinctual. My palms and fingers align themselves just so. I feel every notch and crevice in the wood, put there through thousands of hours of practice. Holding the bokken brings back the smell of the dojo. Practicing with a friend behind his apartment building. Missing a block and being hit by my partner’s bokken in my cracked ribs during a black belt test. Standing in my backyard late at night, committing to practicing 500 hundred cuts a night for weeks on end.

To my son it is just a heavy piece of wood. But in my hand, it weighs so much more. It holds the weight of thousands of hours of memories. Sweat and pain and frustration. Determination and competition and achievement. The bokken represents time devoted to practice, time spent away from friends, time devoted to the study of things long discarded by the modern world. It represents a philosophy, a way of thought, and a path I walked away from. In my hands, the bokken represents a different life.

But of course, it’s really just a piece of wood. It actually weighs the same in my son’s hand as it does in mine. The weight I feel is not in my hand but in my mind. Old objects, once familiar things, inevitably harken back memories of days gone by. What had once been tucked away and buried can be brought rushing back by a touch.

It’s not just old things that can bring back memories. Other people, certain places, or behaviors can bring back dormant memories or behaviors. Things that you thought you had let go suddenly bubble back to the surface. Things that were cast off and discarded become familiar once more — but should we let them?

That’s the question I think most people find themselves facing. Do I need to start acting on that behavior again? Do I need to start going back to that place? Do I need to let this person back into my life? For certain behaviours the answer is obvious. If you were once an alcoholic, you don’t start going to bars again. If you had a horrible job, you don’t go work there again.

But what about positive behaviors, places, or people? If you were once a writer but stopped, shouldn’t you start again? If you enjoyed lifting weights, shouldn’t you start going to the gym again? If there If you have a friend you were once close with, shouldn’t you reach out again?

Heraclitus, famed Greek philosopher, once said the following:

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”

Perhaps you should reach back to old friends or places. But they won’t be the same and neither will you. Sometimes things fade from our lives due to forces or circumstances outside of our control. A job takes you across the country. A car accident leaves you with a limp. But often times, the things that fade from our lives are things we have cast aside, consciously or not. Priorities change. What was once important, is no longer so.

I took the bokken outside and made a few practice cuts with it. My form still sharp, body tight, footwork precise. Not as fluid as I would have been years ago, but still magnitudes better than even someone who picked it up and practiced for a year straight. I had crossed the magical 10,000 hour line long ago. And while the bokken represents an important part of my life, in itself it’s no longer important. Just another item collecting dust in my basement.

The bokken reminds me of what once was, but is no longer. A part of my life that was significant in making who I am today, but not a part of who I am today. Time has passed. The river is no longer the same and neither am I. As time goes by, I imagine the weight I feel when I hold the bokken will become lighter and lighter.

“Daddy Daddy! You’re really good with the pirate sword!”

“I’m okay at it.”

“Daddy? When I get bigger will you teach me how to use the pirate sword?”

“Sure thing buddy.”

Or maybe it will become heavier.