The steel gouge traces troughs through the piece of princess tree wood he cradles in his left hand. Then the flat chisel lifts rings of wood pulp in circular arcs, swift and rhythmic. The princess tree dust both falls in cascades and also floats, expanding into gravity-defying clouds suspended in a morning ray. The hands are aged, lined, spotted with melasma on their backs as they flick like the head of a striking tiger keelback, a serpent this man once caught by the tail and threw into the river before it could twist and bite his exposed arm. Though that was four generations ago. The same arm now carves the wood. Circular flicks of his wrist continue, dust and wood particles rain. A scallop shell takes shape: a fan that splays out like a dawning sun.

 

I am in northern California in the spring of 2021. I sit on the park bench with a man who never flinched in the face of the pandemic and shutdowns that are only beginning to loosen. This man survived communist persecution, exposure to the elements, stern training that might cause anything short of an Olympiad to crack, and yet he sits before me with a face barely lined with age. Sable hair untouched with grey…he is in his eighties, right? This must be hair dye? His eyes reflect the gold of the early-morning sun. Everything about him is reassuring and calm, as if to say, “it won’t kill you, this trouble you face.”

 

I had been introduced to him many years ago, but I was a teenager and barely shared a sentence with him. That was in the Midwest. Here we are, Woody Guthrie twanging through my brain, “California is a garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or see…” Gone are the Tae Kwon Do tournaments with their kimchi and bibimbap lunches, the questionable scorecards and rulings, the speeches and trophies, the sweat and orderliness and Tom Selleck faces and rayon uniforms.

 

Now is white alder and cottonwood; oak and Oregon ash; the constant fuzz of the river; the scent of the oak leaves and fir needles baking in the sun. I am on the way home to Eugene, Oregon but had to pay a visit to my master’s friend. The man who knew the great Kyo Yoon Lee, himself student of Sang Sup Chun: Tae-Suk Kim, a Tae Kwon Do master, a political dissident, a teacher, and – at this time – a wood carver.

 

I am interviewing him, but it is Master Kim who is asking the questions.


“‘Daniel’? What does it mean?”

 

“It is Hebrew…‘God is my judge.’ At least that is one way of translating it.”

 

“And ‘Mackay’?”

 

“That’s an Ellis Island thing, it wasn’t always ‘Mackay’.”

 

“Hmm…”

 

“It was ‘Makiesky.’”

 

“And that means?”

 

“Cooper…a barrel maker”

 

“Your family are God’s barrel makers, Daniel Mackay?”

 

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” My family kept busy. Coopers are busy. There are lots of barrels in the Dakotas where my father’s family had first settled. Lots of dust and provisions that need to be stored.

 

“People speak of adversity as if it were a curse, when in truth, it is a blessing in disguise.” I am thrown off. Where are we in the conversation? Is he responding to what I last said, or to what I thought? Or is he responding to the world’s crisis? Or is he not responding at all?

 

“The challenges we face are not meant to break us but to make us stronger, more resilient.”

 

I am not sure to what challenge Master Kim refers, but I nod. This sounds like the hard-won wisdom of years speaking.

 

“Spirits are tempered through trials. Every hardship, each setback: an opportunity to refine character, to build resolve, to cultivate greatness. Strength does not arrive through avoiding adversity but from embracing it. Do you recall the tales of my dear friend, Grand Master Kyo Yoon Lee? He was a man who faced persecution and hardship at every turn, yet he emerged as a beacon of resilience and wisdom. He understood that the most profound lessons in life are often found in hardship…like a precious mineral in rock. It was through his determination that he transcended imposed limitations.”

 

Master Kim was old enough to remember the persecutions of the communists: North Korean communists and Chinese communists going from village to village looking for the ancient practitioners of the martial art that would only later come to be called Tae Kwon Do. A man from his village had a charcoal sketch of two Keumgang warriors based on murals at the entrance to a tomb from the Kingdom of Koguryo from circa the fourth century A.D. This was evidence that he trained in the forbidden art. The man was dragged from his home by his hair. Master Kim saw him years later: hollow eyes, broken teeth, a man beaten by the communist prison camp to which he was sent for such contraband.

 

“But not defeated.” His spirit returned years later stronger than ever. A certain flame amid a breeze then bent all other flames in two. In catacomb gymnasiums he went on to train those who would later escape south of the thirty-eighth parallel. Those refugees would work to codify Tae Kwon Do. Some of them later emigrated to Europe or America.

 

My own Master, Ibraham Ahmed, had sponsored Grand Master Sang Sup Kil to come to the States. Ahmed had studied Tae Kwon Do under Kil while stationed in South Korea. It was Ahmed who would introduce me to Master Kim in the early 1990s.

 

“And this is the way, the way of hardness, that people so often avoid. They retreat to saunas in the winter, air conditioned rooms in the summer, mixed drinks at happy hour…avoiding suffering as if it is an obstacle and not an opportunity.

 

“When faced with hardship, we are forced to confront fear. We become disillusioned…illusions fall away, leaving clear sight. We see the struggles of others. We see through their struggles what those struggles themselves indicate are their desires and their fears. Adversity cultivates empathy and compassion.

 

“If we can persevere – if our character is determined – then we move forward one step at a time, even when the way is uncertain. The journey itself is the true reward, for it is the knife and chisel that makes us, carves us from unformed nature and makes us useful to the world.”

 

Later we would share tea and a stroll by the river. I returned to the road and followed the directions to I-5 trilaterated for me by satellite. On my way back to the Coburg Hills.

 

“Daniel Mackay,” Master Kim said as I looked back at him with one foot on the ground and the other in the car.

 

“Yes?”

 

“This was a barrel of laughs,” he chuckled; we laughed. I immediately regretted having to leave the scent of fir needles, the sun glancing off the river, and Master Kim.

 

I got word that he passed away sometime in 2023…the carved scallop sits on our mantle, reminding me every time I look at it of how much time nature will take to shape something beautiful: an octogenarian wood carver in America.

His gnarled hand, a testament to years of life's trials, guides the steel gouge through the yielding princess tree wood. With a swift and rhythmic dance, the flat chisel lifts rings of wood pulp, drawing circular arcs in the air. The princess tree dust, a ballet of particles, cascades and floats, forming ethereal clouds caught in the morning sunbeam. The hands, aged and marked with the stories of time, move with the precision of a tiger keelback, a serpent this man once outwitted in his youthful bravado. The same arm that once defied death now carves life into the wood, the flicks of his wrist birthing a scallop shell from the raw material, a fan splaying out like the dawn of a new day. In the spring of 2021, I find myself in the verdant embrace of northern California, sharing a park bench with a man who stood unflinching in the face of a global pandemic. A man who weathered communist persecution, braved the elements, endured stern training that would break most, and yet, his face bears only the faintest etchings of time. His hair, a sable waterfall untouched by the frost of age, leads me to question his years. His eyes, reflecting the golden promise of the morning sun, radiate a calm assurance, as if whispering, 'this trouble you face, it won't be your end.' Our paths crossed years prior when I was but a greenhorn, our conversation limited to mere pleasantries. Now, in the heart of California, the land Woody Guthrie immortalized in song, we meet again. Gone are the days of Tae Kwon Do tournaments, the familiar chaos of scorecards, speeches, trophies, and the sweat-soaked orderliness of rayon uniforms. Now, it is the whisper of the river, the scent of oak leaves and fir needles under the sun's kiss, the serenity of white alder, cottonwood, and Oregon ash that surround us. I am on my way home to Eugene, Oregon, but a detour was necessary to visit my master's friend, Tae-Suk Kim, a Tae Kwon Do master, a political dissident, a teacher, and now, a wood carver. As I attempt to interview him, it is Master Kim who takes the reins of our conversation, questioning the meaning of my name, 'Daniel Mackay.' He muses over my family's history as coopers, barrel makers, and draws a parallel to his own philosophy, 'People speak of adversity as if it were a curse, when in truth, it is a blessing in disguise.' His words, like the wood he carves, are shaped by the trials and tribulations of life, each challenge an opportunity to refine character, to cultivate greatness. Master Kim, a living relic of a time when the practice of Tae Kwon Do was a punishable crime, shares tales of persecution, of resilience, of the indomitable spirit of man. He speaks of the hardships faced by his dear friend, Grand Master Kyo Yoon Lee, a beacon of wisdom and resilience, who emerged stronger from each setback, like a precious mineral forged in the heart of a rock. As our conversation winds down, we share a moment of laughter, a barrel of laughs as Master Kim jests, before I reluctantly depart, leaving behind the scent of fir needles, the sun's reflection on the river, and the wisdom of Master Kim. Two years later, I would learn of his passing, a carved scallop on my mantle serving as a constant reminder of the time nature takes to shape something beautiful: an octogenarian wood carver in America.