A Slow Sound in a fast World: Choosing an Instrument That Never Lies

ASlow Sound in a Fast World

In an era where everything moves with relentless speed.

I find myself returning each day to a sound that moves at its own slow, deliberate pace.

it is not an instrument that produces result through quick movements of the hands

Rather, it is one where sound is born from the simple act of breathing in out hand-

a physical manifestation of the player's own life force

I did not originally set out to look for the daegeum.

One day, quite by chance, I watched a performance video, and the sound that drifted through the screen stayed with me far longer than I expected.

Long after the music had ended, that resonance lingered-

so deeply that i sat there for a while, doing absolutely nothing, simply holding on to the aftertaste of the notes.

At that moment, a thought quietly took shape.

This instrument, I felt, might be one I could spend the rest of my life with.

It was not hesitation, but something closer to a quiet certainty.

Unlike instruments such as the guitar or piano, which are played primarily with the fingers,

the daegeum is played with breath.

The idea that my own breathing would become the music itself stayed with me.

It wasn’t about wanting to play it perfectly;

it was about wanting to keep playing it, day after day.

The Daegeum: A Mirror Made of Bamboo

The daegeum is a traditional Korean wind instrument,

crafted from a long, straight piece of bamboo.

More than finger technique or manual precision,

it is the flow of breath that determines the character of its sound.

Even when playing the same note,

a slight change in breathing can give the sound an entirely different expression.

At first glance, it may resemble a Western flute,

but the feeling it evokes is fundamentally different.

Where the flute is designed to build precise, polished pitches,

the daegeum reflects the player’s breath, physical condition,

and state of mind exactly as they are in that moment.

You cannot lie to this instrument.

A defining feature of the daegeum is a thin, delicate membrane called cheong,

harvested from the inside of a reed.

Because of this small detail, the sound can be clear yet strikingly rough,

sometimes trembling in a way that feels closer to a human cry than a refined musical tone.

It is beautiful when played well,

but when the breath falters, the flaws are immediately exposed.

I believe it was this honesty that drew me in.

With the daegeum, there is no hiding.

The moment you release your breath,

you reveal yourself exactly as you are.

The Beginning of the Journey

Once I decided to learn the daegeum, I did not hesitate for long.

The performance I had seen refused to leave my mind,

and the more I reflected on it, the less reason I found to delay.

I began searching for a teacher and was fortunate to find one

who carries on the Lee Saeng-gang lineage of daegeum sanjo,

one of the most respected traditions in Korea.

More than reputation or credentials,

the raw texture of that sound felt closest to what had first moved me.

I still remember my first lesson.

I held the instrument, took a deep breath, and blew—

but the sound I expected did not come easily.

The daegeum was far more honest than I had imagined,

exposing my shallow, beginner’s breath without mercy.

Strangely, I wasn’t disappointed.

It felt natural.

The difficulty itself seemed to confirm why I had chosen this instrument in the first place.

It was a path that demanded presence, not shortcuts.

Choosing Not to Stop

As my lessons continued, I came to understand a difficult truth.

Very few people stay with this instrument for long.

My teacher often mentioned that so many students quit midway

that those who remain stand out with a quiet resilience.

At first, I didn’t fully grasp what that meant.

I assumed that consistent practice would naturally lead to improvement.

But the daegeum does not grant progress so easily.

No matter how much I played, the sound seemed to remain in the same place.

Even after a full day of practice,

there was often no change I could honestly accept.

My breath escaped, the notes wavered,

and the instrument felt heavier in my hands with each passing day.

That was when the thought of quitting began to surface.

I had promised myself I would never give up,

but repetition without visible progress made that resolve fragile.

Still, I could not put the instrument down.

Quitting felt like more than abandoning an instrument—

it felt like abandoning the way I choose to face my life.

So I kept playing.

Not to play perfectly,

but simply to honor the commitment of not stopping.

Practice in the Attic with Hawon

It has now been about a year since I began.

By most standards, that is not a short time.

And yet, playing even one complete piece from beginning to end

still feels like a steep mountain to climb.

Sometimes I ask myself whether I have any talent at all.

But I no longer dwell on that question.

Whether the answer is yes or no,

it does not help me move forward.

What I do know is this:

I am still lacking, but I am not standing still.

After finishing work, I usually head up to the small attic on the second floor of my office to practice.

It is the quietest time of the day,

when my mind finally loosens its grip.

Almost without exception, my dog Hawon follows me up the stairs.

No matter where he is or what he’s doing,

when I pick up the daegeum, he appears and lies down in front of me.

He listens to my imperfect melodies as if they were a familiar lullaby

and soon drifts into a peaceful sleep.

Even when my playing would be embarrassing by any performer’s standards,

he stays.

When practice ends, I always ask him quietly,

“Do you think I got a little better today?”

There is never an answer.

But that quiet moment is more than enough.

A Lifelong Companion

To me now, the daegeum is not simply a hobby.

It is a lifelong companion.

It is light and easy to carry,

and I often imagine slinging it over my shoulder,

getting on my motorcycle,

and setting off with no destination—

playing whenever the urge arises.

Becoming a master matters less to me than staying with the instrument for a long time.

Rather than chasing speed, I have chosen to keep a steady rhythm.

Rather than proving results to the world,

it has become my way of getting through each day intact.

Life has taken me through many things—

paths I abandoned, and others I never finished.

Perhaps because of that,

a day where nothing special happens now feels deeply precious.

I believe that if enough of these ordinary days accumulate,

both the instrument and my life will eventually begin to shift.

I don’t know when that will happen,

but I have decided not to rush.

Today, I play the daegeum.

And most likely, I will tomorrow as well.