[An Essay from My Heart]

<Crossing a Chaotic World with the Mindset of Jeonggwan (Calm Contemplation)>

From early morning, snow once again scattered through the air, carried by a northwesterly wind. Though we believed that spring had already reached the threshold, nature silently unfolded winter’s curtain once more. The crocuses that had just lifted their faces were bowing briefly beneath the cold snowflakes. Yet their roots remained firmly embedded deep in the earth. Outwardly they shrank, but inwardly they did not waver.

As I gaze upon this scene, I am reminded of Jeonggwan (靜觀), a concept spoken of by Gani Choi Rip (1539–1612), a diplomat of the Joseon Dynasty and a reflective scholar. Jeonggwan is not merely a quiet way of looking. It is an active stillness that does not lose its center amid raging waves, that is not swept away by emotion, and that reads deeply into the principles of things. Even amid the tensions of diplomacy, he would first pause to discern the situation, observing the flow rather than rushing ahead.

Today, our world changes as swiftly as a snowstorm. Information pours out like a flood; conflicts expand and reproduce; people are pressed to respond instantly. Anger and anxiety spread like air. In such an age, rather than closing our eyes or blocking our ears, we need the attitude of Jeonggwan—deep contemplation. Instead of reacting immediately within the noise, we need the strength to step back and ask about the essence of things.

The crocus in the snow does not grow impatient. Because it cannot bloom at this very moment, it does not doubt its own time. It simply waits for the right season. The confusion of today may also be but one phase of a larger cycle. Change does not come in a straight line; it passes through curves that appear like retreat before reaching completion. Snow does not hinder spring; rather, it helps prepare spring to be stronger and more resilient.

Jeonggwan teaches us three things.

First, the courage to pause. In an age where instant judgment and reaction are praised as virtues, stopping to reflect is in fact a greater act of bravery.

Second, the establishment of an inner center. The louder the external noise becomes, the more clearly we hear the voice within.

Third, an attitude of trusting time. Accepting that not everything is resolved in a single moment—that acceptance itself is maturity.

As a child, I remember snow falling in the middle of the night. By morning, the world would be transformed into an entirely different landscape. Yet that change occurred without sound. So, it is with our lives today. Great transformations may not begin with loud slogans but with quiet changes within the heart. One calm choice, one careful judgment, can form a new order.

To overcome a chaotic era does not mean eliminating every storm. It means not losing direction within it. Like the crocus in the snow, we may lower ourselves for a moment, yet never abandon our roots. Outwardly flexible, inwardly steadfast in conviction—that is the practice of Jeonggwan.

Snow eventually melts. Yet what remains is the state of heart we held while it was falling. Whether we were swept away by anxiety or quietly contemplative will shape our next season.

Beneath the white snow, the crocus already knows spring. I too wish to carry the eyes of Jeonggwan within this chaotic world—neither impatient nor shaken, but moving forward step by step, contemplating deeply.

No matter how long winter endures, spring is already being prepared beneath it. And only those who quietly contemplate will be the first to recognize its earliest stirring. ***

March 3, 2026
 

At Sungsunjae (崇善齋)

{Solti}

한국어 번역: https://www.ktown1st.com/blog/VALover/348532