Cold steel
Whet Stone
Slow slide across a low angle.
A little piece of that steel comes off, the knife gets a little sharper. Psychologists say that there is a fundamental difference in how some people handle stress or sadness. Some people “ruminate.” Dwell on a problem till it consumes them, they become the problem, every moment they relive the details till it becomes traumatic and saddens them. Others, however, distract themselves.
Sometimes all you need is to sharpen your knife.
Sometimes I feel sad — some people think this calls for all manner of invocations of ritual or reliance on something, someone, or some distant deity. For me, I just need to sharpen my knife. It’s a simple task, it takes all of my attention, a four-twenty grit stone and a little water. First stroke, reverse, same angle, second stroke, reverse … It’s pointless and I know it, but it takes my mind off the myriad stresses of the day — it’s like prayer, I suppose, for those who use it. A prayer is really just a way to talk through a problem. Whether you actually speak to someone when you pray is irrelevant, the purported power doesn’t come from the deity, but the entity. When you pray, you ponder a problem from an outside space, you don’t ruminate over it, you understand it. It’s an object now, something to be manipulated and understood, not lived in, lived over, lived through again. It’s just a problem.
Theists Pray, I sharpen knives.
My way just has a practical result beyond the stress reduction — I get a sharp knife out of the deal too.
When I was a Boy Scout I learned how to sharpen my knife, how to care for it. It’s more friendly than friends sometimes. It always wants to help you, it’s useless without you, and if you’re not careful, the blade will get knicked. That’s a pain, sometimes you have to dull the blade to fix it — godawful sound of a orthogonal edge on the four-twenty grit. But it’s what you have to do to sharpen your knife.
It’s a metaphor, in a way, for every problem. Sometimes the problem just takes patience, even hundreds of strokes may not turn a dull-knicked knife to a razors edge. It may take thousands, or tens thereof to bring that edge to a fine hone. But it’s what it takes to sharpen your knife. Sometimes you have to make those godawful sounds or do godawful things that make your face cringe, your insides quake, your stomach turn and your fingers shake, but sometimes you need to sharpen your knife.
Cold steel, whet stone.
Sometimes I like to sharpen my knife.