Sometimes it takes a little motivation to put some daylight between my ass and the couch. A few days ago, with that in mind, I finally decided to make everything official and craft myself a shingle. I plan to hang it in front of the house whenever I’m working in the woodshop.
I’ve been wanting to make one for some time now, and it feels pretty good to see it out there in the yard. It also reminds me that if I’m actually going to display it, I’d damned well better keep my tools sharpened and my hands busy.
A few of the locals have stopped by to ask me about it. Some of their questions have quickly turned into dissertations about what’s been going on in our lives. It’s been great, chatting with neighbors and keeping busy on these warm Autumn days. And as far as the motivation is concerned, today’s efforts resulted in a Butternut serving spoon. It had been drying in the wood chips for a little while, and on such beautiful afternoon, it seemed a shame not to break out my knives and finish it.
There’s something to be said for the feeling of completeness that settles in after a productive day. It’s quiet, still, and spacious; a kind of exhaling in a way that’s more than simply physical…
I’ve been getting back out to the woodshop for the last couple of days. It’s been a while, but these few months off really seem to have done me a world of good. In fact, it feels as though I’ve never stepped away.
The tools are comfortable in my hands…more so than when I laid them down last spring. They move a little more efficiently, and my hands seem much more capable of taking their direction.
I’ve also incorporated a bandsaw for shaping my blanks. I know. I know… This is the part where the purists out there call me a sinner and cast me beyond the pale. The truth is my form has never really been that great and using the bandsaw saves a lot of wear and tear on my shoulders. And if being able to do this work means accepting the mark of Cain, well, so be it.
If I’m being serious though, this kind of thing happens every now and again. Something shifts and the process flows a lot easier. How it happens doesn’t really matter. The important thing is that it does.
At the very least, I recognize the pattern. The work proceeds for months at a time until I begin to wrestle with it. Eventually, my frustration level grows, and I have to set things down and walk away…sometimes for an extended period of time. For a while I don’t even think about it, but gradually, it starts to tap me on the shoulder. Finally, there comes a point when I can’t not go back to it. And when I do, there’s usually some new insight waiting for me among the wood chips and the freshly sharpened edges…
These post-lodge days have a certain kind of rhythm: clean the garage, fold and store the tarps, wash the sheets and blankets…and they move just a little bit slower than the day before.
I’m sitting in a bagel shop waiting for the laundry to dry. On the wall across from me, twin TV’s scroll videos of baby animals synched with barely audible Christian pop.
The place is nearly empty, which is pretty rare for a Sunday, and I’m grateful for the extra space and a little extra time to occupy it.
At a small table next to me, two elderly women engage in lively discourse about Halloween decorations and the ways their lives have changed since their husbands died. The conversation ends abruptly when a young girl brings a sandwich to the table, and except for an occasional murmur and the clattering of the register at the counter, the place falls back into stillness.
It’s good to have these Sunday morning interludes – especially after the ordeal of a sweat lodge. They offer a chance to soak it all in, to let it settle into my bones and replace a few of the aches and pains that have lived there for so long.
As a child of dysfunctionality, I’ve carried around my own portion of anger, shame, and grief for sixty-odd years; and sometimes it takes a great deal of effort to manage.
But weekends like this really help to lighten the load…
Of the many definitions one might find when researching the word “frig”, the most relevant to this current piece of writing is ” to putter around” or simply “putter”. It should be noted here that one might argue, and perhaps quite successfully, that combing through the myriad definitions of the word is itself a perfect illustration of the act of frigging.
I’ve written a great deal over the last few months about the blessings of the puttering life and just how fortunate I am to live it while still relatively young and healthy enough to appreciate exactly what that means.
That said, although the woodworking has been scarce at best, there’s certainly been no lack of activity around these parts. We’ve replaced the roof, laid in a new patio, put up a shed, widened the sidewalk, and repaired the concrete steps in front of the house. I’ve planted a garden, put up a few raised beds, and broken in a brand-new cast-iron griddle.
I’ve also had a few occasions to visit with some friends, one of which put me shoulder to shoulder and arm in arm with my brother from another mother; tears in our eyes at the Springsteen concert, singing “Racing in the Street” and remembering back some 45 years ago, when an 8-track pumped through a cheap set of speakers could rival the voice of God, and an afternoon at a kitchen table that formed a bond that continues to this day.
As these things go, there’s been neither dearth of abundance nor the time in which to receive it. And for everything they’ve placed at my feet, the living of these last few months has been enough. I find myself without the need to cling to them; and feel instead a simple and natural contentment in letting them go with grace and accepting their gifts.
Perhaps it’s just a part of getting older. In many ways the world has gotten smaller. There’s less of everything to go around these days and so I dole out what there is a bit more judiciously.
The path I travel is narrower and I move at a slower pace, but occasionally along the shoulders, among the broken rocks and tangled weeds, I catch the glint of something from the corner of my eye that would have gone unnoticed in the reckless haste of youth.
I tuck away the Medicine of the afternoons and smiles, the perfect breezes and freshly picked tomatoes, the concerts and the conversations on the patio.
I feel these things deep-down in my bones.
I’ll let them cook for a while; let those parts of me for which they’re meant take them in and be nourished. And when this break has finally come to an end, I’ll get back to my feet and go where Spirit points me: the vagabond who rarely leaves his yard…
While I typically prefer not to paint with an overly broad brush, one of the traits generally attributed to those of us who’ve grown up in households afflicted by alcoholism or some other form of dysfunctionality is an unbridled addiction to excitement.
Speaking strictly for myself, I can attest to the fact that there was a time when living my life required having, as Meatloaf once so aptly put it, “everything louder than everything else.”
I remember those wild drunken nights, the blue-collar barroom heroics, the friends who’ve died or disappeared, and the unshackled drama of it all, and I can honestly say that I don’t miss a single bit of it.
To see me sitting here out on the patio at 2:23 on a Monday afternoon, writing these words with my feet up on a cull wood coffee table after spending the morning putting up posts for a broken stockade fence, one might easily be tempted to remark, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!” And in my younger years, I’d probably have shared that sentiment.
It’s a sure bet things are a lot less exciting these days; but there’s a certain sense of satisfaction that only comes from fixing a fence or knocking together a coffee table on the floor one’s own workshop.
As I near the end of this afternoon’s writing, a Monarch butterfly dances across the garden, a young rabbit suns itself in a threadbare patch of grass beside the wood pile, and the words begin to come with greater difficulty: indications all, perhaps, of just enough excitement for one day…
This afternoon I tried my hand at a batch of fermented cucumbers. This is the first year I’ve actually been able to garden down in the dirt, and despite the heat and the extremely dry weather, our little ten by fifteen plot is really pulling its weight.
I’m nowhere near what anyone would classify as a master gardener, but I seem to be holding my own against the rabbits and the mildew; and turning out a fairly decent harvest.
I grew up in a little town in Northeast Pennsylvania on a quiet street next-door to a guy who worked at the local munitions plant. He and his wife had three kids, an over-crowded dog run, and a garden that was the envy of the neighborhood.
As a child, I’d watch him from my back porch while he patrolled that patch of dirt, pulling weeds and cursing out rabbits and slugs; and deep down I always knew that someday I’d probably end up just the same.
I remember one particular afternoon when I was about five or six years old. My neighbor and his family had gone out for the day and a violent thunderstorm hit. There were high winds, and his sweetcorn and tomatoes took a beating.
After the storm had blown itself out, my mother, my father, and I set to work ripping an old bedsheet into strips and anchoring everything to some of the gnarled sticks my neighbor kept around for trellising his plants. When they got back home and my parents told him what had happened, we never went without fresh produce again.
I’m often reminded of this whenever I find myself standing beside our own garden at the end of the day. I’ve buried a lot of my past out there, and it’s been a real blessing to watch it all take root and grow into an over-abundance of zucchini, Swiss chard, cucumbers, and kale; a good portion of which has found its way to the tables of family and friends. If I’ve learned anything from the people in my life with perpetually dirty hands, it’s that a garden isn’t truly a garden until it reaches beyond the ones who maintain it…
I spent a good part of yesterday tending to some of my carving tools and puttering around in the space I’ve created in the garage to serve as my workshop. While the music guaranteed that it wasn’t a particularly quiet afternoon, it was no less a very peaceful one.
This was a welcome respite from the clamor and chaos we experienced here last week as a result of having some work done to our home. What started out as replacing the roof and repairing the front steps quickly grew to include pouring a brand-new patio and widening the sidewalk in front of the house.
The work was superior, the price was extremely affordable, and everything was finished in a reasonable amount of time. We’ve all heard horror stories about botched repairs and ever-extending deadlines from people who’ve survived the process of what could only barely be called “home improvements”, and so to see it recounted here one might think that everything went smoothly. And for the average person – whatever that means – one might be right.
But there’s another side to this experience which I’d like to address at this point, and that is the living through of it as the adult child of an alcoholic and dysfunctional household. I’ve purposely chosen the word “household” here because despite whatever efforts my parents were able to put forth, it was only on rare occasions that the place ever came close to feeling like home. The obvious effects of my father’s incessant battle with alcoholism and emotional instability – coupled with my mother’s codependency – went a long way towards ensuring that the crucible in which I’d found myself as a child could generally be described as pretty much anything but home.
As I look back on those times, and perhaps even more importantly now that my recovery work is actually beginning to take root, to feel back on those times, I’m aware of a nearly constant state of grief. It’s deep, and it’s heavy, and it sits in my bones like fire.
And it is this same somatic expression of grief that was triggered by the banging, clatter, miscommunication, and obligatory upheavals of the tearing apart and putting back together of one’s living space.
While the adult part of myself was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting some long-awaited improvements taken care of, there was also that wounded inner child who felt that all of this was just another assault on the one safe place he’d desperately yearned for but because of forces beyond his control, believed he could never have.
I lived in that space for about two days; and in doing so, I came to know a great deal more about that child. And while I can’t say I’d like to repeat the experience, it has brought both of us that much closer to our well-being.
As I write this, the sun begins to slip behind the peak of our new roof, shadows lengthen along the patio, and a restful sense of peace has taken hold. The adult taps the keyboard, turning thoughts into words; while the child occasionally glances out through the sliding doors, watching Plantain stalks sway in the wind…
Some people have come to believe that the life they’re currently living is going to last forever. That is the very nature of their existence. Every day, I’m reminded of the fact that it most definitely will not…And that is the very nature of my own. This is a generalization of course, but there’s something about this that feels as if it cuts to the heart of the matter.
Last week, I was sitting on the patio surrounded by rabbits and the work of a few previous days. The cucumbers had made their first, timid advances toward the trellis, the Swiss chard was looking extremely proud of itself, and we’d just finished installing a new old shed. It originally belonged to a friend of ours who no longer had a use for it. She asked us if we wanted it and made her truck available; and with the help of neighbor, a few Germanic expletives, and a can of spray foam to plug the gaps, up it went. The foundation had been in place for several weeks, so it was good to actually have something sitting on it.
This was another step in the ongoing project of setting up my workshop. The garage is a whole lot emptier now; and after building some shelves and diving in with a broom and a pair of work gloves, there’s ample enough space for putting in a workbench.
The whole thing has unfolded in leaps and bounds, interspersed with periods of rest. Jump and wait; pounce and settle in. The rabbits have been particularly diligent in their efforts to pass on this wisdom.
In the meantime, the garlic beds are built and waiting for October, there’s grass to cut, words to scribble, and the occasional weed to pull. There’s also appointments and yardwork at my mother in-law’s.
I’m learning to accept my life as it comes these days. Watching the rabbits, feeding the birds, cooking, and tending the garden. The recovery work is often deep and requires as much attention as I can spare. But the spaces in between are often sweet and filled with a deepening sense of gratitude.
One might be tempted to ask where the carving is in the midst of all of this. It’s still alive and in there somewhere; that much I know for sure. My knives are sharpened, the wood is ready, and the templates hang within easy reach on the wall of the garage.
It’s been my experience that letting things rest for a while is not only good, but necessary. It’s in the spaces between the work that the Medicine often happens. It works its way into your bones and shows itself more clearly upon returning to the task at hand.
Jump and wait; pounce and settle in. Watching the rabbits. Taking time to breathe…
It’s been a while since I’ve put axe to billet, and even at this early stage I’m deeply aware of just how good and necessary it is to be back in the shop in front of the fan on a sunny afternoon, making wood chips and listening to whatever happens to shuffle through on my iPod.
My neighbor’s dropped by a once or twice to borrow some tools for the landscaping project he’s working on in his front yard. We chatted a bit and then went back to our own respective days.
For the last few weeks, it’s been particularly busy ’round these parts. There’s been gardening, a healthy portion of yardwork – both here and at my mother in-law’s house, and a lot of diving deep into my recovery.
It’s been good work, and although it hasn’t yielded much in the way of restful sleep, there’s a definite feeling of having accomplished something…
This morning I was at my mother in-law’s house putting up a canopy over the patio with my nephew. After that we stopped for lunch at a local pub, and we spent some time catching up and talking about music, which is something in which we both share a deep and common interest.
When I got home I decided it was time to trim the bonsaied Rosemary in the front yard. Rosemary, among other things, is a symbol of remembrance and growth. It’s also connected with protection and fidelity.
The fact that I’m writing this at a little after three on a cool and sunny Monday afternoon reminds me of just how blessed I am at this current stage of my life, and of the many things which have led me to this place – not the least of which is that certain unknowable yet ever-present something that has guided my every step along the way…
Bonja the Bodger 