I recently purchased some new parts for my Shopsmith; nothing major, just a couple of random bits that, much like some of those belonging to machine’s operator himself, had finally gotten around to showing some signs of aging. Unlike my own random bits, however, I was able to order replacements for them quickly and cheaply online.
This little setback, coupled with below freezing temperatures – rendered even colder by nearly constant winds – has kept me out of the workshop for the last few days. “Screws fall out all the time;” Judd Nelson’s John Bender tells us in the 1985 movie, The Breakfast Club,” the world’s an imperfect place.”
As to whether or not the falling out of screws and other apparently random events signify an imperfect world, poised to self-destruct without notice at any given moment, or a perfect one, in which evolutionary forces ensure that things which no longer serve are constantly replaced by newer, more efficient ones, I’ll leave to the philosophers to decide.
For now, it’s enough to know that the process exists, and we – or at least some of our random bits – are apparently subject to it…
I spent the last couple of days involved in a project and filling an order, which I plan to mail out tomorrow. Today however, my shop sits silently in the aftermath of what might diplomatically be described as my overly expressive technique. It’s the same approach I bring to cooking whenever I’m in the kitchen. It’s loud, frenetic, and messy. It takes no prisoners and suffers no fools… save one.
And yet, there’s a kind of stillness at the center of all this chaos. It’s not something I actively seek to attain; rather, it arises by itself once everything else has surrendered to the noise. For me, whether crafting or cooking, it’s simply a matter of arming myself appropriately and charging headlong into the fray; immediate surroundings and faint-hearted onlookers be damned.
And while my writing typically runs much in a similar vein, today I ‘m wrestling with images trying to get out, and words that seem hellbent on refusing to let them. There are threads here, without a doubt, but weaving them into a cohesive fabric is another matter entirely. Still, despite all my efforts to the contrary, something sat me down and demanded I write.
So here I sit, trying to honor that in my own humble way.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the notion of process and how it applies to carving; more specifically, how it applies to carving spoons. From tree, to log, to billet, to blank, to rough-cut, to wooden spoon, the act of carving is one of constant refinement; of stripping away the excess material and revealing that which it obscured.
And even then, the process still continues. Once the tools have been put away, the spoon is oiled and burnished. For those unfamiliar with the term, burnishing is the act of rubbing the spoon with a smooth object like a pebble, antler, or polished round of wood. This closes the pores and takes away any remaining rough spots. After that, the spoon is oiled again and set aside to cure.
It might be tempting at this point to call the whole thing done and dusted. But in a way, for the spoon, the real work is just beginning. And that work will continue to shape the spoon for rest of its life.
How many of us have held a wooden spoon that’s outlived the relative who passed it down only to notice the patina it’s acquired from decades of nearly constant use in soups, sauces, or chillis? The scratches, burn marks, dents, and flaws that only serve to add to its character and shape it into something mythic; each little mark telling the story of the one who put it there. It’s in this way, that something created to serve a specific purpose continues to find itself remade by the very act of doing so…
After dancing around with gusting winds, a kerosene heater, and a half-opened garage door, I managed to finish up some Black Walnut scrapers. I have an appointment in a few hours, and I didn’t want to get bogged down in anything that required a lot of time or extensive clean-up afterwards, so this was exactly the kind of thing I was looking for.
It’s important on these sleep late, move slow, chilly December days to make use of any burst of energy and determination that comes along, especially when these unexpected flourishes of activity are met with tangible results.
To be honest, it’s been all too easy lately to talk myself out of almost anything productive on days like this – it’s difficult enough sometimes tending to my internal work, let alone another external project. But now that the end products of the morning’s business are drying in the garage and I’m contemplating a well-deserved lunch and a cup of coffee, I’m grateful that I took up my tools and set myself to the task…
The sign is up, the last of the frost has burned off, and I’ve got a belly full of scrambled eggs, left-over turkey, and mashed potatoes.
A mug of hot mulled apple cider keeps the chill at bay; an appropriate accompaniment it seems for the Mulberry cooking spoon I’m working on at the moment.
I love these post-Thanksgiving Fridays when the only thing that’s on the schedule is whatever I decide to put there.
Looks like next year’s gratitude list is starting a little bit early…
Today goes into the books as a productive one. I knocked together a simple greenhouse out of scrap wood and plastic tarp, field tested the Craftsman table saw I inherited a while back, and roughed out a Pennsylvania Cherry serving spoon.
Grandfather Joseph Rael a.k.a. Beautiful Painted Arrow, a holy man of Picuris Pueblo and Ute descent whose writings and ceremonial traditions have been instrumental in my own healing for nearly twenty years, tells us that work is worship. And while I’ve never had the opportunity to sit with the man and discuss this, I believe at least from a personal perspective, that I’ve come to understand this teaching with a bit more clarity.
Whether I’m deep in the midst of my personal recovery, holding space for someone else as they work through the process of theirs, or taking a carving axe to a billet out in the wood shop, there’s a common thread that ties these things together, and seems to embody Grandfather Joseph’s words.
When work is placed in front of us, and we commit ourselves to completing the task at hand, we are given the chance to recognize and affirm the existence of the One who put it there. In doing so, the work becomes a prayer, and its blessings flow out to the benefit of All Our Relations…
I’ve had a few sales recently, so yesterday I started turning blanks into rough cuts in hopes of rebuilding some inventory for the Holidays. This morning, there was paperwork and a trip to the local post office to drop a couple of spoons into the mail.
I’m generally loath to argue politics – or more specifically, politicians – so I decided just to sit for while until my internal smoke had cleared and I had a better notion of what I was going to write. Those who know me well enough can probably surmise where my vote went. Those who don’t probably couldn’t care less. And besides, the matter carries little relevance to anything conveyed here-in.
Shortly after learning the results of the election, I was overcome with a profound feeling of radical acceptance; not because any certain candidate had won or lost, but simply because the results were in and we finally knew where things stood.
As I’ve continued to harbor this feeling and go about the necessary day to day requirements of my life, I’ve become almost preoccupied with an image taken from perhaps one of the most pervasive Pop Culture mythologies of our time: the mythology of Star Wars.
I was fourteen years old when the original movie came out in ’77. My friend, his brother, and I packed ourselves into his car and off we went to “A galaxy far, far way…” Truth be told we only got as far as the local theater: Cinema 1-2-3 at the Viewmont Mall in Scranton, Pennsylvania; a premier venue as far as the Valley was concerned, with THREE movie screens (hence the name), and swimming pool sized “Monster Buckets” of popcorn. To this day, I can still smell the combination of butter and teenage angst.
As the movie unfolded on that tiny screen, made somehow gigantic by the scope of the spectacle before us, I found myself completely fixated on the aging Jedi Master, Ben Kenobi. In total, I saw that movie six times in the theater, and every time it struck me that someone as powerfully equipped as he was to stand against the Empire would squirrel himself away in the middle of nowhere.
As the rest of the movies began to come out, and with them additional information, Kenobi’s story began to make more sense. But it wasn’t until the miniseries detailing his years in hiding on Tatooine that the singular purpose of his being there was really driven home. In the midst of everything taking place in the galaxy around him, he completely devoted his entire existence to the only job he had: making sure that kid stayed alive…
The idea of being able to marry oneself so closely to one’s purpose, regardless of the goings-on around him still utterly grips me to this day. And while I claim neither power nor trough of wisdom, I’ve come to appreciate what that means on a deeper level.
And it was specifically this insight which gave rise to my initial feeling of radical acceptance. My Creator, my recovery, my practice, my marriage and the spiritual community with which my wife and I share our home, my family and friends – at this point mostly interchangeable, and a few extracurricular activities that keep me sane and grounded: these are the devotions of my life.
Anyone reading this might be tempted to conclude that I’ve turned my back on the world, that I no longer care what happens outside my immediate circle, and that, as I’ve heard others say many times, “my give-a-shit meter is permanently stuck on E”.
But if I’m being honest here, the exact opposite is actually the case. I care very deeply for All My Relations. And what might initially express itself as outrage or frustration, quickly shows its hand as a deep and undeniable sense of heartbreak. And after standing in that place of heartbreak for what seems nigh on decades, a growing flicker of compassion has finally taken hold. And with it, the awareness that my life is the bucket of water I’ve been given to carry until the time comes to place it into the hands of the next generation. My work is no one else’s. And unless I continue to tend to it, it won’t get done.
None of us can say with any certainty what the next few years will look like. A good many of us have listened to our hearts, or to the pundits, and afterwards, have cast our votes accordingly. Some of us will say that this election is the best thing that’s ever happened to America and will usher in a new Golden Age of Democracy. Some of us will say it’s the worst and will bring about a fall into Fascism.
Some of us will clutch the flag and thump our chests with joy. And some of us will clutch each other and bow our heads in sorrow.
Some of us will forget for a while that there is only All of Us. And so, it might just fall upon the rest of us to remember…
Last Monday, I found myself standing in the kitchen at 6:30AM drinking a cup of coffee and searing a ring of smoked kielbasa in preparation for a two-day visit with my family, most of which centered around playing cards and shit-talking at the dining room table, chasing after my nine-month-old Great Niece, and simply just being with a couple of people I’ve known and loved for pretty much the entirety of my life.
As I’ve gotten older, experiences like this have taken on a much greater sense of significance. So much of the bullshit has fallen away and left in its wake the necessary space for resting in the ordinary things that nourish the soul and claim their share of my ever-dwindling stockpile of minutes. While none of us can say with any certainty how much time we have left, the simple truth is that there is far less time in front of me than behind, and I intend on spending as much of it as possible on the things that heal and sustain me.
Several days prior to the aforementioned visit, my wife and I went out for dinner and a musical at a local theater to celebrate our thirteenth anniversary. During the show, two of the characters sang about the hardships they’d endured as a result of having tried to live up to the expectations of their fathers. As I sat there listening, it dawned on me that I’d never personally had to confront this issue. My own father came back from WWII with a full-blown case of PTSD that left him in squarely the throes of alcoholism. Combined with that, his emotional instability, and the side-effects of the daily pharmacopeia of prescription drugs, caffeine, and cigarettes he ingested left him barely capable of imposing more than a fraction of his will upon his own life…let alone the life of his only son.
While the other kids I knew had fathers who, for good or ill, seemed at least somewhat capable of teaching them about the requirements of manhood, I was pretty much left to figure that out on my own. The irony is that the deficit of growing up this way also proved to be its singular advantage. I won’t deny that for a great majority of the time I felt a lot like a ship without a rudder. That meant, however, that I had little or no restrictions to keep me from encountering whatever unexplored territory the winds blew me towards. The pain of the unknown is something I’ve come to recognize quite well, but that same unknown has provided me with abundant opportunity for self-discovery.
I’ve also come to understand that I was never truly at the mercy of my life. As I look back, it’s become quite clear that something much larger and far more adept than my human understanding has been there all along. It might not have always kept this ship from entering difficult waters; but it’s taught me how to swim, and was always there to make sure I never drowned…
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…
Bonja the Bodger 