I picked up a few requests over the holiday, so I’m out in the garage, cutting some Cherry and Butternut blanks, and getting to work on the initial steps of bringing an antique handaxe back to life.
The heater’s finally taken the edge off the chill, and the workshop’s warm and welcoming; it’s the perfect day to be out here with my tools, enjoying the space that inevitably opens up after the blissful chaos of the annual celebrations.
I’m reminded, in the silence of this space, of the feeling of sitting on the beach when the waves have withdrawn. There’s an openness to it; and a deep and palpable grace that only comes from the knowing and accepting of its impermanence…
One of the great blessings of my own healing work has been that I have found myself in the presence of teachers who, consciously or unconsciously, have never been afraid to show their humanity. Some of it has been extremely noble, and some of it hasn’t. But the wonderful thing about that, is that I have learned lessons along the way that I could not have learned any other way.
I have gotten to see people being completely human in my presence, and that has opened up space and allowed me to do the same…
I roughed out a piece of Box Elder this morning. It was the first time I ever worked with it, and the blank was a little bit dry and unforgiving. It was a struggle at first, but somewhere in the middle of things, we reached an agreement.
My brother and I have a saying that we use every now and then: “Christmas in December.” It’s shorthand between us for “business as usual,” or “same shit different day.” He said that in a text he sent me today, which is what got me thinking about it.
Sometimes, you get the idea that things are going to pretty much run to form – that the work you’ve done time and time again will end up being “Christmas in December.” But then, it decides to throw you a curve ball, and best laid plans can quickly turn into a generous portion of “what the hell am I going to do now?”
When this happens, it can either end in failure, or it can give you some insight which you couldn’t have gotten any other way.
Such was the case this morning, when I cut too deeply into the blank, rode the grain, and because it was dry, ended up taking a chunk out of the bowl. I spat out a couple of appropriate Germanic expletives, stared at it for a minute or two, and then I stopped, and let the spoon tell me what to do.
Sure enough, it had a few ideas.
The blank was still pretty thick, so I took my carving hatchet to the end of it, repaired the bowl, now a bit shorter and shallower than I initially intended, and went back to work roughing out the spoon.
It’s drying in the wood chips as I write this. In a few more days, I should be able to fish it out and finish everything up. I’ll approach it a bit more carefully when I do.
I got a request from someone I know to carve some spoons as Christmas gifts for his wife and her sister. He said it would be nice for them to have something to pass down from generation to generation.
And so, it occurred to me that I’ve finally reached the age where someone actually came to me to ask me to create something specifically intended to reach the hands of people I’ll never meet – people who will only know me through my work.
This got me thinking about some of the things that were handed down to me: my father’s anger, my mother’s codependence. My wife and I don’t have any children of our own, so it falls to me to make sure they don’t go any further.
The work’s been long and difficult – a lot more difficult than setting knife to Butternut. It’s a strange thing to find myself in the process of creating new potential heirlooms, while doing my best to remove all traces of a few of the old ones…
How many times in our lives are we handed something that’s perfect as it is – where all we have to do is simply step back and let it be?
I think of my own experiences in carving. Sometimes, I’ll have a spoon that I really love which I’ve worked out of Cherry, or Mulberry, or whatever. And as I stand there looking at it, I think, “Ah, man, I just need to make this one more cut.” And then I do… and it ends up being the one cut too many. Suddenly, I’m left holding something completely different than what it was intended to be.
The same thing happens with my writing. Often times I’ll edit the shit out of something, and what I’m really doing is stomping the life out of it. So, I end up going back to what I originally had, and that thing lives and breathes on its own.
I’ve talked to a lot of people about this process of spiritual healing – of deep emotional recovery work. So often we get bogged down in the fucking weeds with this, and we feel like it’s never going to end. We feel like we’re getting buried.
We have these arbitrary goals that we set for ourselves: the way things should be; the way things need to be. When they don’t line up, we start to blame ourselves. We start to feel as if something is wrong – as if we’re not doing something right.
And that’s really what this whole thing is about. It’s the idea that there’s a process unfolding, and all we can do is show up for it, do the work we’re called to do, not worry about the results, and just let the thing live and breathe on its own…
I’ve been thinking a lot about community lately. Standing in the workshop, sharpening my knives, and watching a swarm of bumblebees patrolling the Russian Sage, it isn’t hard to stay connected with this.
There’s a recognition in ceremony of those who’ve come before – of objects carried by other hands, and words by other voices. Every time I pick up a blank or a billet, and set to work roughing out a spoon, I’m aware of just how many hands besides my own are touching it.
Almost every tool I used today was a Christmas present from my wife or another member of my family. The Butternut was donated. My Carolinas were also a Christmas present. And even my apron came from a box that showed up when my brother in-law dropped off his Shopsmith.
It’s good to be aware of these things. To let them into the work; let them help in the shaping of it. Let them carry it – and be carried by it – from this set of hands to the next…
The Pirkei Avot is a collection of theological teachings, maxims, and wisdom from the Rabbinic Jewish tradition. A few years ago, a member of our community passed on a little wisdom to me from that source. We got to talking about service, how we carry ourselves into the world, and what we feel our path is. And he said to me, “it’s important to remember to give from your surplus and not your supply.” It’s a simple statement, but there’s a lot of power behind it. So often, we get caught up in taking care of the needs of others or the day-to-day activities that we forget to take time for ourselves.
This week has been a perfect example of that. I had a lot of chores to do around here; some yard work. I ended up doing quite a bit of yard work over at my Mother in-law’s house. I spent time in the kitchen cooking. I fielded a phone call or two from a friend of mine who was in need.
And I am blessed to be able to do all these things; I enjoy them.
But the truth is, as it got a little closer to the end of the week, I started feeling a little bit ground down; a little bit outgunned. And I realized I hadn’t taken enough time for myself. So, this afternoon, I’m going to be out here in the garage. I’m going to carve a spoon or two. I’m going to listen to some music. I’m going to enjoy this absolutely gorgeous Saturday afternoon…
In working through the often-arduous processes of my spiritual healing and emotional recovery, I’ve been blessed to have found myself in the presence of Elders who’ve taught me about the practice of putting our prayers on the wind. When we do this, we speak these things out loud so that, like seeds, they might take flight, land on fertile ground, sink deep roots, and potentially grow into something that feeds us all.
While I’ll never claim to speak for anyone else, my personal belief is that it’s necessary to discover whatever it is we’re here to do…and to do it. It’s not like toting it around in your pocket, pulling it out when you need it, and putting it back when you’re done. It’s saying yes to something that shapes our very lives; changes us into the vessel it needs to bring it out to the People…
I’m at the point in my life where cashiers younger than I am call me “Sweetheart”. Thankfully, I’m also at another point in my life: the one where I can graciously accept it. For a while, I wasn’t sure about this whole getting older thing. It was all kind of weird, actually – sort of a second teenagerhood. I was too young to fraternize with the Elders, and too old to hang around with the young’uns.
But sixty-two has proven to be something of a magic number; almost a kind of sweet spot. My body certainly doesn’t lie; I’m sixty-two not twenty-two. And I occasionally have to rest between rounds of yardwork…especially when the heat index approaches anything north of ninety-five degrees. But instead of catching myself thinking, “Shit, I must be getting old,” as I often used to do, now I simply smile and think, “Well, it’s not like I have a deadline…“
Those of us with garages or sheds that double as workshops understand that free space is a privilege. Mine, for example, is packed to the rafters with odd-sized lengths of various kinds of wood, tubs of billets waiting to be turned into spoons, carving tools, a meager but appropriate assortment of power tools, a lawnmower, a couple semi-retired bikes, a rolling shop table, other bits of assorted stuff too numerous to mention, and a nearly ready-to-braid harvest of this year’s garlic. I’ve gotten used to walking – and working – in there through dedicated practice. It’s easy for things to pile up after a while. Still, with a bit of adjustment, I can find the room to put my feet up with a craft beer or a cup of coffee, look upon my work, and call it good.
There’s a sacredness to the spaces in between things. They’re little doorways that allow the Medicine in. They give us time to rest and breathe, to harvest what was planted in the action, to take it in and let it nourish these bodies of ours which move, perhaps, just a little bit slower these days…
A few days ago, I found myself standing on sacred ground. Not that it isn’t all sacred, of course. But this specific piece of ground carries with it a particularly personal sense of sacredness and grace, as it also happens to be the arbor where we hold the Sun Moon Dance every July.
The Dance itself is one of the teachings passed onto us by Grandfather Joseph Rael (aka Beautiful Painted Arrow). During the course of the Sun Moon Dance, the Dancers move back and forth to a tree at the center of a circular arbor. As they do, they receive the Creator’s descending Light and release it into the world for the highest good of All Our Relations. The ceremony is often difficult, as the Dancers are also conducting a silent fast.
I’ve no way of knowing on a cosmic level what the results of all this might be. However, having danced several times myself, I can honestly say without any exaggeration that this Dance has not only transformed my life, but saved it.
In preparation for this year’s ceremony, a few of us got together to make some well-needed repairs to the arbor. We shored up some timbers and laid in a bunch of new purlins across the top.
As we gathered for the day’s work, one of the stewards of the land pulled me aside and took me over to where some of the trees had been dropped along the edge of the driveway. A few of my spoons see frequent use in their kitchen, and he’s always quick to offer me some additional material for my craft. This time, I came away with some beautiful cuts of Maple. Overall, there was enough wood for sixteen good-sized billets, which are now sitting in my workshop, patiently anticipating the hook knife and the carving axe.
There’s something deeply rewarding about spending the non-refundable minutes of one’s life in service. It presents us with an opportunity to give back to the Creator – and out to the whole of Creation – the only true currency we really have. Even though some of the blessings we receive might not make themselves readily apparent, others inevitably do. And it is these obvious milestones which keep us moving forward along the path…
Bonja the Bodger 