I’d planned to get out to the workshop today, but somehow that turned into sitting on the patio and editing the second draft of a writing project I’ve been working on since a year ago last February.
It’s a funny thing, this process of recovery. Learning to sit and allowing the work to proceed of its own accord. Days of deep and soulful stillness following days of wildly untethered ambition. There’s dancing and resting at the heart of it. Putting it out and taking it in. The ebbs and flows of the tides of self-discovery.
The rain is falling a little bit harder now, and there’s more of a wind behind it. At the end of the yard, a Cherry tree spreads itself against the unbroken grey of a cloud-filled sky. Birdsongs and sirens intermingle with the constant patter of raindrops against the awning.
My coffee is empty. My heart is full. And the garden is sufficiently watered…
It’s been a while since I’ve been able to get myself out to the garage and putter around in the workshop. Recent changes in the weather required turning it into a staging area for some new patio furniture, so there was barely enough room for walking out there; let alone tinkering with hatchets and knives or any of the other implements of destruction that have made the place their home.
Yesterday, however, the weather shifted a bit, and I was able to put together a new deck box and move the furniture out to the patio. I also rearranged the garage, and set to work sprucing up this old beastie, which I recently rescued from the workshop of close friend who passed away a few years ago.
It’s an old-school, cast-iron Craftsman scroll saw that’s seen its share of use. It’s hefty, clunky, and low tech; and I absolutely adore the thing…for exactly those same reasons. It’s currently sitting atop the platform he built for it, adjusting to its new surroundings. And after a good going-over with a steel Chore Boy and some WD-40, it seems to be settling in just fine.
As an added bonus, someone dropped a couple of small Maple trees right down the street from us. This windfall landed me a nice stack of clean, spooniferous* wood.
I ran the chainsaw through it earlier today, and my plan is to haul out the bandsaw and my carving axe and turn the lot of it into billets later this afternoon.
It’s been an abundant week so far – very little of it planned, but all of it rewarding, none the less.
I fell into a discussion with a fellow traveler a while back about recognizing the work we’re here to do, and how that actually compares to the stories we’ve told ourselves about how our lives should be. This is not to discount the value of planning or the uplifting quality of dreams. And yet, as is often the case, we’ve both come to find that our current lives bare little in common with our past imaginings of them.
“If it lands at your feet, it’s yours to do,” he told me. It’s a philosophy that flies in the face of a culture that often demands of its children an answer to the question, “What are you going to be when you grow up,” and then proceeds to herd them headlong through high school and college, and straight into the workforce, with little or no time for self-discovery.
These days I’ll admit that I’m blessed with a life that reveals itself on an almost moment-by-moment basis. Living this way is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for those who demand a world that bends to their ideas of how it should be. It’s often unpredictable, and therein lies its Medicine. Having said this, it also readily offers up its own unerring guidance if one can simply listen for it, and answer, “yes…”
*Spooniferous, Adj. – A type of wood – regardless of species – possessing qualities rendering it appropriate for the crafting of wooden spoons.
The weather is unseasonably warm today. There’s also a light rain falling; so even though we’re only into the middle of February, it feels like the perfect afternoon to be out in the workshop rough cutting some wooden spoons.
While I might not be hard at work saving the world, this little corner of it feels pretty good right now. Not that saving the world is something I’m geared for anyway. I’m more about tending to my own wounds and helping others to do the same whenever they come knocking, or whenever Creator points me in their direction.
I’ve learned to stand on these moments of peace when they come. The work has been exhausting lately, and it’s times like this when the results of it can settle into my bones and get me ready for whatever the next round brings.
As I write this, the rain has stopped and the wind’s beginning to pick up. It feels as if the temperature’s starting to drop. I’ll head back out to the garage in a few minutes, listen to a couple more songs, and look upon my work and call it good.
As chaotic as things continue to be right now, this day is exactly the Medicine I needed…
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…
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…
Bonja the Bodger 