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…
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…
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…
Bonja the Bodger 