There’s something sacred about cooking for a potluck. This is especially true when it involves using a utensil created with my own hands. There’s a feeling that the piece itself is somehow transformed during the process.

It’s kind of a neat idea that a hunk of wood from a fallen tree can find new life and new meaning in the service of others.

When we share the results of our labor with a community, we give away portions of ourselves and receive likewise from those sustained by our efforts. We fortify each other; in essence, become each other – grateful for the opportunity to help one another survive.

An old man in his kitchen turning food into gratitude: this is good work for a Monday afternoon…

The template says, “This is what it’s going to look like when it’s finished.”

The spatula says, “Oh, yeah?”

Crafting a spoon often means setting out on a journey into the realms of the unknown. Factors such as the age and genus of the of the wood, hidden deposits of sap, or an unexpected deformity in the grain can quickly waylay even the best-drawn plans, and send a carver scrambling for their compass.

Faced with these challenges, one incurs the risk of becoming overly-attached to the original idea of how things should be. Left unchecked, such rigidity – especially when keenly-sharpened instruments are involved – could result in fuel for the campfire or a trip to the first aid kit or emergency room.

Learning to dance with the inherent unpredictability of working with an organic medium – itself the product of random influences like climate, soil content, and geographic location – means letting go and listening to what that medium has to say.

When approached in this manner, one often discovers its willing to cooperate down to the finest details. And yet, there are times when the material will have its way; and one is left with the simple choice of struggle or surrender…

Yesterday I had a chance to visit a friend of mine. We spent the day in his back yard by the fire carving spoons. He’s a bigger guy and visibly strong, with military experience. As we worked however, I noticed that his axe cuts seemed measured and precise; his use of the hook knife, subtle – almost delicate.

I stopped for a few seconds and thought about my own technique, which can sometimes best be described as unorthodox. While there’s no doubt that I enjoy this craft immensely, I occasionally find myself growing impatient and forcing things along. When that happens, this work will inevitably become the object of my frustration.

That this pattern affects my life in areas other than my carving isn’t something that’s lost on me. And recently I’ve become aware that I’m finally closing in on the part of me that requires things to be this way…

First a bit of stropping, and then it’s on to the work.

I love these brisk September mornings: the ones that require an extra shirt, but aren’t cold enough yet for the kerosene heater. There’s a whiff of finality in the breeze that nudges the leaves of the ornamental pear trees across the street; perhaps inciting them to remember that their days are numbered.

But there is also a sense of beginning. The calling in of shorter days and darker nights; of heavier meals and slower mornings…The in-between-ness of it all imbues it with a sort of magic; a chrysalis-ness where old patterns dissolve and newer ones emerge all wet-winged and wide-eyed.

It’s a blessing to live this way, even when the spoon gods demand their occasional tribute.

Still if one is called to sacrifice, it’s no doubt far more preferable to pay in wood than in blood.

We break things in this work, for that is the toll of its wisdom. But it is often in their very breaking that these things become our teachers…

Of the many things in this life for which I am grateful, the two that currently come to mind are my spiritual practice (and the healing and community it has provided), and the afternoons I get to spend out in the garage chipping away at a billet of wood, trying to uncover the treasure hidden inside it.

It’s important to remember that these two things aren’t necessarily unrelated.

The rough-cut spoon in the picture above comes from a Cherry tree on a property in Pennsylvania where I’ve danced and prayed; laughed and sweat. Like the sap in the wood, these experiences have soaked deeply into my bones. They’ve nourished me. And they’ve shaped my life in ways my linear mind could never have imagined.

It’s not so much a matter of planning as it is a product of surrender; a willingness to step aside and allow something unintended to happen simply because it feels right. There’s more at work here than hand and mind and eye. There’s a deep-down shaping that can only be accomplished by heart and soul and Spirit – and even then, the material must be ready.

Having left most of its billet behind, the spoon is currently resting in the wood chips. It’ll wait there – patiently – for the next round of work to shape it into something a bit more viable…