Sometimes I’m scraping down the paint, and after
\nbreaking through the couple of layers of white or
\ncream, or even brown, I come upon the wood:
\nthe grain may swirl or curve gently; some traces
\nof paint linger, complementing the complex design
\nof nature and cuts employed by the woodworker.
\nThe process opens up the scent of the wood and
\nthe paint. The joints or the cut someone made so
\nlong ago are still there for me to enjoy, much as I
\nrelish the scent of fresh cut wood, be it cherry,
\noak or maple, pine or basswood, wall or furniture—
\nit all invites me to caress it, to take it into me
\nthrough nerve endings in my skin. This nourishes me,
\nI feel my feet firmly on the ground, my heart beats,
\nmy lungs fill; and I dream of holding a block plane
\nin my hands, drawing it along a mature cherry plank,
\nand seeing the long single curl peel away behind it.
\nI want to make a stool or a table with hand tools
\nthat I sharpen myself on an oil stone, and I want
\nsomeone who loves wood to scrape it down carefully
\ncan understand what I made and how well I made it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I think that any well-made wooden object has a story that can be discovered and appreciated. (#993) Continue reading