The day seems bright in future hope despite the political circus emanating from zoos around the world. A hand lifts the wood and a shoulder carries the beam to the sawhorses and sanity seems set for the day. Soon the plane lands on the runway and people spill onto the conveyor belt for the next leg to or from home. I smell the wood as my own plane lands on the board and I lunge forward to whisk more bands of pine or oak from the now flat runway. My hand swipes at the mass of curls as if dispelling a fly from the table and I rest. My breath is quicker now and my mind is still catching the sounds from seconds ago as the plane resounded that separation between the wanted and the unwanted. I smell more, unknowingly, and sanity settles all the more in my soul. I sense a peace in my being as I work wood; a peace I find in no other work than my work with hands. The wood glistens back to me now as the evening sun glances from the facets otherwise unseen and unfelt. I can’t explain how I feel now that 50 years have passed working wood every single day. My arms are still strong and so too my hands and fingers. Many woodworkers find what I have and many never do. It’s in the hands that I discovered the greatest fulfillment. I hope that I will work wood until I pass from this life. It has brought pure joy for me.