The hand takes the chisel, unites with the wood, the hammer strikes and the wood splits the waste from the wanted. The hammer withdraws, strikes again and more wood separates from what must remain to form the tenon and tail, the mortise and the housing. My hand twists, turns, twists more as the wood rejects the chisel and rebels the course I set, but firmness demands exactness and the hand cannot betray.
See how now the gentle hands unite the chisel to its task. Firm and tender, gently they resolve all difference until the shape forms beneath the cutting and then I look at the work and see that it’s complete. The tools now lay in muteness as I read the grain and see the glisten of the chisel’s cut on the surface of the new wood. I wonder for a moment at the beauty where cells within reflect the light that others never see. The mortise encloses the tenon for two hundred years. I work on the next.
The knife severs to the square edge, a line declares the boundary and a wall formed becomes the enclosure for the fitted shelf the tenon and the tail and pin. The chisel follows the knife quickly, deepens the wall and slices the fibre with each penetrating cut. Level by deepening level I look beyond the chisel’s cut and the wood shines with light brightness to reward me as I work. When the joint fits, two parts unite as one and my reward is the seating of each shoulder line.
The shave shapes till from the solid a spoon emerges with each layer. The gouge scallops and chips fall to my bench and to my feet, covering the floor. I focus on the chips, but then I see first the handle and then the bowl. I see my name on the bronze of my spokeshave and then, beside it, Joseph’s name. His hands formed the sand of the mould in flasks from which my tool emerged. His hands drilled and tapped the threads with which I adjust each cut. Such is the way of the hand, the work and the wood.
