Sanity spills from my plane with whorls and eddies recorded with each swipe within each swipe I take and then I make decisions based on what I see and feel and smell and hear and yes in even what I taste as on my tongue and inhaled breath the essence sends my brain the information that I need and heed to lead me in this thing I call working wood.
Sanity, sanity places my hand inside the handle of my saw in which I feel the ages past and there engrossed in care I cast my eye to stretch and strain the sawing plate with sharp, defying teeth along the line that separates and then creates a sphere of creativity in which I live and breath and work my calling to the task of working wood.
Sanity, my sanity constrains me in this world, my workshop where I spend my time, invest my time and gather up my thoughts in wondrous piles like shavings from the workshop floor that hitherto would pile so high to block the north wind neath the draft-filled gap beneath the castle door.
Then sanity comes from the chisel’s edge as tenons split and paring levels out disparity to separate the wanted from the waste in haste and then I stare at grain no man has seen and wonder then from whence this glistening grain no longer growing yet vibrant in its living came from working wood.
This sanity I talk of few will know today and yet in times past, not so very long ago, this thing called working wood would not have been the scarcity I say of then as men, women, children too placed their hands on real wood not plastic chemically coated wood but good wood, solid real wood as with their hands they carved and shaped those things that families then depended on, essential things for living life and living working wood in violins and cellos too, in yokes and boats and buildings made from trees a man would harvest from the forest of his youth.