A modestly meaningful life

Letting time use you. Finding a place to daydream. The elation of knowing how to repair something important.

Hello and welcome to Hungry Woodworker, a newsletter about woodworking thoughts—sometimes about the art and practice of learning this trade, other times simply thoughts had while woodworking. I’m Taliesin and one thing I do when I’m not in the shop is take notes and edit some of them into essays. I share those every other Thursday. Thank you for being here.

(My child helped with this week’s recording.)

The title above is shamelessly taken from a section title in Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks, which I’ve been re-reading these past two weeks.

Two of many pages of ideas. Likes parts of a woodworking project, waiting on the workbench to be assembled into something useful.

My essay resides in pieces in my notebook. Below are scraps from those pages, alongside images of what in the wood shop is going on while these thoughts congeal, disperse, return in new form.

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The excitement of a fix within my ability

I went to turn on my table saw and it didn’t start. What now?

Was it plugged in? Yes.

Was the power out? No.

Wait, did I see a hint of wire coming through the black plastic of the cord? Yes.

Before and after.

The fault (as with every other in my shop) was mine. Inattentiveness.

When I’d finished using my table saw the day before, I’d picked the cord up and flicked it unthinkingly onto the belt that connects the motor to the blade assembly. I just wanted to make sure I remembered to get it off the ground, which sometimes gets wet when it rains.

That bit of foresight led to a lapse in memory when I forgot to move the cord before turning the table saw on again (just when you think you’re done, you’re not done, the tool that you put away is guaranteed to be needed within minutes).

After discovering the cord issue, frustration turned to elation: I knew how to fix this. But I’d only ever seen Dad do it. Now was a chance to do so myself.

Now my table saw has a new electrical plug and, thanks to the packrat tendencies of my partner Josiah (who seems to have as many backups as my dad), the cord is safely stowed with the help of magnetic clasps.

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It’s all in the details

The bottom of the dresser legs.

Sometimes it’s the smallest details that make a piece look finished. Sometimes we don’t need big, ostentatious decoration to make a statement. Sometimes a gentle chamfer will do.

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Projects take the time they take

From myriad pieces, the bones of a dresser.

Dad tells me that a project is not done until you’ve bled on it. By that measure, this project is definitely complete (though were I to stop now, I think my kids would be disappointed their dressers didn't come with drawers).

As these dressers slowly take shape—anxiety unwinding from my muscles as the stacks of creatively numbered and marked individual pieces transform into two cohesive wholes—I think how they are physical representations of the “modestly meaningful life” I am living.

Neither dresser is perfect, even by the loose standard I started with (made without metal fasteners), as my lap joints ended up too sloppy and required finish screws to ensure they were secure.

Neither dresser is done. In fact, the project is taking so long that I’ve had to pause to focus on making items to sell.

Both dressers are full of mistakes, all of which have (so far) been remedied. Every woodworker I’ve talked to tells me that it’s not about never making a mistake. It’s about improving one’s skill at remediation.

These dressers will be handsome when completed. Especially thanks to that lovely leg taper. They will fulfill a need. They will be sturdy enough to be moved from our house to our children’s future houses, should they want them. To be passed from our children to their children, should they want them.

Modest and meaningful.

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“Letting time use you”

My youngest child has added another tool to her repertoire: the drill press.

Again I think about Burkeman writing on the importance of “letting time use you. Approaching life not as an opportunity to implement your predetermined plans for success but as a matter of responding to the needs of your place and your moment in history.”

I am small and slight in the minds of the many. To the best of my knowledge, my place and moment are here and now, in my community and this time.

So instead of rushing to get the work done as quickly as I can (which would be more prudent, my kids could have their dressers and I could get back to paid work), at times I slow down. Like when showing my youngest child the drill press, which fascinated her. What better way for time to use me than to teach her how to operate it?

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Everyone needs a place to go to relax and daydream

The sawmill scrap pile is such a place for me.

What’s yours?