An old growth post
Resharing a newsletter | Moving
Salutations and greetings!
A little update: Over morning coffee, I worried to Josiah that what I’ve been writing lately isn’t fit for my newsletter. I’ve been writing about woodworking, but it’s the prose version of a stack of lumber that needs to be sorted and planed and rough cut, not a finished cabinet. I prefer to share the latter, though you and I both know sometimes you get the messy former.
The issue is that I’ve not been in the shop woodworking in weeks—I’ve been in the shop packing it up, along with the rest of our house, stuffing our lives into boxes to be reopened in a new house in a new city in a few days. It’ll take me a bit to get back on my woodworking feet.
Josiah, my worldly, wise advisor and companion, suggested I do what Martha Stewart does when she’s busy and doesn’t have time to write something new (that anything about me evokes Martha Stewart in his mind is remarkable): share a former post.
“Call it something catchy, like, ‘blast from the past,’” he advised. “Or ‘an old-growth post.’ Oh, that’s a good one. That’s a woodworking pun!”
How about: “Old words from an old bat”?
So, friends, what follows is a newsletter I wrote in May 2023. Its nebulous form mirrors my mind at the moment.
I hope the next two weeks treat you gently, with just the right amount of kick-in-the-pants to keep you motivated to do the things you love. ❤️
A modestly meaningful life
(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.
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.
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.
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.
It’s all in the details
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.
Projects take the time they take
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 (to make it 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.
“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?
Everyone needs a place to go to relax and daydream
The sawmill scrap pile is such a place for me.
What’s yours?