From ideas to the real world

Being a conduit | Connecting with others through the work

Hello! I hope 2024 is off to a good start for you. Our family is beginning the new year with renewed immune systems, having had a panoply of illnesses over the holiday break, from colds to Covid to pink eye. Surely it’s all easy going from here, right?

Dad and I finished the kitchen cabinet commission and he helped install it (really he was teaching me about the installation process, which is a whole other thing in woodworking). My clients still had some plumbing and painting to do after we got the cabinet in and sorted but at least they finally had more counter space!

My essay is below. I hope these next couple of weeks find you healthy and in good spirits!

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Listening, not talking

Admittedly, in a newsletter filled with words from me to you, the essay title is ironic. But this notion, along with another about conduits, has been on my mind the last week or so.

First, listening instead of talking came up in George Nakashima’s book, The Soul of a Tree, a gift from my mom over the holidays.

“Nakashima has wisdom . . . It is in giving rather than taking, in listening rather than telling, in doing rather than exhortion,” wrote George Wald in his foreword.

I could relate to this (okay, maybe not the being wise bit, but the other parts). My work is about giving, not taking; listening, not commanding; seeking, not presuming.

I try to create what people need in a manner that respects the life of the materials I use—the wood, its history, its present, and the potential of its future. And to make pieces that are strong, long-lasting, able to take the work and everyday living around them without breaking down and falling apart.

Second, in working this way, it made me think about how woodworkers are conduits between the wood and people’s lives.

My dad is a conduit between lumber sourced from his property or those of his friends, taken not for profit but for either the health of a particular tree or the surrounding woods. Or because the trees fell or got left behind by loggers.

And all woodworkers are conduits for inter-generational knowledge and the passage of skills from previous decades to now to decades into the future. Aren’t they all translators of that history into the pieces they make for others?

Conduits from the ether into the tangible. Taking ideas—ephemeral wisps, sometimes of unknown origin, or sometimes from the minds of those we create for (if we’re listening, if we’re asking the right questions)—and giving them substance and form in the real world.

Josiah, my dulcet, diligent partner (of over a decade! an amount of time that surprises both of us), mentioned some months ago that what he really needed for proper cooking prep was a cutting board big enough to handle a variety of food. He wanted to be able to chop, say, an onion, slide it aside, and have space on the same board to chop carrots or celery or something else.

Life is not about the big wants. The big, expensive prizes floating ever beyond our reach. Life is most often made better by the little conveniences and connections that often we don’t notice until they’re gone.

Truthfully, I can’t solve most of Josiah’s wants or issues. He is hands-down more efficient, capable, and charming than I’ll ever be even on my best day. And at any rate, his problems are his own, so I rarely give two thoughts about them. (Hence the decade-plus commitment that is going strong!)

But I can sometimes address the small wants. Like making a board on which to cut a multitude of veggies. I can ask questions to learn more about what he has in mind, what sort of size he is thinking, the applications he is hoping this could be used for.

And then I can surprise him on Christmas morning with a butcher block custom made to his specifications. (Thanks in large part to Dad stepping in and taking on some extra sanding for me while I was sick.)

It’s all about listening and using the skills one has to be a conduit between someone’s hope and reality.

I listened to a little segment from This American Life on the history of the Trapper Keeper. I so loved my Trapper Keeper when I was young, which is what interested me in the story.

But what intrigued me most was hearing about the personalities of the two men at the heart of the story. One who was charismatic and good at marketing. One who was quiet and happiest making things happen in the background.

I’m a background person. Put me in a room with others and I go quiet; all thoughts of what to talk about vanishing as I assess people’s expressions, what and how they’re talking. I’m comfortable and irreverent one-on-one with someone I know well. Other social situations not so much. And I’m okay with that—with my over-processing mind, my over-thinking nature, putting it to use to make stuff or solve problems or figure ideas out in the background.

Woodworking allows social connections in a way that feels natural. I have something to say in the shop, even as I have so much more to learn. And when I focus on creating something to enhance another person’s life, I can communicate better with them than would ever be possible in conversation.

So in a way, woodworking itself is also a conduit between the woodworker and the world. It takes listening, seeking, and giving.