Wood Shavings

On working with one's hands

Swiiiipp

{A brief pause}

Swiiiiiiiipp

The resinous scent of freshly cut Douglas Fir wafts up from the arrow blank that is cradled in my shooting board. My block plane is feeling a bit dull so I pause to strop the blade. Putting the shooting board back on my bench I rotate the previously-square 3 foot-long dowel to expose a new edge.

Swip

Swip

So much better. As fine shavings curl up from the body of the plane, they fall onto my bench like goose down. My mind races through the events of the day, flitting from encounter to encounter, pausing only long enough to see an image or recall a particularly strong emotion.

{A brief pause}

Tap

{I rotate the dowel another 90 degrees}

My arrow shafts begin as 36” long dowels that are 1/2” x 1/2”. I place the dowel lengthwise in the v-shaped groove of my shooting board such that when viewed from the end it looks like a diamond with one corner pointing up. Using a block plane I round the edges of the dowel until it is completely round and 3/8” in diameter.

Swip

As my mind rummages through the events of the day I feel the need to respond in some way, either correcting a statement I made or affirming an experience. The world seems a strange place when viewed from within the dilapidated walls of my makeshift woodshop. Sometimes when my mind arrives at a particularly vexing worry I imagine my response is to create another paper-thin shaving. It is as if I am conversing with the world, it shouting incessantly at me while I palm a spokeshave and smooth an edge in quiet reply. I wonder if our actions are simply our side of a conversation with the world, a response to reality as we see it. Our response may be to scroll through Instagram or kneel in prayer. Right now, my response is to create yet another wispy shaving and I sense that it is in its own way profound. It states “this work with my hands matters. I see beauty in the wood before me and I am merely shining a spotlight on it. Despite the worries of the world, I choose to attend to this task, and this is good.”

{I retract the blade on my plane, the coarse work is done}

Swiiish

Swiiish

There is a life in my woodshop that is completely its own, a sort of vibrancy that exists in a universe far removed from electronic medical records, prior authorizations and hospitals. It is an unobtrusive flourishing that subsists on sawdust, Lord of the Rings (listened to, not read) and late-night black coffee. Each night begins with opening the peeling, creaking door. I then flip on the overhead light and am greeted by a sea of wood shavings. I breathe in, appreciating the symphony of juniper, Douglas fir and mountain mahogany with notes of 3-in-1 oil. A smile widens across my face. Here at last.

{I grab another piece of sandpaper}

Raaasp

Raaasp

When I am working in my shop, I slip into its reality where time is measured in number of breaks to sharpen my drawknife and my currency is curls of juniper. Life is simpler and, in a sense, more real. I can see my handiwork slowly take shape and feel the figured grain playing beneath my fingertips. In one place I notice I removed too much wood, in another too little. Though the world outside my woodshop is shouting at me, I am attending to a more immediate, though quieter, conversation with the piece of wood before me. I realize I risk anthropomorphizing my medium but in a sense the wood with which I work abounds with life. Having harvested the wood myself, I feel some responsibility toward and derive deep satisfaction from my lumber. I secure it on my bench and take in its knots and jigsaw-like bark. I wish to understand its identity, personality even. At first it only whispers but I do my best to listen. I trim off the bark and pause to listen again, its voice a little louder now. “Make me into something beautiful” it seems to say. I make several passes with my jack plane in reply.

Clunk

{I hang a weight from the suspended shaft. A bit too stiff still}

Rasp

Rasp

Wood is easier to read than a person yet makes an interesting albeit quiet conversation partner. Sometimes quiet is nice. My understanding of the wood’s identity comes into being as I physically shape it. Here again I am conversing with the wood, creator and created thing. I envision what my scrap of wood might look like and begin to shape it with this in mind. And it will respond, either affirming my intentions or gently resisting them through an unexpected whorl of grain or hidden knot. I pause and listen, contemplating which new course I should chart. It is almost as if the act of creation not only forms the shape of the medium but its identity as well. What begins as a whisper of beauty is slowly, carefully shaped into a form which showcases that beauty, proclaiming it from mountainous heights. The beauty was there all along, it just required a craftsman to call it forth. I wonder if God feels similarly, lumps of clay in his potter’s hands that we are.

Clunk {the shaft weighs in at 475 grains, about 20 grains to heavy for this fellow}

Rasp

As I work with wood I come to see species as persons with their own idiosyncrasies. In my mind, the alderleaf mountain mahogany, Cercocarpus montanus, is the wizened grandmother of the mountain. The branches I cut last summer were several hundred years old even though they were only several inches wide. The branches form a tangled mass and pose a challenge to any wood-gatherer worth his salt. Conversely, birchleaf mountain mahogany, Cercocarpus betuloides, is her youthful, jovial young cousin who frequents riparian zones and grows tall, slender and straight. Western juniper is the impassive patriarch of the mountain who provides shade and berries for the creatures of the mountain and is accompanied by an aroma which isn’t nearly noxious but isn’t completely pleasant either yet is completely recognizable, much like the musk of Old Spice that is ever-present in gatherings of aged men. The oaks vary greatly between species, in our mountains ranging from the bushy, scrappy scrub oak to the towering California black oak, the muse of the woodland with its ever-rustling leaves.

Clunk {the shaft’s spine is perfect}

Clunk {it weighs 453 grains, matching the other shafts}

Tap {I lean the arrow shaft up against the wall, to be sealed another day}

Click {I lock up for the night}

The night sky is cloudless yet again, though the stars are obscured by the smog of the basin. I take a deep breath and trudge the several steps to our home. Though less than 30 yards, the distance between shop and home is immeasurable. In making the traverse I jump from one plane of reality to another. Life in the woodshop is on pause, its glowing vitality stoked for the night, waiting only for the turning of the doorknob to spring back to life.

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For those interested, I started a separate section of my blog entitled Woodshop to Wilderness. There I post about my mountain adventures and projects in my shop (though with a lot less philosophizing.) I tried to capture that dimension of my life in this post. The page is also the home of my very small side hustle, San Jacinto Woodcraft. I make all sorts of odds and ends in my shop, including traditional bows and arrows, wooden utensils and small carvings. I also restore vintage tools such as hand planes, axe blades and carpenter’s squares. Most projects are fair game, feel free to reach me at sanjacintowoodcraft@gmail.com for inquiries.

Knowing that there are many Fresh Press readers who would not be interested in receiving notifications about wilderness or woodworking-related posts I made a separate free subscription for Woodshop to Wilderness. To subscribe, go to the settings under your account or simply go here. In your settings, go to publications and click on Fresh Press. There should be a toggle next to the sections of Fresh Press, one of them being Woodshop to Wilderness.

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