Living in such an old house..the 'chances'..to oil, varnish, sand, wrench off panels, oil buffets, reattach sm. wood parts to a series of teak 'staved' platters from Sweden and Denmark, or just oil..yet-again..a huge tray from Pakistan..with carved segments in the design..meant for various condiments..I have grown to enjoy the chance to truely 'see' the wood. I grew up..helping my father..work upon the commercial fishing boat..he and my mother used..upon the Columbia River..between the states of Washington and Oregon. Every year..of moving around and about the Grey Ghost..meant combing must be solid, sides well caulked, paints and sealents..well done. A screaming storm..blowing in from the rivers mouth..as another gale blew in from the Pacific ocean..was not a time..to have had..shoddy woodwork. People die upon the rivers of the world..every year. I could sand, caulk, repaint..from the age of 8. Fast forward to now..and I love to spend time with wood..any portion..which I handle..speaks to me, with me. I honor the wood I have used in camp fires, and to find shelter from high winds..as I cuddle near a huge, fallen old growth tree..that upon its side..still 'stands' 5 ft tall. The crash of others..coming down, or 'topping'..at a distance..keeps me humble. When the sons were small, I carved and painted, and oiled designer chopping blocks and serving boards..from curly maple wood from our Cascade ranges. The boys were small, and I was house-bound..in that period of mothering. From 1966 through 72..I had stuff sold in several states..and it was a joy. I cannot 'speed through'..a piece of wood and its treatments..because I 'feel' what it went through..to arrive near me..it is a fellow traveler, so to speak. I touch it..and enjoy that time..oiling, looking, smelling the scents..as one works. The son who uncuffed himself from a most lucrative job about 2 months ago..has had the pleasure of spending a great number of hours now, deep in the fastness..of our huge old barn..and into the wee hours of the morning. He works..once again..with wood, creating things he used to love..and resting, dreaming..of what will be. It is..a healing..and a meditation. Richness comes not from accumulated cash/stock options/and the like...but in allowing ones self..to become open..to the moment, to leave the clocks, outside our space..and hear the sandpapers rasp..and let the work of the hands..take us..to that..which is next..to be. There are NO 12 steps..to dreaming. He works without music..I work with music..each, as they say..to his own. For all those..who have read this..and shake their heads..going.."What IS she meaning"..I can only direct you..to the nearest piece of wild land, park land, mountain fastness. If it means nothing, creates nothing..in the deeper drift of your thoughts..then you are a thing, amongst other things, an interchangable part of commercialized america. If you respond..as I do..then you are..a happening.
Of course..it is the 'happening' folks who just give the corporate types..the screaming fits n willys! So..are you now, going to go to the nearest store that sells kindling packs..and sit amongst the bundles..singing softly.."Ohm"..to yourself, as the other shoppers 'ease on by'? (We suggest you carry bail money..with your bad self..ok?
hugs, ina n HB
