On woodturning
One of my friends does woodturning as a hobby. As a matter of fact, he's now training to do it professionally. I asked him what's involved. Turns out that it's a woodworking process similar in principle to the potter's wheel: a piece of wood is spun continuously and is carved as it spins, which means that it comes out evenly.
I think of this imagery sometimes when I'm in pain. Unlike in pottery, the piece of wood is not simply reshaped, with the firm guiding touch of an expert human hand. Instead, the wood is cut with a sharp blade; whole chunks of it fall away, sliced by a razor edge of metal. After the blade comes the sander, rough and gritty, scraping away imperfections. None of the gentle touch of human flesh, none of the even pressure to which the soft clay yields. Instead a harsh cold blade and deep flesh wounds, live wood splintered and trampled on the workshop floor.
It helps because the pattern is similar to the pain I feel. Pain that has diminished over the past few months, but that still comes round in cycles. There are times and there are places where I can see the blade suddenly coming in closer and I know that there's a side of me which hasn't yet conformed to the design, and that is going to feel the bite of metal any moment now. I pause and breathe deep, breathe through the pain, like a woman in the early stages of labour, and then when I'm able, I move on. Other days it's not the blade but the sandpaper, and again I focus on breathing slowly, focus on keeping walking even as I can feel the stuff of life grating against my inner self, feel the graze on my insides as I felt the chafing of knees on gravel in school playgrounds long ago.
It helps because it shows me there's a purpose. Wood on the block does not know what the craftsman is creating, does not know when the blade is coming or what to expect. But those of us who have seen the finished result know how beautiful it can be. We know how wood shines when the sun hits it. We feel the smoothness on our fingertips. We give a wooden toy to a little one, knowing that no splinter will harm a curious baby tongue, or stir soup with a wooden spoon. When a wave of pain hits me, there is no escape, but there is a choice to yield, to submit to the shaping, to let go of what is being removed.
I can do that because I trust the Master Craftsman. He may not make me into what I want to be, but He will see my potential and shape me to a design, for a purpose. Much as I moan, I do want to follow the master's design, rather than being another rotting, independent block of wood at the back of the workshop.
Carving in hard materials is costly. It takes time. It's not usually optional. But I'm holding tightly to the hope that it's worth it.
I think of this imagery sometimes when I'm in pain. Unlike in pottery, the piece of wood is not simply reshaped, with the firm guiding touch of an expert human hand. Instead, the wood is cut with a sharp blade; whole chunks of it fall away, sliced by a razor edge of metal. After the blade comes the sander, rough and gritty, scraping away imperfections. None of the gentle touch of human flesh, none of the even pressure to which the soft clay yields. Instead a harsh cold blade and deep flesh wounds, live wood splintered and trampled on the workshop floor.
It helps because the pattern is similar to the pain I feel. Pain that has diminished over the past few months, but that still comes round in cycles. There are times and there are places where I can see the blade suddenly coming in closer and I know that there's a side of me which hasn't yet conformed to the design, and that is going to feel the bite of metal any moment now. I pause and breathe deep, breathe through the pain, like a woman in the early stages of labour, and then when I'm able, I move on. Other days it's not the blade but the sandpaper, and again I focus on breathing slowly, focus on keeping walking even as I can feel the stuff of life grating against my inner self, feel the graze on my insides as I felt the chafing of knees on gravel in school playgrounds long ago.
It helps because it shows me there's a purpose. Wood on the block does not know what the craftsman is creating, does not know when the blade is coming or what to expect. But those of us who have seen the finished result know how beautiful it can be. We know how wood shines when the sun hits it. We feel the smoothness on our fingertips. We give a wooden toy to a little one, knowing that no splinter will harm a curious baby tongue, or stir soup with a wooden spoon. When a wave of pain hits me, there is no escape, but there is a choice to yield, to submit to the shaping, to let go of what is being removed.
I can do that because I trust the Master Craftsman. He may not make me into what I want to be, but He will see my potential and shape me to a design, for a purpose. Much as I moan, I do want to follow the master's design, rather than being another rotting, independent block of wood at the back of the workshop.
And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit. 2 Corinthians 3v18
Carving in hard materials is costly. It takes time. It's not usually optional. But I'm holding tightly to the hope that it's worth it.
Comments
Post a Comment