Re(a)dwood

I have a distinct memory about a vague object.
I don’t remember where it came from originally. I would never know its true origins-nor need to.
It was not in my house where I grew up-I don’t think. I am pretty sure it was in someone else's home. But I do clearly remember spending lots of time sitting on the ground next to it, admiring all of the tiny intricacies, ridges, I rubbed its smooth and rough spots and imaginatively stared at the shape of dust clumps like snowflakes which had settled deep in the crevasses that adults with big eyes seldom see. And there were many of these tiny recesses and pockets, places big enough I realized so I would place a penny inside, a broken crayon, a tiny rock or even cigarette butt. 

Sometimes objects own us, not the other way around.
There are certain matters in life that seem impossible to eliminate. These are the same objects that we cannot seem to free ourselves from, like this thing that had a firm grip on me. I am certain that what turned into a lifelong project was sparked by this first encounter with an object that was not mine. An object that I determined to make mine. Instinctively I knew I would need a place to hide my tiny trinkets in life.
At 16 years old when we are certain we are far more competent than most humans to have ever lived and we like to exercise and stretch our free will, I decided to buy a raw version of the object from my past.  Unfinished, a cut of it, a slice like a brain-the big top piece anyway.
I picked two pieces to go together of course. Like a matchmaker, soulmates scream for eachother and are more when in alignment, when thier strengths are stacked together, when one has the others back, or front, or wherever the spot is the weakest. These two would be fated to be an inseparable pair, mated for (my) life and on proud display- one day, when each was a bit more refined and presentable.

You wanna slice of me?

Yes. I will take that one. With all those jutting angles and a couple of deep nooks. I don't care if you think it will break, that is the one I want. And I like that other one for the base. It reminds me of something…like a knuckle or horses knee maybe…tendons.

I took the two home from the mill like an adoptive mother, nervous on the ride home.

And I spend hours with my two bare hands sanding, rubbing off sawdust, carving out imperfections, peeling back layers and making smoother. Eventually, I grew weary of trying to perfect what was already perfect. Not smooth, but perfect enough. There were some spots I simply could not get to. My toolbox was pretty empty at this young age. 

My stepfather reminded me often how much elbow grease was needed for getting any project done well. He developed tennis elbow. He never swung a racket. He did play the guitar. Guitars are also called axes. We did have a woodburning stove for a heater.

It sat in the corner of a room. I tried to rekindle the initial passion I had. I talked about it, intimately. I boasted about its unique properties, the way it had revealed itself as being better than I could have anticipated and yet, unfinished always seemed a better state to stay. That way, nothing is ruined.

A painter knows the epileptic jolts of paralyzation that spontaneously arise when something is potentially coming together as we envisioned, there is an implicit challenge to mess it up, to apply the human touch to the butterfly wings.

So it sat quietly, collecting dust. I threw a sheet over it at one point when I moved away for a time.

After one of my grandparents passed away my mom called me to see if she could throw it away. She wanted to make room for all the junk collected by my grandparents. The room that I once slept in had been converted into a music room by my step-father and was due to become a storage pod. I told her I would drive up to get it. She was very pleased and informed me I should take some more stuff. I agreed. I drove away with a rented mini-van of stuff, the details of which are a whole different tale. 

When I returned with it, brought it into my adult life, 22 years after the project began, there was an exciting renewed enthusiasm and appreciation for the wood pieces. I have noticed that most people from Southern California are stupified by and in awe of burly big trees-and rightly so. Palm trees are not nearly as characteristic as the giant redwoods of my youth. Kind of like Leonardo Davinci, who was intrigued by the wrinkles of aging men, how their life hung on their cheekbones and sorrows were stored in their chin as if any this could be read in wood. To me, the sculpture was merely a piece of home away from home.

“You did this all by hand?” I would be asked by friends that happened to pass where it then sat in our garage collecting different dust motes from a different latitude. I had hoped with the access to power tools, the project may get completed to a point where it would all just come together. And boy did we use tools. Several people stepped in to try to help clean out deep crevasses and sand rough nobs all with a strong loving hand as if to leave a couple drops of their own elbow grease in between the grains. Seeing the people from my future life handle the raw wood I hand-chose was one of those juxtapositions of time that I loved to savor. Of course, all of that combined effort and light machinery was still not enough to bring the project to a satisfactory completion. It sat-still. 

Five years later it sits in my living room under a warm glow. It is dark, the rich reddish-brown of a Chestnut racing horse. It has been sealed-only lightly. It sits proudly in the center of the living room occupying all focal attention with its intricate swirls, rings, knots, bulges, and recesses. There are stories between the lines, one gets lost looking inside the folds. The top is merely resting on the base or trunk. It is not permanently attached (yet? I haven't decided if I want to). I think of how this resembles us. It is burly but I get anxious when there is anything, a drink, a book, keys, a notebook, the mail, it could become unbalanced. Maybe over time I will stop caring so much. It only took me 26 years to put it all together thus far...and yet, it is only just barely composed-held together-by balance.
It is finally finished.

Last image R6, Private Forestry, California burl, c. 1920 via Forest Health Protection [Public domain].