“There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.”
Matsuo Basho
As I push the blade of the knife into the wood it slides along the surface and straight into my thumb – FUPPIT, I shout in my head. I hold my breath, anticipate the ocean of blood that must be spreading all over the workshop, and curse my stupidity. I peek out from under my eyelids while making pained sucky-in-breath sounds, only to be disappointed because the expected scene of carnage doesn’t materialise – no blood, entrails, missing fingers or maimed limbs. I’m not surprised really, my knife is quite blunt. It has been for some time now. After 31 years of near constant use and repeated sharpening there’s not much blade left and what there is resolutely refuses to hold an edge for more than a few minutes of use.
I look at the knife and admire it. It is beautiful, worn and aged, carrying the scars of a lifetime of service, witness to and accomplice in my adventures, my companion on all the paths, twists and turns I have taken; my successes (a few) and my failures (a few too many for my liking). It’s been through a boil wash a few times, too.
When I got it I was starting on a new adventure, a new journey in life, a path I couldn’t see far along. But, the world was my lobster and I was naive and arrogant enough to give scant thought to where I’d been or those I left behind, and even less to where I was going or how I was going to get to wherever it was. The world revolved around me, and in my pocket was my trusty new knife.
Here, now, this minute, as I hold it and look at it I can feel every moment of those years, see every face; their sadness and joy, the tears I caused and the laughter we shared – I can feel, see, hear and almost touch them.
I watched it unravel, change and replay.
The knife is the only object I still possess that has accompanied me to this moment – apart from the memories. All has changed and moved – the places, faces, voices have changed, moved on, and some gone. The only tangible constant in all that time, those fleeting 31 years, was sitting in my hand, and I pondered it – it is an object of great beauty, for many, many reasons.
I looked at the beautiful piece of maple in my other hand, which for some unknown reason I had been trying to whittle out of existence. The grain, widely spaced and even, was mesmerising; each line a year, the spacing indicating rapid growth – whether because of favourable environmental factors or some inherent property of the tree I don’t know, but each line a story for those who can decipher and unlock its secrets. It was meant to be a chair leg, and was one of a pair I had carved two years previously. Actually, I’d carved a set of four but, somewhere along the line I’d used one to club something into submission, then a little later I used the other in an experiment that went wrong. At the time both seemed like a good idea, but ultimately were failures and left me with an incomplete set of legs and without a chair.
When I’d started carving them, I had a very clear and firm idea of what I was doing – how they would be, and exactly what the chair they were to be part of would look like. I knew precisely its form; and its character – I even knew its name. I’d already made every cut, taken every shaving, carved and cut every mortise and tenon in my mind’s eye. But, as happens, things changed, ideas moved, other distractions arose, different thoughts took over and I had to put it to one side – I can’t recall if it was deliberate or just a gentle drifting in another direction; it doesn’t matter now.
I looked at the maple, then the knife – I had something I needed to do.
As I strolled slowly down the road I looked around me, across the fields, over the hedgerows, and at the trees growing along the banks – they’d been there a long time, but it seemed I was only noticing them for the first time and I paid them a little more attention than usual, noting their forms and colours, the various shades, and the glorious sounds as the leaves and branches were caressed gently by the breeze on this bright frosty morning. They were an orchestra, augmented by the birds, interrupted only by the occasional car that forced me from the middle of the road and onto the verge, the chorus and my stroll to be resumed after it passed on its way, usually with a wave and smile.
As I listened I drifted and thought about all the music of the last three and a bit decades, and beyond. It, like the knife, has accompanied me, the songs changing, the artists coming, going, and growing, aging with me. I smiled as I recalled a friendly discussion. Noel and I had spent a fine evening in Lena’s Bar before retiring, with a bottle of the good stuff, to listen to music and continue the debate. We listened, drank and argued the merits of the two works in question. It was a grand evening, though the following morning was painfully hazy.
While reminiscing I arrived where I was heading and turned off the road and into an ancient, unspoilt, unfrequented wood. I hadn’t set foot in it since I last visited to find some maple with which to make four chair legs. As I adjusted to the shadows and moving shafts of light I expected to see the familiar little pathways and groupings of trees – I could recall them vividly from my last visit and the many before. What I saw were the last remnants of well-trodden paths fading into the under-story, old trees had fallen, and new ones were reaching for the light; all around there were thousands of tiny saplings, ash, oak, maple, beech and hazel jostling for space. And between all, twisting and turning, were fresh paths, trodden by foxes, badgers and other denizens of the hedges and woods, as they made their way, adjusting to the ever changing world around them – perhaps hardly noticing the changes, until a tree fell and blocked a path forcing a change of direction and the creation of new routes and nightly routines. Everything I need to know was right in front of, and all around, me – sometimes I forget this.
I looked for the maple I’d visited many times before and eventually found it and stood awhile admiring its vigour, the new growth, and how it sheltered all the seedling trees huddled beneath its branches. I moved carefully through them. Then, exceedingly happy and grateful, I left with only what I needed.
Back in the workshop I thought that maybe I should make the chair I had started two years ago, but, while loading a pipe and applying a light, I contemplated anticipation and expectations. As the blue fragrant smoke drifted out the door I decided to let go anticipation and all expectations and just see how it went, what arose, what came of just working on each element at a time and then seeing what was next, what was necessary and unnecessary, where the mood took me and what an unholy mess I ended up with.
I looked at the two legs I had and set to carving two more. I was aiming for four decent legs, but, if I ended up with three I might have to think about a stool, or, saints preserve us, a three legged chair! There were going to be no rights and wrongs, no hard and fast rules, no points of no return, and, most of all, no stroppy tantrums if something, anything, didn’t turn out perfectly as expected – there were no expectations. I was just going to see what I could do, and enjoy doing it.
With each whack of the beetle, each cut of the axe, each shaving of the drawknife, I relaxed into the work. When I settled down with the spokeshave I watched the beautiful long shavings twist and curl up before the edge of the blade and tumble softly to the floor – I began to focus on the edge of the blade, to see it cut and to listen intently to the sound it made. Was this music to my ears, and a feast for my eyes, an old-world music video of sorts? I reckon so.
Mono No Aware – Freeform Chair
As I sharpened blades, made cuts, took measurements, eyed lines for straightness or curvature, shaved beautiful pieces of wood and put them together, I could have been working for five minutes, an hour, or more; I wasn’t counting. To me, when I stopped and looked back, it was a few hours; to a Mayfly it would have been most of a life time – a Blue Whale would hardly notice its passing as it swam gently into the future.
In the evenings I retired to listen to Noel’s favoured album, and as I listened, I was drawn deeper and deeper……..and I wandered up and down the years……..occasionally I turned over the chair legs drying above the stove, tapping them together, waiting for that pitch perfect note…..
Noel, you were right, of course.
As I worked on the chair and it took its own form, some things going well, other things causing a puckered brow, I took little breaks and looked out the door to the fields and the wood. The wind and rain played a gentle tune, the cows completely ignored me and I thought of all the events and people I have experienced and known.
Mono No Aware – Freeform Chair
I am grateful to each and every one of them, for all they have done for me, given me, helped me with, knowingly and unknowingly; all the guidance, support, encouragement, telling offs, clipped ears, honesty, understanding, patience, tolerance, kindness, tact, discretion, openness, love, forgiveness and compassion.
Because of them, the world is not, and never will be, black and white, or even shades of grey – it is bright, beautiful, and full of colour with infinite variety of shades; it is a feast for the senses and food for the spirit, the soul. Because of them I see beauty, the moon, in everything
I looked at the knife again as I ran the blade through stray fibres. It is indeed beautiful.
Mono No Aware – Freeform Chair
So, I left the chair, finished, complete and as it should be, opened the draw and lifted out my old, well-worn oil stone. I sharpened the knife one last time then put it safely in my draw. Soon it will go to a little fellow I know – It will come full circle and the journey will be over.
A few days later I walked into the hardware shop:
– I’d like an Opinel Pocket Knife, please.
– What size would you like?
– Oh! A number seven, please.
– We only sell eights.
My left eyebrow flickered for the briefest moment, but it felt like I wrestled it for hours……
– A number eight will be perfect, thank you.
“How much I desire!
Inside my little satchel,
The moon, and flowers”
Matsuo Bashō