Those numbers do not account for the worms eaten before we found Chip lying on the cold morning grass, lethargic and shivering with a bloody cut on his/her beak. (We don’t actually know what sex Chip is. But we keep referring to Chip as a “he” for no reason in particular.)

I am a pragmatic, rural farm girl, and I am not lacking in knowledge of how fledgling birds grow into adulthood. Every spring there are small fluffy birds squeaking for worms and their mothers in the yard. Some of them make it and some do not and it’s just the way the animal kingdom works.

This spring has been no different. While we were planning to garden on this particular day, I saw this little, helpless fluff ball in the grass next to its deceased sibling. Something had happened to these robins and there I was, able to help. So I did. First we looked around for the nest - then the mother. When neither appeared we were galvanized into action. This bird was not going to make it without help.

Having some experience with helpless chicks from last summer, I immediately decided this little one needed a boost of energy to help it eat something. I had a chick last year in the same plight, and out of desperation I followed some homesteading advice I gleaned from a quick internet search. “Mix a drop of molasses with room temperature water and gently wet the chick’s beak with a drop from the mixture”. This little nudge from the sugar was enough to reanimate the chick and perk it up enough to eat and regain its strength. It worked like a charm last summer and it worked with Chip.

Soon Chip was squeaking for worms. A lot of worms. Like, way more than we could dig. Like, we had to run to the bait store and buy 6 or 7 plastic containers every few days, amounts of worms.

Pretty soon Chip was flapping around and his fuzz was becoming feathers. We fed him easily close to 1,000 worms and he grew very quickly.

We took Chip outside to let the wind ruffle his feathers and remind him that he was wild at heart. It felt good to see him outside content to look around and perch on our arms. Once he flew into a big Maple tree in the farm yard and Tara had to use a ladder to grab him and bring him back down with his two-legged mothers.

Soon we were wondering how to transition him from being a house baby to an outside fledgling. How could we support Chip outside? Neither of us could climb trees to try and find him. So we kept him in my office in the house until he seemed capable of flying well.

We worried that his bizarre rearing would set him up to be dependent on us, which was not at all what we wanted or were prepared to do. Can you imagine feeding a robin worms for the rest of its life? Not only that, but having to keep it safe amongst the motley crew of other animals on the farm? Chickens, dogs, a cat, cows… and then obviously any wild animals he might encounter…

We had a lot to consider. We have a local vet that will accept abandoned and injured birds and send them to the Avian Conservation Center of Appalachia to be reared until ready to re-enter the wild. We considered taking him there, but ultimately decided to convert our dog kennel into a makeshift Aviary for Chip while he was learning how to feed himself.

The first day we placed a cookie tray on the grass of the kennel with some delicious red worms and mealworms, and after we left his view, watched his behavior with binoculars. Success!! Chip hopped down from his perch and gobbled up the worms.

After witnessing this behavior over and over, we were satisfied that he would be able to hunt and after only a few days, we decided to let him outside to forage and fly and do his good work as a robin.

After this picture was taken we let him be free! It wasn’t quite as dramatic as I was anticipating. He just flew to the ground and hopped around, looked at us and then hopped around a little more. It was after that moment that I realized that this was going to be a slower departure.

Chip was very happy to be outside, and very confident in himself. Over the next week or so, he would fly over to the back door in the morning and ask for breakfast. In fact any time we went outside he would fly over and wait for food.

Really, we were just supporting him as he learned how to be an effective hunter, and he did and still does a fantastic job. I remember one morning while I dug in the garden, Chip flew over to me and closely observed me. He would stand at the edge of the freshly excavated soil and hone in on bugs that I didn’t even see until they were gone. Chip was a marvel.

There were other tender moments. During one of Chip’s first rainstorms, Tara saw him perched in a tree close to the house. She saw his little drenched body. He was looking at the back porch, seemingly unable to figure out what to do, and Tara went out in the storm to pick him up. Normally he would hop away, unwilling to be handled, but this time he let Tara pick him up and take him on the back porch, while he perched on her shoulder until the storm passed and his feathers were dry.

One other time, while I sat with him outside, I told him - “why don’t you sit on my leg? I promise I won’t touch you, and you can hop off when you feel like it.” To my surprise after sitting together for a few minutes, he hopped over to me and nuzzled his fuzzy body down on my thigh and closed his eyes. That is something I will never forget - the warmth and lightness of his small body, the tiny prickles of his claws poking through my flannel pants.

Since then we have seen him a few times here and there. We can recognize his distinct voice among the other bird calls, and know that he is okay. However difficult it might feel on this side of the divide, he no longer needs us, which is the best thing you could hope for as a parent. We did alright.

I had taken a few years off — a writing and carving hiatus — mostly because of a nearly crippling repetitive-motion injury in my right elbow and a broken pinky. The culmination of that, along with business difficulty, moving around, feeling unstable, and probably about seventeen other things I’m not thinking of, helped me stop and take the pressure off.

I was dealing with a lot by myself.

The silver lining of the entire ordeal was that, in my forced sea-change, I had time to reflect on what was making me happy, what was stressing me out, what I needed to feel safe, and what my real motivations were. I had already been doing a lot of this introspective consideration — as you can see in my first essays — but taking a break gave me the creative and emotional space I needed to settle in.

What I’ve learned is that I don’t really feel the need to provide people with woodenware. What I want is to help facilitate a relationship with the natural world through direct interaction with it. I am trying to bring a sense of sacredness into our mundane reality in a way that heals us.

Paradoxically, I need to enter the belly of the beast to do it.

I often feel like I’m trying to navigate the neon lights and false promises of what has become the beast: the internet, social media, AI, propaganda. Amidst it all, here I am, squinting in the darkness, trying to find you by starting a YouTube channel about how land-based crafts can be imbued with meaning.

I feel tension between my desire to connect with people who might feel the way I do and the strange reality of how I have to find them. What a world we live in. Suddenly AI is everywhere, just like the internet was everywhere, and before that TV, and before that radio. It all seems to necessitate compulsory adoption.

I’m reminded of other times in my life when I resisted the status quo. When I was in college, Facebook was just being launched. In that era, you had to be enrolled in a university to join. Everyone was joining. It was the cool thing. You could write little quips about yourself, add your friends, and coordinate going bowling or hanging out or whatever. Everyone was on it except for me, the everlasting skeptic.

I just could not understand why my friends thought it was beneficial. Why couldn’t we, you know, talk to each other in person?

I didn’t want to be part of it. But I soon realized I was being left out of gatherings simply because I wasn’t on Facebook. Everyone assumed everyone they knew was on it. I wasn’t getting the memo because I was still operating under the old paradigm.

So I reluctantly joined.

I am still operating under the old paradigm, and I am still trying to retain integrity. I am on social media. I find AI very helpful for research. I have always loved YouTube. But it’s all so sticky. I have the same love/hate relationship many of you have described: I wish it wasn’t like this, but I feel like I have to engage it.

During my hiatus, I felt a sadness connected to missing the community of vagabond carvers and misfits, crafters and farmers — my people. We common folk. We’re all just swimming around in the belly, calling out for others of us who cause indigestion. I can see you through the darkness, waving a little hand.

I’m waving back.

And yet, I must enter the belly to find you, and for you to find me. The trick is to master being indigestible. To remain intact.

It is a slippery slope, and I am aware of that as I start this new version of myself in the public eye. I am teaching and learning how to understand the origin of “material” and what it means. Perhaps material is not just an object. Perhaps we are engaging with the being-ness of a plant, an animal, or a rock. Perhaps we could start to view the world as a living organism, not merely a collection of inanimate objects.

I’m happy to be back in the digestive juices with you.

Let’s keep floating above the madness.

But, of course, it’s not just a DIY. That’s not what my channel is about- or even what my work is about. I’m a teacher but I usually stray far from technique. Most folks can find that important information anywhere.

I wrestle with the bigger picture: the implications of the work, and how to live in relationship with our world in a more moral and ethical way. It’s the connective fiber that runs through everything I do and I want to share that process with you.

This first video is about harvesting the wood -not all of it but most!- that I need to build a studio on the farm. It will be a place where I can make, write, film an create a space for this life to unfold. I’ve never had a place like this before- never had the opportunity, time, or room in the budget but it’s all happening now and I’d love it if you could support me!

If you want to help the channel get started, please like, comment and share the video with other people who are interested in woodworking, craft, and living with the land!

This is the beginning of something wonderful and I’m glad you’re here for it.

But, realistically speaking, I don’t think that’s what has actually been happening.

I was on the struggle bus for about a 7 year period. I hopped around from location to location, sometimes with a job sometimes a stable place to land..sometimes decent co-workers sometimes not. Just when everything felt like it was calming down, a new event tossed me around again. And while I do have a sense of adventure for the unknown, the constant upheaval was actually scattering my sense of balance and starting to erode some of my confidence.

New energy is afoot, though. I can feel it. I can also feel a lot of potential energy in myself that has just been waiting to emerge. So much has been happening behind the scenes. I enrolled as an Agroforestry Apprentice through PASA in the hopes of creating a differently focused farm.

I have been interested in Willow for probably about six years now, and in true fashion it has been a long slow process to figure out if it could actually be realized in some way. I asked myself how could I get an enterprise like this off the ground? I didn’t even know where to start or what questions to ask.

The whole reason I realized I could actually make it a business is because my mentor asked me what I was interested in and I told him about craft and land-based skills and my interests and to my surprise he said, “Well thats really cool! Let’s dig more in that direction.”

I don’t know why his response was so surprising to me, except that I was comparing it to the emotional undertone of the last decade: a kind of seeming “failure to launch” when it came to basically anything I was interested in. Of course, I’m being a bit sarcastic and self-deprecating, but that feeling has been there. I’m not sharing this in the hopes of getting sympathy, but more as a survey of where I’ve been so I can share where I’m going.

So, Willow it is!

Even though I’m not a basketmaker, I do have basketmaking friends and people who have generously answered all my questions and then some. Sandra Kehoe of Willowbrook Basket Farm, was particularly helpful during the Willow Growing Workshop I attended this Spring. I had such a wonderful time at her farm and based off of my experience, I highly recommend any workshop she teaches.

So, things are looking up. There will be more on this as we work through the program. But rest assured I’m determined to become a willow grower to supply teachers and anyone who wants to buy willow for basket making! It’s all very exciting.

And as many of you know, I’ve been building a studio for myself and documenting it through film. I have a lot of irons-in-the-fire, clearly. Probably too many, but they are all swirling around a central pillar of land-based craft. The farm is the living body of work; the embodied philosophy I’ve been trying to describe for years. And my YouTube Channel, where the videos will land, will be the teaching aspect. Substack is informal and personal and a place to put my feet up with the rest of you- many whom I know personally and have stuck around while I figure it all out.

Thank you for that. I’ll be back soon with more updates, essays and pictures.

As with most things, one must first consult the internet to get an idea of who a slöjd practitioner is because it’s become quite the hashtag in the past 10 years. If Instagram is any measure of pop culture (however algorithmically curated) it would tell you that slöjd is synonymous with wooden treen. Images of wooden bowls, plates, spoons, and kitchen accoutrements abound.

Most of these items are made with tools that would have been common over a long span of history; tools such as knives, axes, adzes, drawknives, etc. Many people sell their work and most of it is gorgeous. I think it’s safe to say a modern slöjder praises utility and handwork. But where does the term slöjd originate? It’s certainly not an english word, even though most slöjd hashtags are associated with native english speakers.

In the 1960s a man by the name of Bill Coperthwaite was traveling in Sweden up north in Sami territory. Bill was a traveller and searched for handcraft techniques and traditions around the world within different communities. He designed wooden yurts based on woolen felted yurts used by nomadic herders in Mongolia and Tibet, something he’s very well known for.

During this particular trip in Sweden he was investigating axes, and was pointed to the local Handcraft Consultant Willie Sundqvist, and from then on they were friends. When Willie was invited to the US to exhibit handcrafts in 1976, he wrote to Bill Coperthwaite about his plans. Bill insisted on giving him a tour of craftspeople on the east coast of the US and that’s how he was introduced to Drew and Louise Langsner and the meeting kickstarted Country Workshops. Willie and his son, Jögge ended up teaching Swedish green woodworking, or slojd, to interested folks at Drew Langsners for many years.

Some of the most influential green woodworkers got their introduction to this style of work at Drew’s; Peter Follansbee, Dave Sawyer, Daniel O’Hagan among them. Curtis Buchanan, if I remember correctly, learned a lot from Dave Sawyer. I’m not sure of the lineage and how all these men learned from each other but I know there was a lot of uncovering what had been lost in regards to understanding green woodworking and working with wood as opposed to machining wood. In the time between the 1960s and present day, many green woodworkers using this European approach would point to a lineage of teachers who started at Country Workshops. This is especially prevalent among Windsor chair makers.1

Anyway, a lot of green woodcarving especially is based on the Swedish Slöjd (Craft) Tradition. It’s important to remember the current culture surrounding slöjd and how it is interpreted in the US. I know there has been a faint whiff of controversy around slöjd and “slöjd bros”. Honestly, I very rarely am on the gossip line so I don’t really know the details of how that started but I can guess, as I’m sure you can. That, I think, is purely American. The tradition of Slöjd is older than the current slöjd craze or the 1960s import, thanks to Bill and Willie.

Otto Salomon introduced “The Teachers Handbook of Slöjd” to the Swedish public school system in 1892. It was meant to help children grow mentally, develop problem solving skills, and become better people. Educational slöjd was not to be confused with “practical slöjd”; practical slöjd was taught to create better work. Educational slöjd was for better workers. Here’s a lengthy but excellent excerpt from the introduction of the book:

“By educational slöjd is meant the application of slöjd to educational purposes. Slöjd is not to be confounded with the work of the artisan- a mistake which may easily happen if the distinction is not sufficiently strong emphasized. Speaking generally, the ‘slöjder’ does not practice his art as a trade, but merely as a change from some other employment; and in the nature of the articles produced, in the tools used in their production, in the manner of executing the work, etc., slöjd and the work of the artisan differ very decidedly the one from the other. Slöjd is much better adapted to be a means of education, because purely economical considerations do not come forward so prominently as must be the case with work undertaken as a means of livelihood.

Educational slöjd differs from so-called practical slöjd, in-as much as in the latter, importance is attached to the work; in the former, on the contrary, to the worker. It must, however, be strongly emphasized that the two terms, educational and practical, ought in no way be considered antagonistic to each other as frequently happens in popular language; for, from the strictly educational point of view whatever is educationally right must also be practical, and vice versa. When the educational and the practical come into conflict, the cause is always to be found in the pressure of adventitious circumstances, e.g., the number of pupils, the nature of the premises, and above all, pecuniary resources, etc. To make educational theory and practice coincide is an ideal towards which every teacher must strive...”

As Salomon makes quite clear, educational slöjd is more concerned with the person than the object or speed at which the object is made. Learning through educational slöjd should help in technical proficiency and becoming a better tradesperson- but you would probably not see a less efficient use of hand tools in a modern trade context. Are you going to build your house with a handsaw instead of a circular saw? Yeah...probably not. Ask a professional carpenter what they’d use? Sometimes, because of time concerns, physical concerns, economical concerns or any number of reasons... you use a plugged in tool.

It’s important to point this out, because is the craft community and particularly in the ‘fresher’ slöjd community if you tell someone you used a band saw to cut out your spoon blanks you can be judged. I think there is a confluence of ideas around what is authentic slöjd and what isn’t. The problem is some people don’t want to recognize you cannot compete with machines, not in speed, not in accuracy, and not economically. This, I think, flies in the face of the idea of a “professional slöjder”. And, remembering that Slöjd means Craft, I think it also points out something no craftspeople talk about on social media. There are very few craftspeople who can support themselves purely by creating, let alone the ‘slöjd way’ of using only knives and axes. Can you be a professional slöjder and hold on to hand tools and handwork only..like no chainsaws no plugged in tools what-so-ever? Chances are, probably not, unless you become a slöjd educator. I’ve watched the slöjd movement over the past 10 years and the vast majority of slöjders has one or a combination of the following in order to make ends meet (honestly this also applies to craftspeople and artists as well):

1. a partner who works and also contributes to income

2. an additional full-time job

3. a part-time job

4. teaches their craft, sells it and probably sells the tools, or is making moves to become a craft school.

5. is independently wealthy

6. lives in a van/for free/on the road/ or in someones shed to cut down expenses

7. is young enough that stability doesn’t matter

This is not meant to disparage the slöjd or craft community in any way. In fact I wrote a whole essay on what handwork actually does for us personally, here, which is probably why people make concessions to have craft in their lives. The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve heard people say- “I just want to quit my job and become a professional spoon carver.” And if they don’t say it, they look at someone they believe to be “living the dream” and judge themselves for not being able to. None of that judgement is necessary. Very few people are looking at you with your normal job that actually pays bills and murmuring under their breath that you sold out. If they are, who needs them? Just flick that opinion away like the pesky fly it is. Conversely, please don’t take this as doom and gloom if you had a glint in your eye about living in the woods and becoming a hermit slojder.

You can still do that, but I suggest you keep your day job and make slow decisions. Everything you love and enjoy about slöjd and craft can co-exisit with a wildly different career. You don’t have to become a professional slöjder to impress instagram, or yourself. Do it because you love it. Full stop.

On a personal note, truly, it’s taken me years and years of angst to figure this out. I always felt that I must be doing something wrong, until I got a job to take the pressure off, only to realize (again) that I love carving not for the money but because of the intimate relationship I have with the land because of it. I have always been worried about becoming a professional woodworker because I use the wood from the land I live on. What would happen if I build a career around woodworking and misuse the woods because I need to pay the bills? What would happen to them? What are my motives? How am I giving back?

Otto Salomon might say the more you engage in handwork, the better thinker and problem solver you may become. Slöyd was my teacher. Insurmountable obstacles in my life have transformed into challenges to overcome with skill and patience. Slöjd should be about the joy of creating and the accumulation of skill whether or not you are professional.

Ultimately labels and categories can be a double-edged sword. They can help you know more about something, but if you aren’t careful they can become weighted with dogma and quite constricting. Don’t lose yourself by adhering to an idealized version of who you need to be. We should all be making by heart.

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I wish I had a heroic story to go along with my sad news but I don’t. I wish I had been wrestling a wild boar in the wilds of the Pennsylvania hardwood forest, but I just happened to be picking up a toddler, we both tumbled over and I broke my finger. Don’t worry though, he’s fine. I’m the miserable workaholic who suddenly has her fix taken away from her.

I had planned to answer Ryan’s question- if you’ve read his comment at the end of the last essay (if you haven’t, go read it, and all his comments) and I had planned to respond to a text from a good friend who read my essays. They asked about community in the text. I planned to address that in an essay as well. But, I’ve broken my finger and it takes twice as long to do everything as before. My workaholic lifestyle has been slowed down by force. Typing really bothers my whole arm, and I suspect I agitated my elbow injury with this fall. Sadly, this is the second year in a row that I haven’t been able to work myself to death in the summertime and if I’m honest, I’m really angry about it. I have plans! I have to garden! I have to carve! I have to paint the exterior of the house! I have to work on my workshop. I have too much to do, actually. It’s definitely too much for one person, especially if it takes me 10 minutes to carefully change the bandage on my (dominant) hand without bumping my poor little finger tip or making it throb for an hour afterwards. Baby steps.

This whole ordeal is shifting my perspective and bringing into focus a few things I’ve really struggled with for probably about 10 years. I’ll focus on one for the time being; Community. It has been a huge issue for me, and as I sat in the ER waiting for the x-rays to come back at 3 AM with my mother (thanks for driving, Mom!). All I could think about is how alone I felt. I’m one of those people who has a lot of different friend groups and swoops from one to the other. After college I was friends with the punks, the trans folks, the mennonites, and the hippies. I’ve always loved everyone. I’ve always been that friend; not part of any one group but everyone shouts my name at the party when I walk in. Or at least that’s how it was when I was younger and living in a small city. It’s very different in a rural area. Most people in my demographic move away from here and don’t come back. Over the years, I’ve neatly filled that vacuum with work and endless projects. It’s very easy to do when you live on a farm and are self-employed.

Maybe I’m not qualified to reflect on community, except to identify how important it is because I feel the need for it. One thing I’ve been thinking a lot about is how much a workplace is a great example of what a real community is. Honestly, I think the term “community” is often misused. In terms of rural living, I think of community as the people who surround you geographically or locally. That’s a community. You don’t get to choose who is in it. You have to learn how to get along with people whose personality might be wildly different from yours or someone who hurt you in the past or who gossips. Someone who voted for the right liar or the wrong liar. You know, humans.

Friends are what people want to think of as community. But they are a smaller subset of community, and you choose them. Those are the folks who share common interests or whose personalities you like. They get you and you get them. Community creates the environment for friends. In the past, before the internet, people in “the community” did things that brought them together. I remember my Grandma Umbel telling me when she was a little girl she clogged the heels off her shoes dancing. She didn’t do that alone in her room for a tiktok reel. She was at a community celebration and I’m sure there were people there who she liked and didn’t like. But the point is, she was participating with everyone whether or not they aligned completely with how she or her parents viewed the world.

So, it might be a bit of a stretch, but the silver-lining to yet another arm/hand injury is that I’m spending more time engaging with people. I literally can’t grasp a carving knife, or add to my garden. I can’t use the weed eater. I’m back where I was last year...but this time I’m visiting friends on the weekends and being intentional about building some friendships within my community...something I’ve completely neglected for 10 years.

I hope you are able to do the same especially with folks you didn’t expect to. That’s how community becomes stronger and you grow together; one broken finger at a time.

Sometimes a desire to create isn’t coming from a place of embodiment but is a symptom of alienation. Early in my journey as a woodcarver I was grappling with what it meant to make something in my own style. I had to start somewhere, and quilt piecework helped orient me in the right direction. I had to give myself some parameters because I didn’t want to fall into the trap of misappropriation. How did what I created reflect my unique experience in the world? Over the years as I formulated my own connection through quilt patterns I realized that separation was not limited to ancestors and community even though I was stitching the layers back together and I had created meaning for myself. I started to observe all the ways we believed this idea of separation and it’s powerful impact on our western philosophy. The more I observed, the more I saw how much suffering was created by believing we were separate from each other and our world.

This mechanistic worldview upholds the idea that reality is made up of machine-like laws. It reduces us to cogs within a system, alienating our interconnectedness and creating more isolation. This worldview disregards the interrelated nature of the living cosmos. When our collective philosophy is one the organizes the world through a mechanical lens, then any injustice like poverty, poor nutrition, or addiction becomes a glitch that must be fixed. But often when you reduce the problems of the world into a series of quick fixes, it can quickly spiral out of control. When a symptom is mis-identified as the problem itself we quickly find ourselves in a perpetual War Against… It’s analogous to an ongoing game of “whack-a-mole” where every time you hit the mole, instead of disappearing, it divides into two more healthy moles.

These quick fixes are pervasive. Are you sad and anxious? It’s merely a serotonin re-uptake problem! We have a pill for that. It surely must not be the symptom of a larger issue or a result of our current philosophy of separation. Are fires burning the forest and encroaching on your McMansion? Put every blaze out immediately! Never mind the cycles and healthy patterns of succession burning that have been part of regenerative forest management for time immemorial. Separation does not acknowledge living in relationship.

So, in the face of our collective philosophy of separation, one where we’ve become facsimile humans, how do we become actual humans again? How do we see the assemblage of our elements as something greater than an animated flesh suit; disconnected from ourselves, our ancestor and the living world around us? Perhaps we, also, should find our songs to become alive again.

So far, I have recognized three different core areas that are in need of repair. The first and most important is our relationship with ourselves. Everything, and I mean everything, starts there. If you are not acting from a place of alignment with who you truly are or give yourself the compassion you need to get there...suffering will perpetuate itself in your other relationships. The next is your relationship with your community. How are you treating your community? How do you relate to conflicting ideas and beliefs? Are you loving in the midst of polarization? How do you show up for people you like and don’t like? Last, and equally important, is about your relationship with your home; the living world around you. Are you mindlessly consuming? How do you honor the plants that help you on a daily basis? How do you treat the animals in your life? What is your attitude towards those things?

I imagine a skeptic sitting back reading this and saying.. “Do you mean to tell me woodcarving taught you this?” The answer is a resounding, “Yes”. Yes it did. Does that mean carvers are naturally insightful? Nope. It just means it’s how I learned more about myself and more about the nature of what it means to be here. I’m not a guru or more special than any other person. You could engage with these questions as anyone doing anything in the world. There is no “one way” to tackle existence. We’re all formed in uniquely different ways, meant to experience the world through our own perspective. Carving helped me to identify the problem, and once you see it, you can’t go back. As I’ve come to a conclusion about this, I’ve run into corresponding conclusions about this same thing. The ancients knew about this- the Vedic teachings discuss it, the Buddha, many Indigenous teachings, they elaborate on who we are and why we’re here. As it turns out, its for more than to work for 50 years to accumulate numbers on a sheet of paper and then trade numbers for conveniences and daily needs and then die. If that feels hollow to you, then you are in good company. It’s not enough for me either.

The truth is we are part of a dynamic world full of nuance and relationships that are visible and invisible (can you see your magnetic field? Or love?). I believe hand work has the capacity to change us, because it’s changed me for the better. Living a life that engages with uncertainty and risk is one of the only ways we grow, and that type of skill building is deeply embedded in handcraft. It can help build community and relationships with other people, and can also strengthen our relationship and observations of the animate world that surrounds us. Everything you learn by practicing a craft can be applied to other areas of your life. Like the drum hanging on the wall, we have not met our true potential. We are meant to craft our lives, moving in and out of risk and uncertainty to become more a part of what it means to be human. We are meant to learn from our challenges and to become more in alignment with ourselves; more loving and more able to see beauty in relationships.

Thank you for your patience with the essays. They’ve slowed down while I’m balancing a few new things in my personal life. I also was very sick, so my whole schedule has taken a hit. Rest assured the essays and projects I delve into will continue! I love writing and the responses from those of you who are engaging here in the comments. If you have any thoughts or questions or differences of opinion please share them here. It’s fun to hear your thoughts!

In the article I wrote, I was searching for my own place in the world of making. I identified my own loss of connection from something that felt more expansive. I felt alienated in many ways; from myself, from community, and (sometimes) from the land I was living on. I wondered how I could connect these things. The essay ended with:

“ Ah. Yes, the Brook Trout ladle. We bring it out in the Spring when the stream is rushing. The snow melts off the hemlock and drips cold, fat drops on the back of your neck. That’s my place, that’s where I should be as a craftsperson; to make objects worthy of the brook trout. One could do no better.”

That last paragraph is one identifying a true longing. It was a deep and heartfelt wish to re-establish a connection that I felt between myself and the landscape I was born into. I had already identified meaningful symbology and started to use it in my work. Quilt patterns are a big part of identifying my ancestry/community, even if the textile industry in the US has a tragic history. It felt important to acknowledge that whether or not I like all parts of that story. In a lot of respects it made me more galvanized to use quilt piecework in my carvings. It felt truthful. But I still had a lot of questions and it was really just the beginning. I had identified what I wanted to be in that article but I didn’t know why I felt something was missing in the first place. How had that happened?

Identifying that missing piece made me ask more questions, like: Why don’t I have community wide celebrations for anything? A celebration that brings my neighbors together for anything beyond a picnic and exchanging pleasantries? Where are the rituals for renewal? How do I go about filling my life with deeper connection to myself, the land and a community? How is that accomplished? I realized I wanted to delve deeper into my own philosophy.

Now, it might seem like a silly thing, and it conjures black and white photos of professors wearing ascots and monocles, but everyone in the whole world is operating from a philosophy, it’s your storyline. What story do you operate under? Do your actions and life align with what you believe? Do you want a new story? Do you want to be free of all stories?

Those are some heady considerations, but it’s what my craft process is about. I started asking why I felt like I didn’t have a story that was connected to anything meaningful or ancient? Where were the cultural myths based in something that felt connected to my heart and the land and people in a way that superseded the shallow waters of what it means to be American? Why, as a youngster, did I sit in the woods and think, “This is what church is supposed to feel like.”

After I wrote that article for M&T, I was listening to “Gathering Moss” by Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer, and noted her experience at a wealthy client’s home as she looked at different artifacts being displayed in a gallery:

“… At the center of the atrium, in a discretely alarmed case, spotlights were focused on an elaborate hairpiece. It’s intricate design of bees and flowers was carved from luminous ivory. I was immediately struck by how out of place it seemed on it’s velvet platform, more like a stolen treasure than a work of art. How much more beautiful it would have been in the black oiled hair of the artists wife, and more authentic. In a display case a thing becomes only a facsimile of itself like the drum hung on the gallery wall. A drum becomes authentic when human hand meets wood and hide. Only then they fulfill its intention.”

When I first heard the quote above, it was as if I had stumbled upon a treasure, but I couldn’t tell what exactly it was that had fallen into my lap. It was like seeing a meteorite for the first time. There was something oddly familiar about it but also otherworldly: truth was locked inside, waiting to be interpreted.

After being struck by the cosmic metaphor, I scribbled some notes on the closest scrap of paper- “We’ve become facsimile humans.” Later, I would debate the word I had chosen: facsimile / Noun: an exact copy, especially of written or printed material. “That’s not quite right”, I thought. When I closed my eyes and looked more deeply, I saw a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy of an original. Perhaps I meant a poor facsimile? After further reflection, I’ve realized that I was making a poetic spiral toward the term alienation. We’ve become disconnected from our context. Like a drum displayed on a gallery wall, we are not singing. This stagnancy is not a gem from the cosmos, but something different. It is an anchor that sinks to the bottom of my stomach and lodges itself there.

It’s in good company as it sits there with other weighted realizations, like when I read that a list of around 50 words describing nature were remove from Oxford’s Junior Dictionary in 2007. Words like heron, otter, ash, beech, dandelion, kingfisher, willow… among others. Every time I read this, I get a lump in my throat. How do I live in a world with no word for the animal I visit at the beaver dam below my home? I imagine the heron’s lithe body as it lifts itself into the air with it’s tremendous wingspan, then I watch as it is erased before my eyes, as if it were never there. I only see the grey clouds in the background. This stone sinks to the bottom to accompany the others.

I acknowledge the fact that perhaps Oxford is just making room for more frequently used words. Among those that recently have become recognized are; bing-watch, badassery, and YouTuber. Of course, language is not the culprit of its own change. It’s a reflection; language is something that evolves with the people who use it. It’s as much a part of culture as craft is. It moves just as fire leaps from one fuel source to another. It is alive.

The erasure of important words like otter, ash and willow is a jarring effect of a growing cultural alienation from the natural world. But the alienation from the natural world is a symptom, itself. It’s what happens when we believe we are separate. When we do not see our relationships as they are, we alienate ourselves. Whether or not you want to believe it, empire has severed the connective tissue between land, community and ourselves. It is deeply, deeply in need of repair. The trauma of feeling disconnected from true sources of knowledge perpetuate the cycles of destruction. Since we believe the lie that we are separate we have forgotten our own knowledge. It is much older than we can imagine, and more powerful.

...to be continued

A Sense of Place

There are a few fat brook trout in the cold mountain stream that runs through my neighbor’s farm. On occasion I walk to the bridge that once held back a bulging mill pond, peer over the edge, and dodge my head back and forth to miss my own reflection. Sometimes they aren’t there – it’s too warm, or they’re hiding in a place that I’m not able to see – but more often than not I’m rewarded, and I see them there bathing in icy water.

Brook trout are very susceptible to changes in their habitat. They prefer cold, clean water in order to maintain a stable population. Particularly sensitive to low oxygen, pollution, and changes in pH, they are considered an indicator species – one that gauges the overall health of an environment. I’m happy they are still living in the stream my neighbor protects. I see them there and feel reassured. 

When I think about these trout, I think about myself living together with them. We share this place. They spend their days doing brook trout things, I spend mine doing human things, and hopefully we don’t have conflict. When making decisions, I take beings like the brook trout into consideration as much as possible.

I care very much for my brook trout companions; after all, they indicate the health of my local environment. I believe my upbringing has something to do with this perspective on my connection with the plants and animals with whom I share space.

Getting Back To My Roots

I grew up in an area of the U.S. that can be described as prime timber land. We lived directly on the Mason-Dixon Line and about a mile from West Virginia, as the crow flies. I did all the things you might expect when you think of rural living in the U.S. I helped can vegetables from the garden every summer, and we had family gatherings centered on harvesting corn. We children built and maintained hay castles in the barn and split and stacked firewood in the fall. My Mother taught us how to manage our garden and pick the harvest. “Pinch this bean. See how plump it is? That means it’s ready!” My father took us on walks on Sundays and we identified trees. “Here, bite this twig. What is it?” My brother and I would nibble and exclaim, “Black birch!” Dad would nod in agreement.

Being connected to our resources made an impact on how we lived growing up, and continued to affect the way I lived after returning home to start my career as a woodworker. I had the ability to pursue both conventional and green woodworking because I lived in an area where I could carefully select and cut a tree down for my carving interests, while making furniture and smaller items out of kiln-dried lumber supplied by our hobby sawmill. My environment made it easy to become a woodworker.

Eventually I became interested in carving small items that I could use in my daily life: spoons, bowls, cups; I had caught the green woodworking bug. It made sense to me, to keep this creative work as simple as possible – find tree, cut down tree, make things.

I quickly found myself seriously dedicated to carving, and I had the urge to decorate the things I was making. I hunted for a connection to something larger than myself: some sort of cultural symbolism. After some internet sleuthing, I was strongly drawn to Sámi designs from northern Scandinavia, most likely because my spoons are based on Swedish spoon carving traditions. But it felt wrong to use Sámi symbols in my work. Trying to navigate this fascination was difficult; I was so drawn to their designs and symbolism, but it seemed like cultural misappropriation to cover the things I was making with designs from another culture, a culture which maintained a rich tradition of meaning behind those symbols. 

I wondered why I was so attracted to having that personal connection to specific symbols. After some thought, I realized that it was really about having some sort of cultural identity – feeling connected to people, place, and land. The tension I felt came from a sense of detachment from my own cultural identity, an identity that can be a difficult thing grapple with as a citizen of a colonial country with such a recent and heartbreaking history.

I needed a place to start. “What is something my grandmother would recognize?” I asked myself, and immediately thought of quilt piecework – part of a heritage that is held close to the heart of my family. Most of the women I’m related to have been involved in textiles in some way and I felt a special connection to the history and tradition of American quilt making. As I thought more about it, I realized that the meaningful link that I possess to this form of folk art could become a relevant part of my own tradition and cultural identity.

After wrestling with these difficult questions of tradition, cultural narrative, and creativity, I met Swedish slöjd craftsman Jögge Sundqvist. We were at Greenwood Fest in Massachusetts, and I happened to sit across from him at breakfast. I was eating my oatmeal with a spoon I had carved and painted with a quilt pattern called “Ohio Star.” After I finished, he looked over the table at me and took my spoon.

“Have you made this?” he asked. “Yes.”, “Ohhh. It is very good.” And he handed it back to me. Later, he and Beth Moen, another skilled Swedish carver, approached me to learn more. Was the pattern something local from my area in the U.S.? I told them both about the quilting traditions where I’m from, and about my family’s strong ties to the art. The next time I saw Jögge, he invited me to visit his workshop in Sweden. I couldn’t miss that opportunity.

Lessons From Other Places

When I travel, I spend most of my time listening and watching. I’m usually very quiet; an observer. As a matter of fact, it typically takes me at least a year to process what I learn after traveling. I consider it part of a transformative inner experience that manifests in the work I make as a carver. Traveling to Sweden started an important inner dialog about handwork, craft, art, the land, and my role in all of these.

I learned that most houses in Northern Sweden are painted red, not because red is the best color, but because iron oxide was a by-product of the copper mines in that area and it was the least expensive paint a farming family could buy to protect the outer walls of their wooden homestead. This connection to their immediate environment made the choice for them. To paint the homestead red became synonymous with Northern Swedish tradition. The same seemed true of using split pine for weaving baskets, and birch for carving treen. The historic use of these trees has more to do with their abundance than with being the best possible material. Let me be clear: these species are perfectly suited for their intended use, but in some areas of the US, we are accustomed to considering only ash and oak for basketry. Split pine works just fine. It’s not that the Swedes have a secret password to handwork, but in learning to use local materials from them it’s a great advantage for some of us in North America who have a similar climate and a few of the same trees. It makes translation easier.

I returned to the U.S. feeling a little conflicted. I had spent time with Beth Moen and Annelie Karlsson on my last week of travel and they had both shared their individual transformative experiences relating to their work. True craftswomen with backgrounds in design, they had at one time made studio-quality furniture but decided they didn’t enjoy what they were making. It didn’t make them happy, and they both decided they were no longer going to try to live up to the idea of what they should be doing, but to start making what they actually wanted to make. That, for me, was a very important distinction which helped me question my own motivation in my work.

So, having observed all of these things in Sweden, the questions of motivation were in the back of my mind, simmering.

Making The Connection

A chance meeting with a fellow carver, Hape Kiddle, on a woodworking trip to Australia brought me back to his studio to watch and listen to his thoughts on art and craft. Hape is a self-proclaimed “sculptor who works in wood.” Originally from New Zealand, he is Maori, a greenstone carver, turned jeweler, turned wood sculptor. One of the first conversations I had with him was about how culture is directly related to people’s experience with the land. This statement solidified something that I could feel and see but had no words for until that conversation.

How was my cultural identity related to the land?

Up until that moment with Hape, I had squinty-eyed thoughts about how green woodworking might translate to other cultures and bioregions. Could I really champion my version of green woodworking to someone who lived in the desert of Arizona or Northern Territory in Australia? Did that make any sense? Maybe there are other ways for artisans to creatively connect with their environment.

Through all of this searching, I’ve come to believe that we, as humans in the world, should be crafting things using the materials available to us in our specific bioregion. To be clear, I’m not suggesting a dogmatic approach but a macrocosmic understanding of what surrounds us. I, as a resident of a certain latitude and environ, have access to specific types of wood. I use what is available, what actually grows here, and that changes if I travel. The tools I typically use are specific to the type of woodworking I do and the hardness of the trees I use. Harvesting times are specific to hemisphere and types of forest. All these factors I took for granted until I traveled to a country in the Southern Hemisphere – all the nuances helped me question how I should relate to my western colonial culture. How does what I’m making fit into the world? Am I contributing something of value or am I a part of a larger problem? Should everyone be carving the way I have been taught?

Perspectives From Other Traditions

Traveling gives opportunity for many unique experiences. I’ve touched the Pyramids of Egypt, humbly observed burning funeral pyres in Kathmandu, and witnessed 20,000-year-old ochre paintings in Australia. In Sweden, I marveled at the knowledge that the house-sized boulders which seemed out of place in a flat field were, in fact, flung there by giants; that frost is actually created by the breath of Thor’s horses. Upon hearing these explanations I was stung by the sharp pang of loss – where I’m from, frost just kills your tomato plants. Every place I’ve traveled has a culture rooted to an ancient past that is missing in my personal colonial context. We’ve cut ourselves off from seeing our connection to the Land.

Speaking in broad terms, this cultural connection is missing in the U.S. However, in Braiding Sweetgrass, First Nations biologist Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer explains the reciprocal relationship humans have with the Earth: that we are (regardless of cultural identity) part of something larger than ourselves and can positively affect our relationship with the rest of our natural community. Often, in most indigenous cultures around the world, this cultural truth is reinforced with ceremony and tangible symbols of that relationship.

If we turn our attention to First Nations artist, Beau Dick, we see the role of the artist/ craftsperson in a harmonious incarnation. Dick (1955 –2017) was a Kwakiutl Northwest Coast artist whose work stands firmly in two worlds – a culturally significant context of his own Kwakiutl framework, and in contemporary art galleries. As a Chief, artist, and activist, he reinforced the best example of craft as an expression of a collective set of beliefs that are upheld from outside the artist ego. Dick was using his unique talent, his artistic lens, to make concrete the deeply held spiritual beliefs of his culture. He created works which not only used his creative voice, but tapped into our inextricable connection to everything around us. This, I think, is the highest calling of a creative person, and it leaves me feeling hopeless and sad for what has been lost in the torrent of American popular culture.

I ultimately believe that, collectively, we would be better off recognizing our spiritual connection to what is right outside our homes; it can be found in the growing forests and racing water. If we recognized our link to the brook trout’s life, would we be as willing to make changes that affect the quality of the water, and push it further upstream into the dark corners of the creek?

It is valuable to have tangible access to this link, and craft is a fantastic way to become more connected with your immediate environment. It could be found in working with birch, if you are in Maine or Sweden, or wild cherry in Pennsylvania, or Huon pine in Tasmania. If a project needs glue, that can be made with pitch or boiled hide; if it requires cordage, it can be made with dogbane or nettle. Resources are abundant. My point is, recognizing the relationship and the reciprocity with the land is what is important. Being connected to the Earth is important – I dare say, it’s what is missing. What if we were to look upon the things we make as the manifestations of a spiritual connection to the world around us? The methodical decision-making of a timber framer; the slow meditation of cutting a mortise and tenon from local green wood can be as much a part of spiritual living as the ethereal concepts of enlightenment and discipleship. Thinking of my great-grandchildren as possible inhabitants of a timber frame is a powerful testament to seeing connections in all things. Paying attention to how the trees are harvested, and how they impact the environment around the timber frame is equally important to this understanding of how to be in the world.

Personally, when I carve, I feel this missing link in my culture. I’m jealous of the craftsperson who has thousands of years of continuous history of draw upon. This craftsperson grows upon a deep tap root which can stand up to the whirlwind of pop culture. When I’m carving, I also want to tap into something larger than myself. If I’m telling a story with my work, I prefer it to be accessible to a wider audience. I like concepts that most folks can understand, or at least recognize. I don’t want people to blinkingly step into an art gallery and read a paragraph on the wall in order to understand what I’m doing. I want everyone to make the connection to story and place immediately.

I can see it in my mind’s eye: “Ah. Yes, the Brook Trout ladle. We bring it out in the Spring when the stream is rushing. The snow melts off the hemlocks and drips cold, fat drops on the back of your neck.” That’s my place. That’s where I should be as a craftsperson; to make objects worthy of the brook trout. One could do no better.

Cue the weird music, I guess.

I’ve always collected “natural” decorations. You know, the kind that illicit a disapproving glance from someone older who wears a lot of Mary Kay and says, “Your house is so natural”.

Poor me, I’ve been plagued with nature my whole life. When I worked in Alaska (of all places) a co-worker told me I smelled so natural. I guess it was because I didn’t hose down with bleach, or like synthetic fragrances. I’ve always squinted my eyes after hearing those comments. Mostly because I clearly see the gulf of separation between my worldview and theirs. But it doesn’t bother me, as you can tell. I continue to fill my freezer with animal parts and wood. Half decomposed trees are in the garage and so are antlers, oyster shells, and other bits. Because… well, I’m so natural.

So, on Monday instead of working on the podcast and because it was so nice outside, I skinned a beaver. As one does.

Despite my propensity for grit, I’ve never actually killed any animals except a few birds while driving. I routinely save little noodley snakes, and leave the spiders in the corners of the ceiling to eat the flies. They seem happy, and if they eat the excess flies then it’s the circle of life. I guess it could sound odd that even though I don’t hunt or trap I still have a house full of furs. The truth is, I find dead animals all the time and people also give them to me. Last fall, I found a recently hit grey fox on the interstate and this winter my neighbor gave me these two frozen beavers and a mink that was killing all of their chickens. Anyway, I finally had a nice day to skin and flesh the beavers, and I’m happy to do so. Mary Kay be damned.

Having said that, I’m doubtful how well it will go when I tan them because they are so greasy. I’m also unsure about them being frozen whole. I’ve never worked with anything quite like these hides. It’s an unbelievable amount of oil, so I need to give it my best shot. I typically do a brain/egg tan, but these are going to need to be de-greased somehow. An old-school tanning book recommended washing a beaver hide with Kerosene… but that sounds terrible to me. What do you do with the kerosene afterwards? Won’t the hides smell like it? That’ll be a hard pass.

So this is where I am now. I have two hides that need to be degreased, washed and stretched. I’m crossing my fingers that they weren’t damaged by the freezer. I have plans for these hides. I’ve wanted big furry mittens for ages, but more on that later. First they must be tanned!

-With infinite love and gratitude-

Several months ago I let it slip in conversation that I believed handcraft has a new meaning; one in which making things by hand is intimately connected to making sanctuary for ourselves. It’s a hard won revelation for me, because so much institutional focus is on the object that’s made and the concept behind the work. But I’d venture to guess that, like me, the vast majority of makers are doing it because it makes them feel good. Our stories about hand craft and its importance are always shifting and changing, of course, especially when you delve into any academic interpretation of what it means to be a craftsperson. The meaning behind craft and its implications has been interpreted through many lenses. If you think of yourself as an activist, craft is “craftivism”, if you are mostly concerned with the economic system, it’s about changing the current paradigm. The meaning behind why we make things is in the eye of the beholder, it seems.

As someone who speaks regularly with a wide variety of other makers at all stages of their careers, I often ask why they choose craft at all? It’s an intentionally vague question, but the responses are remarkably similar. Some makers come to craft because of a crisis in their lives. This can be related to anything: health, finances, or family. When those events are taking place, often the person comes to a cross-roads and they make a choice to allow transformation into their lives, like learning from the raucous coyote pack in the last essay. Something dangerous and potentially awakening is in the belly of a decision that is contrary to safety and convenience.

When choosing to make craft a career, there are many external risks involved; no one here makes things because it’s an easy path, but the reward of making outweighs the uncertainty. During one interview on the podcast, Danielle Chutinthranond (a potter from Chicago) responded by sharing,“I feel like I’m fixing something in myself. It feels healing.” I’ll make a special effort to highlight what’s missing in that statement. She didn’t say: “I’m doing it for money and fame”, or “I’m doing it for an ideology”, or “I’m trying to change the economy.” It’s not for those reasons, it’s for the deeply personal, emotionally felt space between the external and the internal. She occupies the sanctuary of making. It compels her into a healing space.

In light of current events, I was reminded of the coping strategy my Dad shared with me in a very stressful time in my life. As I’ve mentioned in previous essays, most of my insights come from direct experience, so this is no exception. When I was stuck in my mind, overwhelmed by my own thoughts or circular logic, the best thing for me to do was to transfer thinking to my hands. When I felt like a catatonic shell with my mind on overdrive, a good reset was offered by my Dad, “Get up! Let’s go to the shop.”

When I got down there, I was given instructions, “Here, take this brush and varnish these cabinets for me.” Grateful to not think anymore, I took the brush and spent all day immersing myself in the job. It was a relief to not have to make a decision. I’d notice a little bubble in the varnish and work to clear it up, or, turn my head and notice a streak. Thinking to myself, “Yes. Yes…fix that.” My mind quieted. I relaxed. The only things that existed were varnish bubbles and the long slow brush strokes. Back and forth, back and forth. I could see the material world changing right in front of me. It was a blessing to see tangible results in the sanctuary of the workshop.

Healing is something that is done most easily if you have sanctuary. For some, it’s made in meditation, dance, family or the comforts of home. We all find this refuge in different locations, and even animals find sanctuary. A wide-eyed rabbit, in the exhaustion of escaping relentless pursuit, will often retreat to the softest, most intimate burrows in order to heal what’s exhausted within itself. It’s a retreat to safety; an intentional space made for the body and soul to knit together wounds. It often allows us to confront the marrow of ourselves as we fumble in the darkness. It is not for the faint of heart. We bump up against our beliefs about ourselves, others, and how these things fit together. We face healing toe to toe in the space in-between brush strokes; in sanctuary.

The parent word of sanctuary is the latin sancuarium. It has roots in “sanctus”, meaning holy and “arium” meaning to relate to the root word. “Related to holiness” might be a good definition. We use sanctuary to part the sacred and the profane, but it’s also used to describe safe haven, or areas where “nature” is set aside for animals to live their lives undisturbed. (There are a whole set of problematic cultural biases included in the “nature vs. man” distinction which I will visit in later essays) If like me, you grew up going to church, you are familiar with how often this word is used to denote a holy area in the church building itself. In the Sanctuary, you are more aware of your actions and presence. You sing and come together as a community within a space set aside for holy endeavors. In the Christian tradition, you are in the place when God meets humans. The Holy Place.

Regardless of what you may call the Great Mystery, God or The Universal Animate Energy, we need holiness. We need to meet and make sanctuary for it no matter the cloak it wears. Madmen have retreated to wild caves to fall blind to the dazzling Great Mystery or to recognize It dwelling within their hearts or perhaps in the echo of limestone walls. Wherever It is found, the spark of the divine is never tame. It dwells in clods of earth trod into floor boards, the whiskers of mice, and a froe set deep in oak. We’ve created sanctuaries both external and internal for thousands of years and will go on doing so even as we find new realms where holiness dwells. For the craftsperson, sanctuary can be found in the repetitive whoosh of the axe as she hews a piece of wood. It is rhythmic and musical; the drumbeat of a maker. There is sanctuary in the movement itself. The rhythm becomes the pattern, becomes the consistency, becomes the life of the process as the craftsperson navigates risk and develops skill.

Illuminated in this way, sanctuary requires a simultaneous focus and release. The space occupied is like that of the space of meditation, as I mentioned previously. The well worn path of practice allows for the somatic embodiment of skill, muscle memory and repetitive movement. It allows our ego mind to rest and for healing apply its restorative poultice.

I recently had a conversation with a family member during which I shared my complicated obsession with woodcarving. I realized, after 10 years of carving that it was (at times) quite literally the only thing keeping me going emotionally. I would do it whether or not there was financial reward involved (although that is always welcome!). But for a long time, I couldn’t figure out why I loved it so much. In recent years it’s become more clear that I was much more invested in handcrafts’ transformative power in my own life than its transformative power in economics or battling environmental catastrophes. The change was starting internally. Through my sanctuary of handcraft, I was hopping into the ocean of flow.

Flow state is something that Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (a psychologist who interviewed athletes, craftspeople, and professionals of all sorts) named to describe the process that comes from practicing a skill that has an attainable but difficult goal. Dr. Kelly Lambert Ph.D. calls this “effort-driven rewards” and has neurobiological research surrounding the importance of the healing power of handwork. Flow state requires focused attention on an activity which causes you to slip into a state where you don’t notice the passage of time, thinking stops, and you are in the moment. As a craftsperson you sink deeply into making. Sanctuary makes space for flow, but it all requires the courage to step into risk and uncertainty. You may think it is a matter of simply learning a new set of rules, but handcraft is an endless pursuit. As a beginner, one is baptized into the new world of autonomy craft provides. But as you bob up after the initial plunge the real work is in finding the next step and pushing yourself forward. As someone who focuses almost exclusively on handwork, I confront my relationship with risk and uncertainty every time I grasp my carving knife. As I negotiate and grow in skill, I gingerly step into uncertainty and risk. That entire dynamic would vanish if I were to rely on a jig or computer to navigate making. When continually practicing and looking difficult circumstances in the eye, what might have felt unsurmountable 6 months ago, can become so effortless that you are unaware of the tectonic shift that occurred underfoot. This is what handcraft can do; help you go deeper within the autonomy of making and to simply allow yourself to grow.

When changes occur internally they naturally flow outward, like a the circular ripples on a still pond. Suddenly, since your center for understanding has changed, the way you see things around you has also changed. The healing that takes place in the sanctuary of making has the capacity to shift your perceptions. Your self-confidence emerges and you are new; glimmering like the sun on the expanse of the ocean.

I’ve wrestled internally for days about what to post for the interlude between essays this week. Everything I want to talk about turns into paragraph after paragraph and soon I discover I’m writing another essay!

So, for today, I’m sharing what’s been helping me get through the past week. I’ll share more about Theta waves and sanding cups on Monday. But for today, listen to this meditation and find something that gets you in the flow.

Back to sanding and burls…

As I considered what to write for my next essay it occurred to me that I was leaving out the aftermath of a coyote visit. It’s easy to state the obvious; that sometimes it doesn’t work out the way you thought it would. But how do you move forward when everything is ruined? Don’t you want to fix the problem? Do you do that as a singular person, or as a community? Where does responsibility lie?

I realize I bit off a huge portion of cucumber sandwich with my last essay, and I’m wondering if there are easy answers to the questions scattered like ruined food from our mix up with the coyotes. It’s easy to become overwhelmed, but I’ll share my experience with the unexpected to help frame situations like these.

When I was a small girl, before I went to sleep at night I prayed ,“Please make me as wise as King Solomon.” (For those of you who didn’t grow up in a Christian household, King Solomon is an Old Testament king who is commonly thought to have been the wisest man who ever lived.) It didn’t occur to me until much later that very few of my fellow 7 year olds were praying for supreme wisdom. Had I known that wisdom is acquired through careful reflection on difficult experiences, I probably would’ve prayed for a pony instead. Joking aside, most of my understanding for coping with life comes from impactful lessons often learned after the metaphorical coyote pack rolled up on my picnic. I’ve come to see these situations as opportunities rather than catastrophes, usually after the fact, because let me tell you from first hand experience with betrayal, abandonment, poverty, abuse, depression and self-harm these traumas have the capacity to ruin anyones picnic. Bringing them to attention here is not meant to glorify victimization or self-pity, but instead they are meant to acknowledge the themes that run through the entirety of human history. I’m sure you can relate to many of these misfortunes. Coyotes abound, and yet we keep making picnics.

When going through trauma that we don’t understand, it’s easy to place blame and become consumed with anger and resentment. Speaking from past experience, I’ve acted enough from a place of wounded-ness that I now understand it only perpetuates harm on the people around me, and I become a frothing maniac in the process. After I noticed this pattern in myself, I understood more of what a great teacher like Gandhi was sharing when he said, “be the change you want to see in the world”. Yes, I know this phrase is used ad nauseam by all sorts of political movements, but I’ve often wondered if the folks wearing Gandhi tee-shirts actually take the time to courageously embody the wisdom they are displaying. If you want to see more love, be more loving. This was a big lesson for me and it unravels a lot of mis-truths about enforcing the change I want to see, and instead highlights becoming the change I want to see. The latter is much more difficult, but change literally begins internally. If we are not aware of ourselves and our own faults, we will act from an unconscious place and only perpetuate suffering, our own included. This is what the coyotes have taught me.

One of the reasons I find the trickster archetype so important is that they are bursting with uncertainty and risk. Tricksters switch sides, they move backward when you want them to go forward, and they throw you into risk-filled situations where you are forced to grow. We, as craftspeople, grapple with risk and uncertainty as a life practice. It is through applying what I’ve learned by navigating trauma and risk as a person that I can more easily understand myself, others, and the importance of handcraft on a personal level.

A basket weaver I greatly admire, Gabriel Frey, said in a recent interview on the Podcast:

“...the intentionality of how each step is done creates the strength of the material in the end.”

He was speaking about the process of weaving black ash baskets the way his grandfather’s had done for thousands of years as the people of the Dawnland; the Wabanaki.

He wisely identifies all processes leading up to weaving as being as important as the basket itself, because if the correct intention is missing in any of the components, the reciprocal structure of the basket may fail. I think Gabriel summed it up well. The process of each step creates the strength of the material in the end. In life, I think we are the material, and the intention of choosing growth despite risk and uncertainty is what handcraft and living have in common. So the way in which you respond to the material of your life will greatly impact the result as you weave it together. The coyotes will always be there. They are part of the process. You may struggle with questioning whether or not they show up to the next picnic or they may distract you as you try to learn to weave a new basket, but thats why we are here; to learn and grow. We are here to put intention into the process. We are here to craft a life.

The man who has many answers

is often found

in the theaters of information

where he offers, graciously, 

his deep findings. 


While the man who has only questions, 

to comfort himself, makes music. 


-Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings

Reflecting on this poem, I’m reminded how often (when I’m feeling uncertain) I defer to those who have theaters of information instead of taking comfort in the music makers.

In the interlude of essays and ideas here, I’m going to share poetry, music, candid thoughts, recipes and cheerful things. Perhaps some carving work, as well.

It’s such a strange time we live in. War, the plague, polarities and governments gone wild! In the madness I’ve found listening to music with little or few lyrics helps me feel restful. There is so much we are bombarded with on a daily basis that a moment of stillness is cherished.

I don’t think a lot needs to be said. Just enjoy the music and creativity.

Someone was calling in my pack. All morning; tack, tack, tack. Silence. Tack, tack, tack. Silence. Tack, tack, tack…

A bit later, I took my dog Willow out as I do every morning, and noticed the silence after all the gunfire ceased. The birds were as stunned as I was. The night before, the coyotes were on my doorstep. I could hear them outside laughing at each other. They can tell some real knee-slappers! But that morning I was shaken that my pack was being killed as I listened. It took me all day to pull their rattling bones from my ears. I’ve never been able to let those things go easily. It’s hard to digest with breakfast, if I’m honest.

Of course, the people who do this think they’re doing something good. And to be clear, I’m not against hunting in any way. Nor am I against trapping. I’m against mindless killing. These people believe they’re making room for deer hunting, or they do it as a favor to farmers, or for some extra money. The rationale being used is that coyotes are eating deer and therefore in competition with hunters, so they should be killed. After all, we didn’t have coyotes slinking around when I was a kid. But we also didn’t have bears (we do now) or birds of prey (we do now). I’ve always welcomed back these parts of the wild and bowed my head to receive the blessing. When predators return, it means we’re doing something right because there is enough food for them to survive. By contrast, I believe the state sponsored open-season on coyotes creates tremendous imbalance in the wild.

It bothers me that when someone sees a coyote trotting across the road or rushing into the woods, they aren’t thankful for the encounter and are instead filled with anger. “There’s another damn coyote. Those things are everywhere!” I respond, “Yes! Of course we have coyotes. They’re prolific because we have been profoundly out of balance. They eat mice, rabbits, groundhogs, opossums and larger animals as well.” In the case of farmers, to be fair, the fear is that coyotes will attack and eat sheep, goats and chickens. This is based in truth. I’ve seen their handiwork, and it does happen. If I were defending my own flock from a pack of coyotes, I would pull no punches, either. But there are more ways to deal with predators than to create constant ecological imbalance. Truthfully all the anger and hatred and shifting of belt buckles is about more than the presence of varmints. Coyote hunters, I’m sure, would point out that they’re doing everyone a favor. The situation points to a few different currents of thought as I mentioned before and a community need to problem solve. But it’s shrouded in the adolescent posturing that doesn’t recognize the pattern behind why the coyotes are here.

The imbalance being created by these actions goes beyond the health of an ecosystem. It also illuminates the caviler attitude towards creating solutions to injustice that some people align with. As if being free of legislation means you are free to act with impunity. It’s the mindset of doing whatever you want because no one is watching you. You have freedom to be cruel or mindless. Pointing this out is not meant to vilify those who hunt coyotes. It’s not entirely the fault of these individuals. I believe the motivation behind these actions is linked to a societal disease. We live in a system built by people who don’t see their reflection in the ghosts of dead coyotes.

As the bones of community are nibbled away, we are left with people who righteously pick off coyotes thinking that it either doesn’t matter or that it’s the right action to take in general. The thing that bothers me is that it’s become culturally acceptable to direct general hatred toward coyotes as an entire species because their very nature. Fear and control pumps through the heart of the wholesale war against anything.

Coyotes, in some Native American mythologies, are tricksters. It’s easy to see why. They sit up all night laughing and no self respecting member of society would stay up past 10, of course. Coyotes will kill 7 sheep and eat one. “Why? Why would they do that?”, we wonder. Who would want them around?

When we’re looking through a mythological lense, it’s easier to see why they have been identified as tricksters. Coyotes show us reality when we think, “Oh yes, my plans are laid out perfectly. It’s going to be smooth sailin’ baby, from here on out…” and we sit with a smile admiring the picture perfect picnic we’ve created. Then, coyotes come to town. Mothers usher children back home, safe inside, and swiftly shut the door. “You can’t mix with that sort.” they warn as they swat little hands away from the windows.

Coyotes look at your perfectly set picnic table and say, “Oh, thank you for laying this out so nicely!” Then they proceed to lick the spoons and shred the tablecloth while everyone watches through squinted eyes and crossed arms. Collective whispers rise up, “Why are they eating the cucumber sandwiches and pissing in the lemonade? They left the pork roast.”

Tricksters.

For a healthy system to stay healthy, it needs coyotes in the mix. It needs the taboo and it needs rule breakers. It needs someone to take a piss in our collective lemonade. No, not someone else’s lemonade. Not the lemonade of that neighbor who won’t rake the leaves. Yours. Mine. Our own lemonade made with lemons from our own beautiful orchard that is perfectly pruned and Instagram worthy. Welcome to life.

Uncertainty is part of the process of living. It can teach us the skills we need to witness the coyotes and continue plans for another picnic next week, all while not shooting the messengers. Yes, the danger associated with uncertainty is real. You never know if you will get the pack that eats the roast or keeps diving through town and that is tough for picnic planners. But tricksters function as the release valve we need in order to remember who we actually are. A healthy community allows room for the uncontrollable. It allows room for coyotes. When they roll into town, it is a gift. It teaches us to release our white-knuckled grip on the perfect picnic we’ve laid out for ourselves. They will help us remember that we’re part of something larger. The Wild is greater than our human understanding.

I heard two coyotes laughing again last night as I lay in bed. I smiled. We can’t stop them, they’re here to stay.

Since this is the inaugural post, I’d like to set out some things you can expect from this newsletter. The first promise I’m going to make is to deliver regular essays from my corner of the land, bi-weekly. These, I hope, will inspire some thought and response that go beyond a letter count quip, or a fire-breathed Kali-esque dealth blow. No need for that here. We’re all human and all deserve some love after the past few years. Grab a bit of wood and settle down to carve or your beloved knitting needles and craft your life along with me.

Being a crafts person and a wood carver, I’ve relied heavily on social media to get the word out about what I’m doing and why it matters, but a few years ago I really lost interest. It was clearly manipulated and also steered users into certain behaviors in order to be seen. Where are we now? Oh yes, now we have to make videos and add music to show up in a feed. What’s next? Who knows. Maybe we’ll all have to get VR headsets to be seen.

Personally, I’d like to have a place that is free from big tech and AI that pidgenhole and manipulate my “feed”. I’m fed up with what they’re feeding. I’d like something better, please.

I’m going to delve more deeply into the grit of what it means to be human; grappling with land, handcraft and messy humans.

Will you join me? The fire is lovely.

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