Where it starts

For most any project I do, Shaker box or otherwise, the process starts with a trip to a local specialty hardwood dealer. But occasionally it happens the other way around and the tree comes to me. Such was the case the other day with the delivery of a 40” section of an ash tree. The tree has a special significance and will go to make at least one special project, but after cutting it into slabs for drying, there were still a couple three-ish inch thick end pieces (like the butt pieces of a loaf of bread) left over that I looked at and thought “I bet I could get a few Shaker boxes out of those.” (No, really, I do plenty of things that aren’t related to Shaker boxes. I just can’t think of any right now).

I’m always amazed when I saw a log open lengthwise to reveal its beauty. Swirls of grain form ring patterns around knots where long-forgotten branches once grew. Odd color patterns hint at stresses the tree once withstood that passed by humanity unnoticed. Even random bug holes testify to miniature battles won against would-be invaders. All these and more add up to a unique work of art hidden inside the log.

I can’t believe such art is random. I can’t believe that the beauty of a starry sky, or a sunset, or a split-open log is any more a product of random chance than is the fact that all people at all times have had a similar sense of awe at these things. As a woodworker, I fancy myself a creator of beautiful things, but that’s not strictly true. I take the beauty that’s already there and hone it and make it into something that’s both beautiful and useful. But the real beauty isn’t something I can produce. I just marvel at it.

The thin slabs in this photo will eventually get shaped into boxes like the one shown on the stool. I’ll do the best job I can on them. But at best I’ll only rearrange the art that’s already there in raw form.