In my garage is a simple, hardwood stool.
It’s old and scarred, but I find myself retreating often into its comforting solidarity. It’s stationed amidst a jumble of shavings, sawdust, and cut-offs, yet it stands with a posture of nobility and strength. It is here that I become quiet, my mind stretching into creative corners that are so often challenged.
It’s a wonderful place of solitude, stillness, and beauty.
It’s here that I sit with my feet up on the disorderly shelf below the workbench. It’s here that my hands do the delicate shaving and shaping of my wooden creations. It’s here that my mind empties of all the chaotic warmongering of the news feeds. It’s here that my world becomes sensible, ordered, and glorious.
And it's here that I wish to begin my journey.