The Carpenter

He chiselled the wood, careful to keep going in the direction of the
grain. Slowly but surely, the block of wood took on animation. He
paused for a moment in reflection, remembering the wise words of his
former teacher, " Nobody makes mistakes. A mistake can be polished up
and made to be an objects chief beauty." He smiled as he remembered
these words. Wise words, words that could be applied to many
things.

He undid the vice and turned the block round; so that he could begin
working on the otherside. The yew was difficult to work with, but worth
the hardwork because of the beauty in its grain. The patterns telling
some kind of story, as if communicating in a myopian language. A visual
language that took you places, reminded you of some forgotten time when
the earth had just been made.

Yew is special. The yew tree can live for thousands of years. It
survives by regenerating itself within - a tree made up of many trees;
every year a new sapling grows in the centre and the outside dies. It
is in a constant state of reincarnation, and has probably witnessed
many things in it's time. In his hands he could feel that wisdom, as if
all the things that had happened to the tree had traced their lines
upon it's grain.

When he carved wood he didn't have any particular thing in mind, he
just looked at the grain and saw the shape he wanted to carve.
Sometimes it was a bird, sometimes a face, sometimes an angel. Often it
felt like some other force was guiding his hands as he cut away. It was
a mysterious process and one that humbled him. Something about wood
made him feel grounded. The feel of something solid in his hands,
something that connected him to his body and the earth. He loved the
smell of it, and the way it looked after it had been sanded smooth and
polished with a little beeswax.

When he had chiselled away the last bit, he looked at it fondly. Then
reaching for his sandpaper; began to sand away the roughness, going
from one grade of sandpaper to the next, giving it the gift of
smoothness. As he did this it began to grow more life-like. As if
manifesting itself to him slowly.

When he felt satisfied he had sanded it enough, he got a bit of cloth
and began to apply the beeswax. He rubbed the wax in, giving the wood
time to absorb the polish.
The first time you applied the wax was always the best. The wood grain
would suddenly take on animation and colour as if by magic. Something
that had once been a block of wood, was now suddenly becoming an
entity. The final touch like breathing life into clay. Giving life to
something.

After his third coat of wax he felt satisfied he had done enough. It
was a poignant carving but at the same time deeply simple. The carving
was of someone being baptised - above them a dove descending. He looked
at it for a while with a light and a smile on his face; then slowly
began to put away his tools. As he did, he felt the familiar call that
had been with him for the past year and a half now, time to move
on.

When he had tidied up the workshop and put the chisels back in their
places. He picked up the carving and took it into the house, placing it
on the kitchen table for his mother. She would understand what it meant
when she got home from the market. He felt a little sad that now he
would be leaving the familiarity of these walls. But if he did not go,
he would be haunted for the rest of his life by feelings that he was
not doing what he should be doing. The training was over; the time had
come to teach. Soon his hands would be for healing and his tools would
be his words. The wood had taught him well; and he felt confident that
it would guide his voice.

He left the house, perhaps for the last time, and made his slow way to
the river Jordon - to meet his cousin John who waited patiently for
him.