Last week, leading up to a trip to New York, I had bees in
my...
Last week, leading up to a trip to New York, I had bees in
my brain. A frantic sort of buzz, a stung and not calm feeling. It was the
result of nerves, I think, for two events for Hammer Head in New York City. Butterflies in the belly is one
thing, that gentle sort of tummy flutter. This felt more pronounced. Bees in
the brain from nerves, and also as the result of much more communication than
I’m used to, more emails, more talking. All good, and all exciting, but a
different sort of energy than I’m used to and a different rhythm to the days.
Mind huzzering along, and hands a little shaky, I forced myself to the back
porch, away from my computer and compulsion to answer every email immediately.
I went to the back porch where the high snow drifts no longer
eclipse the fence. It was cold, still, but the light had a softness to it that
had nothing to do with winter. I’d heard birds chirping when I’d woken up that
morning. I laid the piece of white oak I’m working on across my
lap and started the last round of sanding. Six-hundred grade sandpaper,
gritless, and the wood looked almost as though it was lit from within, a glow
that comes sometimes when sanded so smooth. The highlights looked like golden
hair in afternoon sun. The rivery swirls looked like nothing so fixed or solid
as wood. I sanded and sanded and rubbed my hand over and over the wood and I
admired all the colors and the way it glowed and how it felt on the skin of my
palm and the lines and rings. The bees took a break.
They come and go, and I’m excited to tell you more about the
action of the last little bit, but better now to talk about how wood can look like
water.
(Also, if you want, buy the book.)
