When I don’t know where else to go, I turn to wood. It can be as simple as leaning against a tree or as complex as driftwood carving. As I sit here, I’m fondling a piece of wood that I carved many years ago. It comforts me. Why I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the essential rootedness of the tree from which it was drawn, or maybe it’s just the contrast of its solidity with my own restlessness.
Someday I’m going to live among trees and have a studio that let’s me work up high in the surround of their branches. And I’m going to have a wood-burning stove where I can put old trees to rest and some open space where I can plant new young trees. I’m going to help my grandson build a tree house and spend hours with him there listening to the wind playing in the leaves.