Laura E. Goffin

Things made with hands, heart, and eyes as they relate to life and of course, love. 

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Turning Dreams

I think it’s the sound that I like.  The gentle hum, the whisper, that signals the transition from square to round, from unstable to balanced, concluding with a sudden lack of vibration.  You can see it happen but you can also feel it.  It’s the moment when the movement becomes smooth and fluid and if done well,  is also the moment when a uniform surface appears, ready and willing.  

The act of turning is very much like that of dreaming.  Dreams often come in the form of whispers, they are the sounds our hearts make when we long for something.   Sometimes, they are so quiet that if we do not really listen they go unheard.  They are the sounds that doubts shout over and sometimes silence.  The good news though, is that courage is always louder.  It speaks on behalf of these gentle murmurs and sometimes, if you’re really lucky, gives them the opportunity to cheer ecstatically.  

The moment that you acknowledge a dream is like that fresh blank on the lathe.  It is new, full of possibility and potential.  You have the power to do what you want with it and the chance to make something really great and exciting.  But sometimes, things don’t always go as planned.  You might find a flaw in the wood, you might not be as good as you thought you were, and in the worst case, the tool might catch and destroy the piece.  This is when those doubts might start creeping in.   They might make it difficult to hear the wishes and hopes in your heart.  You might become anxious or fearful at the thought of failure.  The truth is though, that these are the moments when you must be courageous.  Not foolish, but confident.  Things have a tendency to go wrong when we become unsure of ourselves or on the other end of the spectrum, too sure.  Life like woodworking needs a healthy balance between the two.   One must not be afraid of a machine but always respectful.  Knowing the difference gives you the ability to act purposefully and yet safely.  

The first cut is difficult because beginnings are hard, but the last is even more so because there is more at stake, more time invested.  That last cut might be made more difficult because the wood is fighting you. It is now thinner and prone to vibration, maybe the tools aren’t quite as sharp as when you began and maybe you are tired of fighting.  This is the time to prepare.  Take a moment to reflect, to ready both yourself and the tools you need to succeed.  Remember to breathe.  Then, when you are ready, stand firmly, breathe calmly, and move deliberately.  The chisel might catch and destroy all that you have done but you also might just win.  You can’t know the outcome without having tried and regardless of whether or not you succeed; you can’t get better without doing it again.

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For the Love of the Craft

I'm not sure that I can sum up in words what it means to make something by hand. Particularly, to do so in a world focused on mass production and disposable goods. What it means to craft something painstakingly so that every single aspect of the thing drips with one's heart and soul. I'm not even sure I can explain why it's worth the time or the effort. I just know it is.

There is nothing like watching pieces of wood transform from a raw material into a cabinet or a chair or a table. Suddenly there is a thing where there once was nothing and without you wouldn't exist. Perhaps, even more powerful, is the thought that there will only ever be one and never another like it. Things made by hand are unique and imperfect with the flaws that humans have. There was a time when hand to wood was the only way to do it, now it's the exception not the rule.

Hand cut dovetails are a mark of craftsmanship (sic) in woodworking. They set the fine furniture maker apart from the hobbyist. They distinguish the hand made from the mass produced. They are difficult, time consuming, and tedious. Laps and shoulders are scribed with a marking gauge, pins drawn with a t-bevel and then after a few deep breaths the saw is set as close to your line as you dare and you start the cut. All you hear is the sound of the teeth slicing forward through each stroke. You repeat the phrase, 'don't lose your line" over and over in your head, you'd be surprised how easy it is to do. You lose your line and gain a gap. The mallet pounds on the chisel removing the wood that will house the tails. This is at once both powerful and controlled. You don't want to miss your mark. Then the shoulders are pared square and you hear, "don't lose your line", once more. The tails are scribed from the pins and go through much the same process, 'don't lose these lines either'. Then the moment of truth, will they fit together?. Nothing is as painful as when they don't and nothing more exhilarating than when they do. It is the process of going from one to the other that you learn the value of doing this by hand, what it means to bring an object into the world.

How much of that line should you have when you're done? All of it. How much heart in it? All of it. And when it's hard and the wood won't seem to cooperate and you feel as though those two pieces will never fit together all it takes is one question, 'How much of this tradition is worth losing?'. None. Of. It. And you start again.

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Hands and Heart

I was born with hands that were made to work. Hands that love to tinker, create, and craft. Hands that bruise and split and blister and more often than not, ache.

Manual labour as the root of the words suggest, is work done with one's hands. I frequently find myself looking down at mine and am hyper aware of how they feel. I think about their importance, their capabilities, and how many objects exist because of them. I look at the scars, the scrapes, and callouses and think about how they came to be. I like this about them. They remind me of what it means to make something by hand. How lucky I am, to have been given them.

This past month, I tuned up an old hand plane that was my great grandfather's. I spent hours cleaning off the rust, repainting the interior surfaces, leveling the sole, and sharpening the iron. When sanding down the sides of the plane, I was rewarded with a discovery. Under several layers of rust a name was punched into the side of the body. The name I possess. It's hard not to feel a connection to him, a man I never met. I have to wonder if he would be proud that I was following in his footsteps or confused as to why his great-granddaughter rather than great-grandson had taken up the trade. I'd like to think he was probably a pretty progressive sort of guy and am therefore in favour of the former.

I assembled all the parts, finished sharpening the blade, and set up a board to take a cut. It took a long, curly shaving and left a smooth finish on the board but that was not what I noticed. As I grabbed the wooden handle and entered the cut all I could think about was the way the wood had molded over time to the palm of its owner. I could feel his hand in mine. I could feel his heart.

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Privilege

In those precious few, the quiet few, the world is small. The world is peaceful. Too much and too little, everything and nothing all at once. You can feel the movement, the flexing of your muscles, the sweat on your hands, but only if you make a conscious effort to notice. You are oblivious, unaware, time seems to stop. You hear nothing and see nothing except for what is directly in front of you. You are capturing a moment in time in the form of an object. You forget the pain, the exhaustion, and are surprised at the sight of blood. How did it get there? How did I not notice? What time is it?

I often forget to breathe. I lose myself in fractions of an inch and forget how small they really are. Maybe that’s because in their pursuit the world seems whole, complete. The vastness of time and space matters little when shoulders close and gaps disappear. Sometimes I look back at a day’s work and wonder when it was certain things happened. It’s a blur, a blink of the eye and yet when added together the sum of all those moments is something to be proud of. I made this. I MADE THIS. And then, well, then there is the next thing. Sometimes I fall out of love with an object before the finish even has a chance to cure at the prospect of the next thing. My mind has a hard time with the completion of anything. It does not give me time to stop, to celebrate. It only knows how to make and to make incessantly.

Sometimes, late in the evening when everyone else has left and the sun has set, I stand back and look at my life as if from the perspective of someone else. I look at the floor around my bench, the piles of shavings and the sawdust as it softly settles like snow on every available surface. And its smell, the unforgettable smell of wood that has been worked. I feel the wood chips in my hair and the dirt under my finger nails and I think about all those who have stood here before me and how many will after. I think about time. I think about when I’m gone and when all that’s left are memories and these objects that I’ve made. What will the world be like then? I don’t know. But what I do know, is that in these moments I find peace. My heart feels so big I can hardly breathe and tears well up in my eyes. ‘How fortunate is she?,’ I sometimes whisper as I look back at my empty bench. Very fortunate, is of course the answer. She is free.

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A Strong Joint

Where to begin? A summation of all he is, is difficult. I’ve tried before from time to time, to communicate his value, his worth, but have always fallen short. The truth is, I will always fall short. To sum up a person’s character, their existence, in a few words or even many, is just not possible. It denies the fact that so much of human interaction is based on how someone makes you feel, how your soul interacts with theirs. It’s that vibe that tells you whether or not you’ll get along with someone, whether or not they will be part of your life forever or only a short while. It determines whether or not someone is to be trusted. Whether or not they get a piece of your heart.

I’m the kind of person who gets lost in my own head sometimes. I think it’s a symptom of passion. So much of my life, specifically my choices, are based on how they make my heart feel. And my heart feels a lot. So much so, that it can be hard to rein in, hard to stifle. It is a force to be reckoned with. My heart has the capacity to love and to love fiercely. To describe that love is impossible but it’s the kind I feel for you.

In many ways you and I are very different. We have clashing views about the world. About what is it we were put here to do and how it is we are going to do it. You are the rational to my daydream. The voice of reason summoning me back to earth before I’m ready to come. We can disagree vehemently and are equally stubborn in our opposing points of view. Yet, here we are. If you love someone, and I mean truly love someone, these things matter very little. It’s easy to argue, it’s hard to love the person anyway.

Someone once asked me if our relationship was like trying to stick a square peg in a round hole. It implied that we were two people that were never meant to fit together. What’s true is that it’s difficult. But what’s also true, is that difficult things are frequently the most worth doing. The ability to set aside one's differences in the name of caring for someone else, means seeing things from a different point of view. Empathizing with a person's thoughts and feelings even if you do not share them. A skill I think, the world could benefit from learning.

In the coming months I am going to begin building a blanket chest. It is going to consist mostly of mortise and tenon joinery but will also feature pegs for added stability. It’s true that round pegs fit well in round holes but it is also true that wood movement changes joints over time. A perfect fit initially does not necessarily guarantee a lasting result. Instead, I am going to pound a square peg into a round hole at the site of the joint. There is some risk involved, these pegs have a tendency to break and splinter under the exerted force and sometimes fail to follow the correct trajectory. The thing is, that despite their fragility and proclivity for failure, when done correctly these joints are very, very strong and nearly impossible to separate.

I used to think being compared to a peg was less than flattering but maybe, that is exactly what we are.

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Shavings and Heart Beats

There is a sound, almost a whisper associated with the motion. A sort of ‘pheeeew’ that signals the removal of material. One foot planted in front of the other allows your weight to shift forward as you move. Each motion requires a different amount of pressure depending on the thickness of the cut. Sometimes it is a great deal of force while other times there is almost no resistance. You are gliding, and as you do so you are subtracting from what was once there. But there is no sadness in the loss. Your arms become fatigued and muscles sore as a result of the repetitive motion. You move back and fourth in a kind of steady rhythm, careful not to take away too much. You cannot put back what was once there. At the same time, you become aware of your breathing and the way your heart seems to match the timing of your movement. You get lost in the process and your senses heighten. The transformation of the wood from rough to smooth beneath your fingers, the pressure of the rosewood handle in the palm of your hand and the way the iron blisters the skin. You are reminded of your own existence, and that of the once living object beneath the sole of your plane. And yet, it still lives. Wood does what it wants and moves with the seasons and the coming and going of moisture. As much as we try to control it, it has a mind of its own and will cup and twist and bow regardless of the pains taken to true it. As much as it can be frustrating to flatten and square something so unwilling to cooperate, in those moments where all I can hear is the sound of wood softly curling as it separates from the surface of the board, I know I have found my home. The process itself might be one of subtraction but what is gained is a sense of purpose that comes as a result of working with one’s hands and bringing an object into the world.