Reclamation Is A Kind of Faith

I drove. At least forty-five minutes north for a piece of cherry burl, destined for a signature piece, something worth the trip. The box elder was in the pile next to it, flame-colored rot the ants were working on. The turner who owned the pile saw me looking. "Take it if you want it," he said. A sweetener. Very much an afterthought.

I'd just returned from a three day seminar with David Ellsworth. He taught me how to hollow a form, but, more than that, he taught me how to conceive of one. I had the mechanics down; what I lacked was the thinking.

The box elder was the first place the new thinking landed. I knew there'd be flame inside but not how much, not where it would surface. I cut in and the stress revealed itself—pink and rust running through pale wood. Damage became color. I hollowed it with inside curve answering the outside. The form holds nothing. It doesn't need to.

Some things are written off too early. Refuse the verdict; restoration begins with belief.