Don wiped the sweat from his brow as the mid-afternoon sun filtered through the tree branches above. The faint hum of the local neighbourhood was a comforting rhythm, though his small corner was a world of quiet and focus. Before him lay the stretched fabric as he reupholstered a chair, its fibres coarse and familiar, threaded with years of tradition passed from one set of hands to another.
His hands, calloused yet precise, moved with a deliberateness that came not from haste but from habit. Each stitch, each knot of the cord, carried weight beyond the mere function of a place to sit and rest. It was as if the material in his hands whispered its own story, one of journey, resilience, and necessity. He paused, considering the next move, his mind drifting not to deadlines or demands but to the question: Why?
“Why this work? Why this pace?” he murmured aloud, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.
Don’s gaze wandered to the horizon where the hills met the sky. He imagined the chair he was crafting not as an object of utility but as a small sanctuary for someone unknown. A piece bringing accent to a room, perhaps, inviting someone to momentarily rest through the busyness of life. Or a young family, gathered together sharing their day. In his mind’s eye, he could see the faces, hear the laughter, and feel the gratitude, though it might never be spoken.
“It is not just a chair,” he thought. “It is a gift of rest.”
The slow pull of the needle through the fabric brought him back to the task. His mentor’s words echoed in his mind, words spoken years ago when Don had first learned the craft: “Do not rush the work, Don. The thread holds best when the hands are steady, and the heart is calm.”
Don smiled at the memory. It was the same principle he applied to his teaching, his travels, and even his writing. The world’s pace might quicken, but wisdom grows only in the fertile soil of patience. The slow rhythm of the needle mirrored the deliberate pace of his life—not sluggish, but measured, intentional.
His thoughts wandered further, to the countless tools he had handled over the years. The plane that smoothed rough wood, the hammer that drove nails into place, the awl that pierced leather. Each tool was a partner, an extension of his will, but only when treated with care and respect. Neglect the tool, and it would fail you; force it, and it would break. But tend to it, and it would serve faithfully, as if it too understood the value of diligence.
Don reached for the mallet beside him, feeling its familiar weight. He thought of how this simple act of making could serve as a metaphor for his own life. Each stitch, each joint, was a prayer of sorts—a plea for guidance, a whisper of gratitude. The chair, like his life, was built slowly, thoughtfully, with room to adjust when needed and space to breathe when the work demanded rest.
As the sun began to dip, casting a warm glow over his workspace, Don tied off the final thread. He ran his hand over the completed section, feeling the firmness of the fabric, the smoothness of the seams. It was not perfect—nothing made by human hands ever was—but it was honest. And in its honesty, it was enough.
He sat back and let his eyes close for a moment, listening to the quiet. The work of his hands was complete for the day, but the work within—the quiet shaping of his thoughts, the alignment of his heart with his purpose—continued.
In the stillness, Don realised that slow woodworking, like slow living, was not about the speed of the hands but the posture of the soul. It was about making space for meaning, for connection, for the sacred in the ordinary. And as he rose to gather his tools, he knew that the chair he had just finished was not the only thing he had built that day.
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash
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