In Praise of the Slow Cure

Wood artisan John Lindsay expands my notions of the possible. I call him the Wood Whisperer. In following one of his works-in-progress, I’ve gained a new outlook on personal transition.

ACT I: John starts with one weeping willow, maimed by storm. The trunk, in its healing wisdom, conceived this burl, which, over time, grew around the wound.

Though grotesque, deep in its core there are patterns like water, a range of hues, and bouquets of small knots formed from dormant buds.

Untapped potential . . .

ACT II: The lathe spins. John’s chisel, pressed against the burl, turns away what’s not needed, revealing form. Careful work exposes grain elegant as marbled paper.

See the peacock at rest? The lancet-shaped leaf, like a window?

Friend, a bowl is for holding. From trauma, Beauty’s choicest vessels arise.

Isn’t this our story, too?

The world turns. Lightning strikes our family tree in the form of illness, career upheaval, betrayal. Divorce. Death.

Or new and unnerving opportunity.

Transitions often derail us. Bewildered, hurting, we seek a fast cure.

Look again at the burl, seen below in an earlier stage. See the artisan’s “X”?

The slow “hollowing out” is part of the artistry.

In every soul untapped beauties await the right time to be brought forth.

As we yield, the Spirit pares away stories we’ve told ourselves about how others have injured or stymied our lives, our hopes.

Self-imposed wounds also need curing. We’re too old, too young, too poor. Too late. What we secretly long to try feels trivial. Or impossible. We lack time and support, talent. Faith.

Like the tree with its slow cure we grow thicker skins to mask our pain.

And the Soul Burl expands. In shielding the original wound, it also stifles budding growth, creates dark spots and uneven texture. Each burl, unique as a scar, is potentially lovely and, structurally, weak.

The lathe master attends weakness wisely. John says the work of turning “arrives at the shape the wood gives him, as he frequently is not allowed what he’d like.”

Give the burl a voice, and it might say: “I always thought I would . . . or, Now I’ll probably never . . .”

Ask John, and he might say: “This willow burl is a once-in-a-blue-moon knot of healing and hurt and potential. And it’s as hard as anything I have ever turned.”

How hard am I to turn? Wait, I think I already know. Well, it takes as long as it takes. As Orson Welles once declared, “We will sell no wine before its time.”

ACT III: Once the creator and the created agree on a shape, the next phase unfolds.

“Epoxy,” John says, “mixed to a slow cure, finds all the cracks and stabilizes them.” He coats the bowl inside and outside because “Wood this highly figured (i.e. patterned by stress) can come apart at lathe speeds of 250- or 500-RPM.”

Then he finesses away the excess glue. “The goal,” he says, “is to get the flaws to the point where they are gossamer thin, but still hold the rest of the vessel together.”

Ah.

Consider the slow and sticky, binding-up enterprise we call grace. Holding us together, flaws and all.

Re-shaping our stories in unparalleled ways.

Once-in-a-blue-moon you. And me.

MAKING IT PERSONAL:

What thoughts and feelings does this idea of embracing a slow cure stir up in you? I’d love to hear your insights in the Comments section below.

Lord of heaven’s lathe, hold me close as you lay your blade, with kindness and vision, against my life. “Turn away” all that does not belong. Bring forth the shine that reflects your grace at work. Amen

John also makes furniture, and much more. Visit his website gallery and watch a brief video showcasing John’s recent collaboration with other artists in the re-creation of King Tut’s fabulous chariot (for the Milwaukee Public Museum). http://www.johnwilliamlindsay.com

Or visit him on Facebook: John William Lindsay

Photos by John Lindsay, Used by permission