About a week ago my cousin Dora Ines and her partner Del decided to visit. Dora and Del have a place across the road from us and as I’ve mentioned in previous posts we live in an isolated spot far from what some choose to call civilization. I was in my little shop working a rasp across a piece of mesquite when the two showed up. Dora is an accomplished artist who makes her own jewelry and weaves intricate cloth used in various religious sacraments. By the way, she just finished making a new studio and in a couple of weeks I hope to show you pictures of her work. An artist colony of sorts we have here with Dora Ines making her jewelry and luxurious cloth and I engaged in my writing as well as making knives, selfbows and a few other things. Dora’s father and my mother were brother and sister and she and I grew up together in the ranch country.
When Del saw me using the rasp he said, “Why don’t you just use an electric lathe and a belt sander?” I was about to answer but Dora came to my defense: “Because then it wouldn’t be quiet,” she said.
And I realized more than ever how much Dora and I have in common. We grew up loving the woods and holding nature’s quiet dear to our hearts. We revel at the site of a bird perched on a branch, or the sounds of an owl in the night. We’ll sit and listen to the yaps and yodels of coyotes and lament the fact that in some parts of Texas people live in fear of the little dogs and you can wait for days, weeks and months and never hear their serenades. Dora and I have camped in the brushlands of South Texas and Mexico and now that those who were dear to us are gone we have each other to help revisit those times. For in our youth the brushlands sprawled as far as the eye could see and never did we imagine that humans, in their rapacious quests and greed, would annihilate most of it. Perhaps that is why we both live in this isolated place. Woe to anyone who might come along and want to destroy any part of it. For in the autumn of our years we have little patience with those who see the world as something bestowed strictly for their personal consumption and enrichment.
So as I often do I spent several hours sitting under the roof of my shed with a small axe and a piece of mesquite in my hands. The quiet seemed to exude from the ground as well as from endless stars held still in the night. Interrupted only by the occasional hoots of a couple of great-horned owls, the shriek of a barn owl, and the falsetto wailings of coyotes both near and far and, of course, the rhythmic taps from my little axe as a knife handle began to take shape. Yes, I do own a belt sander but I detest the contraption. Clouds of sawdust or metal flakes pollute the air and the wailing—an incongruent scream in the night—destroys the placidity of my surroundings. Belt sanders, angle grinders, and power this and power that were made for factories and cities and for lovers of tractors and bulldozers and perhaps heavy metal music. But not here. Not in this place where for a few moments I stopped and listened to geese migrating south overhead. Other night birds came to visit. A pauraque and a screech owl and even the crackling grunts of a family of raccoons skirting the edge of the woods on their way to where I dumped scraps just for them.
Whether you call it dasein, or flow, or simply to be lost in the moment, the act of taking something as simple as a sharp axe, a piece of wood and coupling it with a dark and quiet night and you have the makings for the immersion of self into the universe. You’ll never hear it with a belt sander or a spinning lathe, or when a tractor grunts nearby. You can only hear it when there are few sounds to stand in the way.
Was it one hour or two? I’m not really sure, nor do I care. I was alive and life was good. Yesterday, I had to drive into the city 65 miles away. Too much noise, too many people, crazy drivers, bad smells, sirens, congestion….
Dora Ines goes to town only once a month, but I think she would be fine if she never had to go to the city. I’ve trimmed my visits down to twice a month, and even that is too much. We’ve talked to people who say they won’t come out here because “it’s just too quiet.” Others can’t stand the isolation. Some people around here will look for any excuse to drive into town. We see through their ruse and to each his own. I have been asked to make a selfbow and some arrows for a museum as well as some other woodcraft articles. I’ll be busy in my little workshop. Listening to the night sounds of coyotes and birds and the breeze skittering along the treetops. And yes, hearing as well the musical sound of a rasp working wood as well as the hypnotic taps of my little axe.