Thoughts while cutting wood

 I spent several hours last weekend

with friends,

 splitting wood.

I also gained several random insights while doing it.

The work is physical,

it can be hard on an old back

what with all the bending, 
lifting and stacking;

but it allows the eyes to observe

and the mind to ponder.

 BTW, we're collectively convinced you can tell the gender of the splitter/stacker 

by the 'composition' of the resulting stack.

The ones below were obviously created by male, "get 'er done" types.
 Look at the image above and see if you can guess which ones were done differently.

But I digress -

which is exactly how my mind works doing tasks
outside my usual routine.

 We weren't splitting logs using an old fashioned wedge and sledge hammer; 

that might be a more perfect way to work out aggressive tendencies 

but its not as efficient or as user friendly
as a gas powered splitter.

I don't know the technical and mechanical terms used to describe how it works

but basically you trap and squeeze a cut piece of wood between two metal ends 

until the pressure causes the wood to split 

along whatever 'fault lines' are inside the wood.

Think of it as a medieval torture device for logs.

 I noticed that you could frequently see the 'fault lines' in a piece of wood,

the places where age, wounds or illness had already left a mark,

the voids or spaces which would seemingly make 'the whole' crumble 

under intense pressure.

 I also noticed that in the majority of cases,

that's NOT where the logs split.

The obvious fault lines were, well, too obvious.

Maybe it's that things really are stronger at the broken places;

maybe it's the hidden weaknesses,

the faults we can't see that cause logs 
(and humans?)

to buckle under pressure.

 

  Maybe it's just that I'm a lousy guesser 

and an inexperienced woodsman.

Just something I noticed that I'm still thinking about.

I also was fascinated by the markings on cottonwood tree branches.

The variety of Cottonwood on the reservation is usually Populus sargentii,

'The Plains cottonwood'.

It was often the tallest tree found growing on the Plains at the time of western expansion.

It grows from 50 - 75 feet tall

and continues to be a sources of shelter and shade across the reservation. 

 

In the past, 

the trunks provided dugout canoes, 

the trees bark was used to produce both forage for horses 

and a bitter medicinal tea believed to have curative power.

The bark separates very easily from the wood,

but I don't know if that's a function of the fact

that we were dealing with dead wood

or if all cottonwood bark is so easily removed.

In a region with so few large trees, 

stands of cottonwood often served as gathering places and trail markers.

It quickly became my favorite wood to work with - 

but for none of those reasons above.

The loose cottonwood bark allows insects to get under it;

in their wake, 

they leave wonderful 'etchings' on the wood itself.

It was fascinating. 

I came to see them as hieroglyphics:

which is defined as

enigmatic or incomprehensible symbols or writing.

What stories they could tell if we could only decipher them;

how much they've seen standing sentry on the Plains,

what they've observed about the earth and its inhabitants;

what lessons they could impart if we had the inclination to listen.

My fascination and thoughts with wood etchings 

obviously influenced my interpretation of a print I saw later that day

in a local shop.

I began thinking about ancestors,
 'wrinkles', hers and mine,

not as the ravages of time and signs of decay

but as facial hieroglyphics,

indecipherable histories of all we've seen and experienced

in our decades of standing witness to our lives

and the lives of those around us.

Fanciful? Maybe

A romanticized version of the inevitability of skin losing estrogen 
and folding in on itself?

Perhaps.

But it was a comforting line of thought,

then and now.

I couldn't get the wisdom and kindness of her face

out of my mind, 
so I brought her home with me.

She'll join the painting of my great grandmother

as another elder,

another crone,

to usher me through this season of my life

which is so unlike any I've gone through before.

I'm grateful for their presence.

Sometimes, if you're lucky,

if you're listening,

chopping and splitting wood

is more than chopping and splitting wood.