Ode to the Humble Wood Pile
HAVE YOU EVER NOTICED that doing a chore one day can be routine and on another it can bring back a flood of memories, thoughts and inspiration?
For instance, I’ve spent a good deal of time stacking wood for burning this winter as it is our only heat source. The most recent act of hauling and stacking brought me back to my childhood when my sister, parents and I would do this chore together. All these years later the memory is vivd - the coolness of the fall season, the seemingly insurmountable mountain of split wood, my arms laden heavy with logs, little legs marching from the large heap to its destination along side the garage.
I can picture the precision of the rows of split logs, how the ends were built up in an alternating Jenga style for stability and spaced for good air flow. At the time I thought it was ridiculous at my Dad’s insistence that the rows be straight, orderly, not too high, definitely with no lean. And then if it were to bow out in one direction or another… logs were removed, adjustments made then restacked. As a kid I thought this method to be military-esque, regulations to keep us busy and quite frankly, to torture us.
Ah, the perspective of youth…
Little Me and Dad.
I have such fond memories of exploring these woods as a kid (without a chainsaw!).
As happens with the passage of time (some would call it maturity), the process of stacking wood now doesn’t feel like such a ‘chore’ but something with a larger value. While my approach to stacking a wood pile is slightly more relaxed than those of my childhood memories, I find I take pride in it as I know my dad did. As a kid I did such chores because I was told to do so, most likely grumbling the entire time. These days, stacking wood has gone far beyond a means to an end. It’s a symbol of quality, intention and care.
My approach to daily tasks has evolved. I certainly still have my moments, but now I am actively chosing to approach chores with curiosity, wonder and appreciation. By engaging my senses I find it’s inviting connections and memories, inspiration and joy, harmony and rhythm; essentially taking on a new richness.
For example, through observation and the hands-on nature of the work, I can tell the difference in the age of the wood by its weight (dry wood is lighter than fresh), its color (dryer wood fades to gray where fresh wood is darker), and the sound (drier wood has a bit of a hollow *clunk* where as fresh wood has a thud when dropped against another). The form and texture of the logs change with age too. The once tight structure gives way to bark separating from the core and the tree rings raise. The scent of the wood changes too.
This is what I see:
This wood pile recently brought back another wood related memory. It was of a log home my husband and our then young daughters lived in while in British Columbia. The logs were of Cedar which had been felled from the property many years before. While smooth to the touch they had the visible knots and nubby remnants of branches on both the interior and exterior of the house. The log colors were a variety of mahogany and a reddish amber with patches of dark honey tones.
Our girls and the log house.
British Columbia was a
magical place.
These memories have inspired work in the studio from drawings, color palettes and repeat patterns. Here is one of them. I think it would be fun as wallpaper in a cabin.
While this wood is serving the purpose of heating our home, with each log I put on the fire I do take a moment to recognize the tree’s life cycle and whisper gratitude for all of its incarnations. I give thanks for the warmth it is providing, I recognize the life it supported (birds, insects, animals) while standing, the shade it cast, the splendor of its leaves in autumn, the soil its roots held in place, the oxygen it expressed and the ash that will soon help to regenerate the soil.
"He who plants a tree, plants a hope."
Lucy Larcom
1824-1893
Poet, Author and Educator at Wheaton Female Seminary (now Wheaton College)