An Old Friend in the Workshop

There is a particular feeling when I return to the workshop after time away. It is exciting, a calm peace, and a renewed joy for the work. Sometimes I walk into the shop and feel spellbound by my tools, new designs, and the quiet potential of unfinished wood waiting for attention.

The workshop, I’ve come to realize, is like an old friend. After seasons apart, you must become reacquainted. You notice small changes. You remember old habits. You fall back into familiar rhythms. But as with any true friendship, the return is not work. It is a pleasure. There is an ease to it. A sense that nothing has been lost, only held.

In the past year, my hands have spent more time in other places. In the garden. On the road with my family. At the hospital. On the floor building art rooms for my boys. I have been well fed from the garden, rejuvenated by travel, and quietly amazed at the growth my children have achieved in a season. I cannot always say exactly how these experiences will inform my craft. I only know that they do. That is why I let them happen. The inspiration arrives later, often unexpectedly, and I have learned to stay sensitive to those small sparks when they appear.

I no longer believe progress in craft happens linearly, in the same way we experience time. It would be unwise to think we are not progressing simply because we are not actively building. The mind rehearses constantly. It turns designs over in the background. It imagines solutions. It solves problems while we wash dishes or walk through the garden. The distance is part of the process. Like hardening a blade, the cooling is just as important as the fire.

Lately, my work has begun moving toward a more focused expression. Woodworking has always been my medium, but music has always been my language. I grew up surrounded by it. Drums, trumpet, piano, and eventually the guitar, which I have played since I was ten. I love music production, theory, and the complexity of sound. But I have always been equally fascinated by the tools that make music possible. Studio desks shaped to listening positions. Handmade guitar stands. Custom racks. Music stands built for the posture of a player. The furniture of music-making.

I built my own sit-stand studio desk because I like to stand while recording voiceovers and sometimes even while playing guitar. It keeps my monitors in the ideal listening position and supports the way I actually work. This is where I realized that the intersection of music and woodworking is not a departure from my craft. It is an authentic expression of it.

Now I am back at the bench, building my first guitar. Designing a modern music stand. Sketching a pedalboard. None of this feels rushed. None of it feels forced. It feels like the next season.

As a father, I have learned to live this way intentionally. When I am in the garden, I am in the garden. When I am with my children, I am fully there. When I return to the workshop, I bring my attention to the task in front of me. Not demanding constant output. Not chasing arbitrary milestones. Just doing the best work I can on the thing that is presently in my hands. That has been incredibly freeing.

If my sons read this someday, I hope they understand that varied interests are not a weakness. They are a gift. That wanting to farm can inform woodworking. That studying medicine can deepen musical understanding. That life is not meant to be lived all at once, but in seasons. In ebb and flow. In transitions. In presence. In acceptance.

And that there will always be time to pick up the instrument again. Or the hammer. Or the trowel. Or the stethoscope.

The bench will wait.