This letter was sent to me by an old friend.

Hi, Gary!

May I give you a story, as promised?

The story is told that if you were a young person in medieval France embarking on a spiritual quest, if you were fortunate you might meet up with someone older, perhaps a teacher, who would say this to you: I think I understand what you are seeking. Let me give you the name of someone I know, a cobbler, in Dijon. I think that it might work out well if you were to become his apprentice. If that happens, let me give you one piece of advice. Don’t talk with him about spiritual matters; just let him teach you how to make shoes.

So, time passes, and you find yourself in Dijon, and you seek out the cobbler. Sure enough, as it works out, you become his apprentice.

Years pass, and you learn how to make shoes. Year after year, you measure people’s feet. You watch them walk. You listen as they tell you about their work, their daily activities, their lives, their yearnings. You make their shoes, you modify their shoes, you repair their shoes. Your shoes tell stories. You make wonderful shoes that enrich people’s lives.

More time passes, and one day, the cobbler says to you, You have become a fine cobbler. Your fingers listen to the leather, and your heart listens to the people who will wear your shoes. I am growing old, and soon I will reach the end of my life. I want to leave this shop in your hands.

You begin to protest, but the cobbler goes on.

Now hear me. One day, a young person will come to you, on some kind of spiritual quest. If it works out for this person to become your apprentice, let me give you one piece of advice. Don’t talk with him about spiritual matters. Just teach your apprentice how to make shoes.

Warmly, Herman

This question comes from a former student.

If a someone asks to borrow a prized chisel how would you politely decline the request? Paul F

My reply: There are several options.

Go Shakespearean:
What, you egg! Shag haired villain of treachery! [and then with a smile] Begone or I shall have to smite you!

Be helpful:
Please, please I invite you. Here are all of my tools, including this my most prized chisel, the one I dote upon, the chisel I grab for when I make only the most important of cuts. The central chisel of my life around which my woodworking life revolves. Please gaze upon it and upon them all and marvel at them as do I. But please please do not touch them. Look and marvel.

Finally, be direct:
When I die, you may touch my tools. If you wish to die, then you may touch them now.

Good luck to you sir.

Stick with this fact: your bench is the center of the universe. When a client calls and asks, why won’t the door shut after we moved the piece? Or why do we need the shim under that cabinet leg? Or how come the drawer sticks? Your reply is always the same: My bench is the center of the universe.

On my bench that piece was flat. On my bench that door swung perfectly. On my bench that drawer worked. On my bench I made it just right. Now it went to your house and things changed. That can happen because we’re talking about wood here. But I built it right and now it’s moved. At the center of the universe that piece was fine.

Things happen. Mention that too.

Now of course your work bench needs to be flat. Your bench needs to be level and sitting true. It may be shimmed at the foot because of your floor as well. But if you are building work on something that has a true flat surface then the work has a better chance of being built true.

Know that houses, old houses and new, have uneven floors or walls that aren’t plumb. Houses sag, floors twist. You should expect this. I have a standing cabinet in my house and the door on it will open perfectly if it sits to the right of the front door. Moved to the left side and the door barely opens and once open is a struggle to shut. I have to shim it with a phone book almost to account for the unevenness of the floor. When I do, it works great.

You sometimes want to ask yourself, as the maker, have my skills so deteriorated that I cannot build a square door or a cabinet that does not sag? And the answer is no, your skills have not deteriorated and floors and that old enemy gravity do not let up their pull. The front of a piece will sag to meet the floor unless you have shelves or rails every 8″ glued in and even then you will get twist to a piece on an uneven floor.

The secret is don’t sweat it. Tell your client that when you built the piece it was flat. It was square and it sat on your bench, perfectly. This should of course also be the truth. If it goes someplace else and now seems twisted, well that’s their fault, or their floor’s, not yours.

And this is not a simple ole’ move on your part. It’s true. Cabinets will sag. One student of mine delivered a piece and the floor was so out of true that he added almost a ½” shim under the front leg. The client was not happy with this indictment of his floor and wanted a fix. The fix was simple. Go to the opposite leg in back and shim that. That took care of the problem without anyone having to stare at the solution.

We have a bench making class coming up this month just in case you did not know. It’s a great trestle style design that is rock solid. Please consider building this treasure. It will teach you skills that you can carry with you down the road forever. We will have beech milled up and ready to cut mortises into. The stretchers are held in place with through wedges that really lock them in place. We add a top and vises and you’re working on a bench at your shop that is a pleasure to work on and to behold. Come join us. Just remember to shim your workbench true so that it will become the center of your universe.

I was walking the beagle this morning and I heard someone practicing violin in their house as we walked by. The player wasn’t new at it, but neither was he all that proficient. He was learning and repeating his scales. I’m no musician so I cannot say what kind of scale it was, but I knew it wasn’t a beginner’s scale. There were small variations each time he went up it. But still it was clear that the musician was still learning. He was halting at times, but on he pressed. It was good to hear this.

I thought to myself what a great violinist would do with these same scales and how they would sound. I’m sure they would sound different of course. I’m certain they would have more clarity and richness, but finally as the music ebbed as we walked further away, I realized that they would have a precision to them that this player lacked. A note by note familiarity that made each sound separate and clear. And even though both players played the same notes, the pupil would make his into just sound while the master would make his brilliant.

There is only one way to this type of proficiency and the budding violinist this morning knew it: Practice.
Keep practicing until the notes have the precision they require. It is the difference I think between study and mastery. In the one you stumble, you halt, you need to stop and start again. In the other, there is a seamless quality.

No one can anoint you with this quality. One isn’t born with it nor can you buy it with a jig, book, or a week of class.

You have to practice. What is the math on mastery now? 10,000 hours or some such. That’s only four years of work. I think it takes far more than that but perhaps that’s just me. It takes effort and practice again and again to become truly good at something.

I worked one summer for one week teaching a class at a prestigious school in Colorado. My neighboring instructor was a Japanese Living Treasure in ceramics. That is he had been honored by his country for his contributions as a potter for his lifelong work. He had, as his assistant, his daughter. One would not have placed the two in the same family. The small man with a bent look to him and his worn hands and the young woman with an armada of earrings cascading down her face. But there was the family both practicing pottery.

It was her job as his assistant to do many chores for him but for herself her work was simple. Make a pot. It takes minutes to do this. Make a pot and crush it. Then make the same pot, the same shape again and crush it. Repeat. And she did this for hours. Make the same pot with the same shape and learn the shape and learn the movements and learn how her hands were to be held and how the clay felt under them and how the water moistened and eased the work and how the speed of the wheel made a difference and how the light changed how the pot looked and if a bird sounded how this affected the pot and with each throw, with each pot, she became more practiced. She learned this pot and took it inside herself. She trained her hands to feel it, her eyes to see it, her mind to know it, her breath to breath this pot into life. Each time.

Each time the same. Precisely.

In our world, in this our culture, such practice is mythic. Sonny Rollins on the Brooklyn Bridge or Cal Ripken and two thousand baseball games. But nowadays, it’s enough to say I’ve studied for two weekends and now I’m a master.

Perhaps.

I know that it took me years to become proficient. And years more to master this work. To have precision. It doesn’t happen like a stroll down the block and suddenly you turn a corner. No, precision and mastery take time and one day you will look up and listen to what you’ve just built and understand that it has precision and clarity like you didn’t have when you started. It just happened all of a sudden over many years. Enjoy the pace of it. It only gets better.

Investing is an act of pure faith these days. In these strange and difficult days, investing in anything takes nerves of steel and hardy determination. But I have a sure thing for you. A can’t miss proposition. There is a guaranteed return on this investment. [Now I’m sure you’ve heard that line before.] But I know this investment will work.

Try this: invest in yourself.

The stock market makes you sick to your stomach with its bounds and rebounds. The bond market teeters on an uncertain future. We have politicians on both sides of the aisle who will bankrupt us if reason cannot prevail. [I wonder if they have secured their own pensions?]

Forget those marketplaces. Invest in the one place you know will return your commitment to it: yourself. Invest in yourself, in your future, in your education. Learn to do something with your hands, your eyes, and your heart. Learn to work with tools and materials and build a piece of furniture that will last a lifetime. The Northwest Woodworking Studio offers a variety of classes, workshops, lectures, and the Mastery Program for all levels of woodworkers.

Believe me when I say that woodworking is a grand occupation of your time. It’s a terrible way to make a living, but a great way to live. Because being at the bench building something gives you a sense of accomplishment and fulfillment that no spreadsheet can, no computer altered image can, no conceptual flurry comes near to. You are in control at your bench. Given your particular abilities and tools, you can build something that speaks to your creativity, your precision, your sense of daring or restraint. But you can do this. You can make things and in turn help to make yourself. We can help show you how.

I spoke with a visitor recently to the Studio. I told him about this investment strategy of mine. He replied, “My dad always said, ‘You never see a Brinks truck in a funeral procession.’”

Yes the world is a scary place and like always, it may end tomorrow. But until then, enjoy your time, enjoy your abilities, take advantage of your curiosity. Come be a part of our community. Invest in yourself.