woodchips and sandpaper

Ah, that smell. It takes me back in time to walking into my father’s woodshop as he worked on his latest project. The sharp whir of the bandsaw and sight of woodchips flying like sparks were a normal picture. Sometimes he would produce beautifully craft birdhouses. Another time he made a gorgeously stained nightstand for my brother. When I was a child, he made furniture for my dolls and a desk for me. His hands are rough and cracked, proof of his years of hardwork and labor. I always looked up to him for his talent to be able to create wonderful things out of wonderfully ordinary pieces of wood. It astounded me as to how one was able to turn something so beautiful from the ordinary. I wanted to be able to do that.

But try as I might, I never did have the knack for woodworking as he. Things always came out a little lopsided or uneven or ugly. My hands did not understand. I’ve always wished I had the talent my father possesses. He never ridiculed me for not having his talent, rather he told me that my talent for turning the regular into the extraordinary lies in other things. We all have the ability to create beauty, but each in our own, individual way.

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