Looking DeeplyForest Contemplations and Woodshop Wonderings Over the course of 35 years, my husband has stewarded this forest where we live almost single-handedly. There are more trees standing here now than when he started, although the species are changing. Struggling red cedar and Douglas fir are being replaced by the more drought-resistant giant sequoia and coastal redwood, along with a myriad of deciduous trees that feed the family and are less susceptible to fire. Although the dead and dying come down when the time is right, the forest thrives, and so do we. Just yesterday, standing at the pond’s edge, ready for a soothing dip, I was stopped by the sight of a brown bat in broad daylight. I stood watching as it flew four circles above the pond. With each circle, it dipped and grabbed a bug off the surface. I had never seen a bat in action like this in the light of day. It was a moment of joy as I realized they too are returning and finding their home here. One morning I found myself sitting in the wood shop looking for solitude to write. I needed some time away from my busy family. Our open concept home provides little privacy and quiet. I can’t complain about that. Our layout happened by design—my design—to keep our kids close and the family connected. Mission accomplished on the home front, but I also need time alone. Sitting here in the wood shop, even as I turn my thoughts inward, my surroundings remind me of the forest outside. The furniture and many large slabs of wood around me are all built from this small, regenerative forest we call home. The posts and beams, stair treads, windowsills, and wide plank Douglas fir flooring of our home and outbuildings are all from here. I love taking afternoon tea with my old friend in the kitchen, whose trunk curves around our island, holding space for our family to come together. Wide old trees have provided our bathroom counters, and I’ve left all the worm trails and holes to remind us of the deep interconnectedness we have with the natural cycles of being. I look out my window and see the roof overhang milled by our old friend Ron, now departed. The uneven 2 x 6s were cut on our old mill, which never did cut straight. We still lovingly refer to these pieces as 2 x Rons. Nothing here is wasted. My garden pathways are made of chipped branches not big enough to keep for firewood. Sawdust from the mill creates mulch for our blueberry patch and fills buckets for the composting toilet system. The mill offcuts become our winter heat. As I sit in the wood shop writing, I feel the power of the trees around me, these massive timekeepers of the forest, now transformed. Over their lifetimes, they have endured many torrential rains, wracking winds, weighty snowstorms, droughts, and fires. If I look deeply into the grain of any piece, I can imagine the weather systems at the time. Wide gaps between the rings show a year of abundant rain and sun, the perfect mix for expansive growth. Other rings are so tight you can barely define one from the next. In years of drought, these mighty beings would have been just barely hanging on until winter rains provided relief. They had such a hold on the earth then, roots deep and entangled. They were the givers of life, taking in carbon dioxide and releasing oxygen. We humans are purified by their simple existence. My eye wanders around the shop. How is it that something so grand, once standing majestically in the wilds of nature, can become so very practical after death? Once casting its branches to the heavens, now transformed into a bench to rest on, a shelf to hold memories, a building frame that offers shelter, a table to share celebrations, a giver of warmth and light central to the comforts of home. Truly, they are all objects of art, still delivering a sense of wonder and reverence. Satisfied with my thoughts down on the page, I wander out into the forest looking for inspiration. I explore fallen trees to find them offering still, in their afterlives. I’m taken by the nurse logs feeding mycelium networks, holding precious moisture, and supplying aquifers, creating a system of health. Dead trees are anything but lifeless. They house bugs, birds, squirrels, and cougars while nourishing the understory for emerging growth. I can smell the decomposition of life still giving. Being mortal here amongst the trees suggests I be humble, take less, be more, and remember my connection to something bigger. Shrouded in my own quiet, I sense potential, and new beginnings. I found what I was seeking here in the forest as much as in the shop. I’m filled with peace and inspiration. I too have the power to change. Maybe shift from steward to storyteller, talker to listener, parent to crone. I came to the wood shop seeking solitude and left with a sense of communion, knowing that I am not alone and for this I am truly grateful. Heidi Cowan
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