-I-

While enrolled in sculpture classes at the local university, I registered for a four-week Intro to Woodworking workshop, which was not part of the curriculum and which I took twice in a row. The teacher was an artist and an expert woodworker. He gushed for hours over different tools, teaching us how to use and care for each one.¹ He lit up when saying the name of a certain type of clamp, as one does when tripping over the syllables of the name of one’s beloved. He explained that in order to use sandpaper effectively, you must fold it over not once, but twice, so that the grit catches on itself. He taught us the difference between a Western hand saw and a Japanese hand saw, a lesson that still serves me in life as much as it did in class.

The teeth on a Western saw are oriented so that it cuts into the wood when you push the blade away from your body. It requires more force to operate and creates a wider and messier cut, called the “kerf.” On the other hand, the teeth on the Japanese saw are longer, more delicate, and the blade only cuts when you pull it toward you. It demands far less less effort than the Western saw, and it makes a cleaner more beautiful kerf, with less wood loss. Whenever possible, our teacher told us, an artist or craftsperson should aim to draw their materials toward them. It allows for more control, precision, and pleasure in working.

-II-

My best friend, RossLee, has a degenerative illness that creates a level of pain only those who’ve passed a kidney stone or given birth will ever know. The only difference is that Ross lives with it every minute, without respite. It seems hard to believe, so I will just say that it is unbelievable.

Whenever I ask Ross how the fuck on earth they are managing that level of constant exquisite pain, they always tell me: “I’m pulling it close.” The energy required to push it away, they say, makes it worse. They have developed a relationship with it that doesn’t involve having to resist or deny it or pretend it isn’t real.

-III-

The last two years have been unbearable for most of us for lots of different reasons. I’ve spent them numbing myself with booze or Netflix, or compulsively scrolling for dopamine hits on social media, which does little more than rub digital salt into all of my wounds. I keep trying to push away reality, as the kerf of my life gets wider and messier, creating more and more loss.

I don’t know that I can push it away anymore. I don’t think there’s anywhere else for the pain and uncertainty and heartbreak to go. I keep hearing Ross’s voice in my head. I remind myself what my teacher taught me, and which all artists instinctively know: that it is always better to draw the material of our lives toward us.

On the theme of pushing and pulling, please allow me to recommend to you one of the most perfect films I’ve seen in a long time. It’s small and intimate and precious.

I’m not the boss of you, but if you’re inclined to take my advice: don’t bother watching the trailer, because you’ll wish you hadn’t. Just trust me and watch the film. It’s called Language Lessons, and it’s free right now on HBO Max (or $2 in lots of other places).