The Will of the Wood

Archie slid his fingertips over all six surfaces of the wooden box, but could not detect a seam. It was as if it had been carved whole out of a single block of wood. The only feature that disabused him of this notion was that one of the panels was of blonde oak that contrasted sharply with the other five of rosewood. A sharp rap with the knuckle of his middle finger confirmed its hollowness.

“It’s masterful,” Archie exhaled. “The joinery is exquisite.” His master assented with a grunt and a barely perceptible nod. “How can I possibly achieve such results?”

His master’s sapphire eyes, embedded under a burled walnut brow topped with gray moss, peered at him.

“Do not thwart the will of the wood,” the master said, hefting the box in his left hand. “Let it become what it will.” He brought his right hand down and traced the grain of the wood with his forefinger, then his thumb. The blonde panel fell forward revealing the box’s hidden compartment.

“How can I emulate what I don’t understand?” Archie asked. The master exhaled slowly as if to deprive Archie’s doubts of oxygen.

“The whole is made up of parts, each of which has the attributes of the whole.” Archie stared at him blankly. “We are all part of the same dream. The anarchy of creation is thwarted by will. Let your will be a sail, not a cannon. A sailor does not fight the wind. A carpenter does not fight the wood. The seams on your boxes are scars from that fight.”

“How do I know the will of the wood?”

“See it as it is, with humility.”

“I don’t understand.” The master beckoned his apprentice over to the wall – expansive panels of oak interspersed with rough-hewn beams. He swept his hand across the grain.

“What do you see?”

“Swirls, like the folded cloth of a curtain.”

The master reached up and swept the curtain aside.

“Enter.”

A vast space expanded as far in every direction as Archie could see. Every surface appeared like that of a still pond, with strange objects protruding from them in a myriad of shapes and colors. Some glowing brightly and others dull and listless.

“Where is this?” Archie stammered.

“Here. Now and always.”

“What am I looking at?”

“The roots.”

“Of what?”

“Of reality. Just as trees have unseen roots that penetrate the ground as deeply as their canopy rises, so are all things in this world rooted in the depths of the consciousness from which they spring.” Archie looked down, puzzled.

“Master, what is this golden light that spreads from my feet like a shadow, but shines bright?”

“That is you. Your body is but a flower or a fruit that grows from you. Once it is plucked, you will grow another in the next season.”

“And the wood?”

“Now that you know its nature, you will know its will.”