Craft

The swoosh of the net. The hum of the saw. The tink of the mixer.

The waft of the whiskey. The thump of the punching bag. The thwoomp of the sail. 

The smolder of the cigar and clank of the hammer and scratch of the pen. 

Craft. 

Scribbles in notebooks tattered at the edges, crinkly to the touch. 

Well-worn pages, highlights in textbooks, interpretation and reinterpretation. 

The gritting of the teeth and clenching of the jaw and narrowing of the eyes. 

Craft. 

Molded, remolded, practiced, perfected. 

As it’s said, if I've learned anything it’s that I know nothing at all. I can only share what I’ve gathered, what I’ve observed to be the truth. And this is it…

Craft is the compass of meaning – if you're ever wandering, aimless, listen to it for a while. Trust its quivering needle as it guides you home.

Find your ax and sharpen it. Feel the intricacies of failure and the fuel of falling. Lose yourself in the thrills of iteration, in almost there’s and on the tip of my tongue’s and so…damn…close.

If a nobler pursuit exists, I can name only but a few. 

The carpenter blowing the sawdust off her first barstool. The writer inking the last dot of his debut novel. The archer hearing arrowhead pierce pylon. Bullseye. 

I don't pray you find success. I pray you find a practice that fills you with joy even in failure. 

If you do, you'll always have a job to do, through booms and busts. 

You'll always have a meaning to fall back on, through ascension and decline. 

And you'll always have an identity. One that no man, woman, or situation can strip from you. 

You'll be unstoppable, indestructible, unchainable. 

You'll be filled up with true, unconditional freedom – until it spills over, strands clinging to your glass's edge. 

Craft. The lamp that sends darkness fleeing. The tool that makes meaning visible…within reach.