Finish, Fumes, and Love

Last month I finished building a coffee table for our living room. In the makings for almost a year (not due to the difficulty of the project but more-so my deficiency of proper tools), the supreme wood shop of my father-in-law catalyzed its completion. Yesterday the table stood proudly between the couch and the facing chair, topped with candles, coasters, and various books. This morning, the table lay belly-up in our basement as I worked new wax into the tight grain (I had finished it before, but the finish was too light for me. I like dark antique wax finish that gives the grain character and beauty to the flaws of my second-rate woodworking). It's during tedious and monotonous work like this that I can dream, remember and process.

"It makes you realize that your ways of loving her are really just ways you control her," agreed Connor. Last year the five of us had kidnapped Calvin and took him on a camping trip in Lake
Elsinore, CA for his bachelor party. After setting up camp and eating dinner, we built a fire, smoked cigars and ate stick bread*. The conversation had slowly and naturally drifted to marriage, of which only Connor and David knew anything. I didn't understand the comment, and I especially didn't understand that Connor and David seemed to understand one another. In their short experience of marriage, each of them seemed to have learned their best love was not enough; in fact, it often hurt their wives.

I rub the wax into the grain. Words and feelings from last night echo in my memory. I make careful passes over and over. I want to make sure it's perfect. What could I have done better? Where did all these flaws come from? I work. Time becomes increasingly irrelevant until I am dizzy from fumes. I open the doors, stand in the cold breeze and breathe.

Love is not a project. Love is not toxic. Love isn't working harder or trying better or pressing and filling and buffing and polishing perfect.

Love is fresh air in my lungs.



*Last summer Jono went to Sweden, where he learned about stick bread from the friends he met there at an adventure camp. We modified it a little but it's basically the same: build a fire, find a long stick, and wrap the end of it with dough made from self-rising flour, beer, and dried fruit. Sit around a campfire eating stick bread - it's like a s'more, only awesomer.