An Act of Preservation

It’s no secret that for me, woodworking is an act of self-preservation.

In a world that moves fast—where we’re expected to polish, perfect, and produce—woodworking calls me to slow down. To notice. To care. Each project becomes a quiet refusal to rush, and a reminder that what’s made with intention still matters—especially when the story behind it is just as important as the piece itself.

This mid-century chair came to me worn from decades of use—missing a crossbar, water-stained, and softened at the edges by time. I didn’t try to erase its age. I chose to honor it. I replaced the missing piece with oak salvaged from a mantle in the home I grew up in. That wood once held family photos, birthday cards, and the small rituals of daily life. It bore witness to so many years of growing up—and now, it holds me.

Next to the chair sits a table, made from what was once just a piece of firewood. But instead of being consumed, it was transformed—charred, sealed, and made to last. It belongs beside the chair. A companion in survival. A reminder that even after fire, there is still form, still function, still beauty.

Together, these pieces tell a story:

To piece together what’s been broken.

To honor what’s been lost without trying to erase it.

To shape something lasting from what remains.

This is the heart of my work. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence. About turning salvaged wood into something strong, rooted, and real. About holding myself together, one careful act at a time.

Woodworking has taught me to see the value in what’s worn. To find beauty in knots and scratches, in the uneven and the unfinished. Every mark tells a story worth remembering. I’m not just preserving the material—I’m preserving meaning. Memory. Craft. I’m carrying forward a tradition built on care, patience, and intention.

Not to stay the same, but to stay whole. To hold on to myself.