I SHOULD SPLIT MORE WOOD

Image by Abby Savage

Splitting wood a while ago, I relearned a lesson I thought I had learned, learning that a lesson yet unlearned is a lesson yet to be learned.

I learned that the lesson yet to be learned was the lesson to be taught, and there was no other teacher but me.

I had taught myself to split wood, using the axe head of the maul to make a split just wide enough to hammer a wedge into, using the hammer head of the maul to do so.  Sometimes, when the wood was larger than the fireplace or stove, I used two wedges. I would raise the maul arm’s length over my head, and bring the hammer down onto the wedge, not just using my shoulders and arms but my entire weight, squatting with the downward swing, using the hammer head to drive the wedge into the wood to split the log. That way, I could last all day.  I never missed the wedge because I would keep my eyes on its  broad back, never allowing thoughts of missing to enter my mind. The wood always split precisely where I had intended. The result was perfect-sized logs for the fire place and stove.

But this while ago, there were no wedges, just a 5–7-pound maul, its ax head sharp,  its hammer head large, but, since there were no wedges, there was no use for it. The wood had been cut the right lengths; it was up to me split it to fit the stove.

It was when the weight of the maul and the sharpness of its axe did not split the wood as I had intended that I learned the weight of the maul, the sharpness of its axe, and the size of the wood to be split had nothing to do with the splitting.

I had not learned how to split wood but to hit a wedge that split wood. That was the lesson to be learned. It is not the lesson to be taught.  In other words, what lesson do I have to teach myself that I have yet to learn?

In those always-hitting-the-maul days, the grass was green, the stars were bright, the leaves were yellow and red in the fall, and even if there was no snow, the sun would slant its winter light upon the resting land. With the swinging of the maul, the voices of men sawing logs and stacking those that had been split would mingle with those of the women stacking beside them or  preparing the communal meal from the kitchen. The soul-stabbing joy of my love-pal’s little voice cushioned my mind to rest upon the wedge and govern the downward swing and squat. There were no wayward thoughts to deviate mind from maul.

In the more recent time of splitting wood without a wedge, thoughts not consciously thought are enough to make me miss the mark. An inch or two, perhaps, to either side, no more but enough to mark the difference between the hitting-the-maul days of then and the no-wedge time of now. I have learned enough from that hitting-the- maul time at least to know that where the eyes go, so the maul follows. Sometimes, now, the mark, the maul, and the mind are one. There is companionship in such splitting of wood.  But now, more often than not, it is not. It is not the maul that does not hit the mark I have ordained into the wood but I.

My love-pal is gone.  Her little soul-stabbing voice does not call my name. There is a woman out there somewhere whom I can embrace and love and who will love me. Isn’t there? And two books left to write – will there be enough time to write them properly? Evil people have slipped from their sewers to destroy freedom. The time to remember the kind of September may possibly never be followed again.

And so, what do I do with the maul in my hand and the wood before me to be split?

Remember that the time to split wood is the time to split wood.

It always has been.