On Whittling

When I was 12-ish, Grandma and Grandpa Clark gave me this pocket knife for Christmas. I don’t care too much about presents — less all the time –but I’ve treasured this knife. It wasn’t a typical granddaughter gift, but it was something they knew I’d love; I’d spent countless hours sitting on the edge of the front porch with Grandpa, sending curls of collected sticks into the grass.

Whittling, of all things.

And now, Cooper’s death has whittled my priorities into a new shape; very few things actually matter, but when I care, I really care. Somehow, I find myself both more apathetic and more empathetic than ever before. My reality is rife with contradictions.

The pocket knife of life stripped away my protective bark and has begun carving me into a new existence. New, different, but not better. Better than Before is a dream, at least in this time on Earth. Still, the knife has a job to do. It’s here to cut, and the blade is sharp.

In true whittling form, the change is a gradual mix of good and bad. There are stray slashes to be managed — some vital part of me is gone — and the damage can’t be undone. The knife is unforgiving. Instead, the damage must be handled, covered, disguised. Shaped into something new.

Some of my sharper edges have been sliced away; this is apathy at work. On so many levels, I just don’t care. The material aspects of life are, ironically, immaterial. I don’t anger easily and I fear few things. Life’s knife taught me what to fear, when to rage, whether to care.

Apathy is probably a normal response at this point in grief, so I’m giving myself some slack on this one. Again, I don’t care.

This empathy, though.

In whittling away old edges and creating new, in carving grooves and reshaping my soul, the knife uncovered my grain. My grain cares deeply. My grain feels the hurt of the world, of my friends and family. My grain is a big softie. I may not care about the little things, but when I care, I care with all of me.

When Grandpa and I whittled, we pared down sticks that had fallen from the row of giant trees. Grandpa taught me how to handle a pocket knife, how to use it safely, how to guide and control it. The blade was sharp, but his hand was gentle and his words wise. I don’t remember a single nick in all those hours of whittling.

A new pile of shavings litters the ground before me, chunks and flakes and curls of myself, sliced off without my permission. Grandpa’s knife was sharp; Life’s knife is sharper yet, and the strokes and slices draw blood. Grandpa would not be impressed by the technique, but he would admire the grain.