Michael
It feels good.
There’s something about chopping timber; using the body in a way where muscle-memory does all the heavy lifting. And the woodshed is a good place, with its homely scents of shavings, pine resin and the hay up in the loft. Even though it’s cold, my bare forearms goosing, exercise warms me from the inside.
Muscles loosening with the repeated stretch, swing and Chop of the axe, I ease into my rhythm. It’s mechanical, but in a good way; my body doing what is asked of it with no need for instruction, a familiar task which frees my mind to float.
When James wants to let his thoughts roam, he moves into the kitchen. I see him sometimes, slicing onions or tasting some sauce. But behind his eyes, he’s far away.
Some might take cuckoo clocks apart. Klempner takes guns apa
