Grain of Truth

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The full text of Grain of Truth is available here.

Grain of Truth: The Ancient Lessons of Craft

Grain of Truth is a book about the creative process; its flavors and shades and peculiar demands. The narrative follows the meandering track of my creative process through the course of just over a year, as I explore the work of my own hands as a guide in the unfolding of my awareness. Combining ancient Taoist philosophy with reflections on family, culture and nature, Grain of Truth offers a view of the diverse rewards of creative endeavor — which can be both nurturing and relentless.

Grain of Truth, shortlisted for the Governor General’s award (the highest literary award in Canada), is an exploration of creative work as devotion, as revelation, as a rough opening polished by the shapes of beauty. Through the experience of rebuilding a childhood sailing dinghy, crafting a garden lantern, making a musical instrument, or simply stacking lumber, I search for the essence of creativity. I show how the work of hands can fill each moment with new breath, new forms, so that the self becomes gossamer-light, a kite held aloft by unfathomable strings. This simple alchemy begins in the hand as it opens the palm and reaches, with supple fingers, outward.

Grain of Truth was published in 2001 to critical acclaim. Described as “gorgeous…teeming with insight and inspiration” by The Globe and Mail and “a polished, finished artifact” by The Calgary Herald, Grain of Truth was lauded for its lyricism and thoughtfulness. The Hamilton Spectator urged readers to “give yourself an evening in a quiet place and read this little book with attention. It could change your life.”

Reviews

The Hamilton Spectator

Give yourself an evening in a quiet place and read this little book with attention. It could change your life… Laird writes about wood with the voice of a poet and the eye of an artist…his sentences are spare, transparent, unobtrusive vehicles of meaning. With his prose he achieves a rare melding of form with content.

The Globe and Mail

Here is a book teeming with insight and inspiration – and even a few recipes for wood finishes….What I loved this first book is its surefootedness and supreme focus. This is a book, above all, about connectedness…Laird is a philosopher much influenced by Taoist thinking, and a poet with a great gift for language. No doubt he took the same sense of craft to the writing of this book as he did to the several projects he undertook in his workshop. With wood or words, his ‘seamless joining’ is admirable…Taking the time to build with care is an immensely rewarding endeavor, an act of faith and trust and courage. It’s a notion that most of us seem to have forgotten, and one that Ross Laird takes us back to in his gorgeous little book.\ (Lawrence Scanlan: see his review of A Stone’s Throw)

The Calgary Herald

Ross Laird’s first book is a rich amalgam of personal reflections, practical philosophy and lyrical description…What gives this book its depth is its fine integration of the personal and the universal…Grain of Truth is a polished, finished artifact.

Kirkus Reviews

Careful, congenial, Zen-inflected rustications on woodworking, and, by extension, an entire worldview…Laird has an admirable ability to focus closely, whether it be on the precise, demanding work of sharpening a knife on a water stone (then brooding on how the perfect edge is invisible, absent of light) or getting lost in the architecture of a woodpile, letting it incubate ideas on future cabinetwork. There’s a lively meditation, as he builds a wooden block plane, on the keen sensibility of one’s hands, and there’s a deconstruction of an old rowboat that turns into an archaeological dig through memory. Laird is ever-attentive to the moment of creative impulse…an elegant, calming pleasure to read.

Publishers Weekly

Laird, a poet and Vancouver native, reflects on the rewards and frustrations of woodworking in eight pensive chapters ingrained with sensual, sinuous language and an intuitive understanding of the topic’s metaphoric possibilities…Laird artfully conveys his appreciation for natural beauty and spontaneity, his reverence for hardwoods, tools and woodworking methods and his espousal of the Taoist principals that have sustained and nurtured his creative life. Indeed, his burnished prose style counterbalances what otherwise would have been an austere memoir of one man’s discipline, dedication to craft and Rilke-like embrace of solitude through work…This meditative book provides an inspiring glimpse into the creative process.

NAPRA (New Age Publishers and Retailers Association)

Exquisite, poetic writing on the subject of craft is a rarity. Laird is every bit the craftsman – as much of words as of the wooden objects he creates. A marimba for his children, a garden lamp, and the other projects he writes about are only the starting points on the internal journey of creativity his readers are invited to glimpse. He is meticulous in describing even so basic a process as making a wooden plane, and in his hands, the outward procedures involving angles and alignment become connected to an inner search for clarity of purpose. Readers will also appreciate the organization of the chapters into ancient symbols of Taoist life energies: probing Wind, Deep Water, Shallows, and the Unfathomable. The relationship between the materials of the earth and the process of transforming them to conform to the need or desire of an artist has never been delineated so eloquently. Enthralling reading for the creativity shelf.

An Excerpt from Grain of Truth

I stand in the great hall of the Museum of Anthropology in Vancouver, head bent back, gazing up forty feet to where precise images have been carved into cedar totem poles by craftsmen whose art has been almost entirely erased by time. This museum possesses one of the finest collections of carved wood artifacts in the world, and I feel quite at home here. Near the bottom of a nearby pole, a smooth-shouldered wolf rests in the shadow of a killer whale. The eye of the whale is a shadowed well. This wood, these bones, trace the nature and purpose of a vast awareness, a living spirit in the grain, each knot and every growth ring a secret hieroglyph worked carefully into many layers of meaning. The echo of leaves is here, the resonance of damp fields half submerged in twilight, of dark soil and tales of night. And long, interwoven strands of time knitted together by wood and human hands. The wood has been coaxed into shape — whittled, chiseled, sculpted with broad, incising strokes — by tools of utmost antiquity, by weapons, by stones, by meteors, by fragments of ships: countless forms oiled by luminous skin.

Although the focus of the collections is northwestern — hundreds of examples — I also find works from Indonesia and Greenland and China, specimens of all kinds and of diverse ages: an eagle with a five-foot, intricately carved beak, a tenebrous skull shape, moons and ravens and wild spirits of the forest. There are objects of great power here, and I am daunted by the virtuosity of craftsmanship displayed in so many of them. Working toward this level of refinement in carving will take me to the edge of my skill. But the spirit of creative work calls to whomever will listen, and as I gaze at these ethereal faces staring back from a lost age, their muted colors hiding a secret flame, once again I hear that whisper spiraling out from the primordial source of things.

In the instant I reach my hand to the wood and sense a silent energy thrumming inside, I become aware that many things will intrude to push and prod me out of this elemental state — mishaps and details and a pervasive lack of courage to do my absolutely best work — but an equal number will draw me back to the lucent and creative source. The stillness of that source lies behind the dream of an ancient, verdant grove that wakes me in the night, momentarily; it is the reason for my sudden pause, as I put the key in the lock, my knowledge that something fleetingly caught my eye — a shape I almost recognize — before stumbling into the house. Birds before morning and sand buried deep in the cold desert will together speak, reminding me that despite my umbrage and anticipation and indifference, behind my uncertain footfalls in the night’s shadow, quiet, undeniable hands usher me onward.

… Dark sky, cold rain, and a ground made bright by the sinuous shapes of wood sawn fresh from the tree: ivory of birch, faded porcelain of maple, linen of alder. There is some cypress, too, its scent of lemons reaching up from the wet soil to sting me with exhilaration. A black, rough flitch of walnut rests alongside the opened bole of a Douglas fir, its orange grain glowing from a sunrise heart. A woodpecker knocks once on the trunk of a cedar, then falls silent. I reach down to touch the alder, and in the moment of reaching, of touching the silent wood with its living core of mystery, it becomes clear what I must next do.

I’ve come again to Karl’s ramshackle wood yard to find some pieces for carving. Nothing is clear yet, nothing except this first step, which is to make peace with the fallen, restless wood so newly taken from the forest: to retrieve it and begin the long process of drying slabs for carving. I’ve returned, as I so often do, to a careful beginning, these first few crucial steps in which I try to coax the wood into new life by listening and feeling for the prevailing needs of the old. This cannot be done lightly or casually; trees thwarted from their nature by ill use will inevitably turn on the craftsman, splitting and checking. The character of the work is revealed in these first moments.

Wind flaps the corner of a tarp. A small branch clatters to the ground. I choose four round alder sections, bark intact, checks not yet formed in the core. And I take the cypress, too, sawn into rough boards but still thick enough for carving work. The wood is heavy and wet. I hoist the pieces through the tailgate of my station wagon and head home, listening for that discourse I know will come; the gentle opening of suggestions and demands and imprecations through which the work will slowly begin to grow. It is always thus, listening and waiting and reaching for an inscrutable source that guides my hand as a valley guides the river, shaping and being shaped as it wends toward the sea.

On top of the stack of Douglas fir beside my house a niche has been left by the boards I used to make the keel and seats for the dinghy. I place the alder and cypress in this niche. The wood lies neatly cocooned, taken in by the fir like a guest from the rain. It will rest here, somnolent through winter and fragrant in summer, until I can bring it into the shop for final drying.

As I cover the stack, my thoughts turning to the work ahead, I acknowledge that the wood’s redemption — its escape from dissolution — is also my own. We are bound now, fragments of becoming. We share the journey of the totem; the faces of the figures are hidden in my hand.

The totem is a spiritual heraldry. It describes, through a vast shorthand, the indications of the unfathomable. It is a finger pointing to the beginning, a wind blowing from a pristine field of possibility. It relates the tale of meteoric iron birthed as companion to the sun. Totems, like tools and the quiet in my shop, are reminders to remember, and to act.

I step into the landscape of my own totem. I see my grandmother, the falcon, her brow etched like the grain of rough cedar, weathered by war, made bright with family. I hear the voice of my mother, the wolf: first a clear call, then a tremor, and finally a wail. I feel the hands of my father, the porpoise: bashed thumb, strong fingers, palm enough like my own that I sometimes watch, looking for myself.

The territory brightens with faces. I find the eagle, Elizabeth, she who carries and sustains, whose touch is redolent with solace. Rowan, the deer, blackberry stains on her chin, shouts with joy as she runs through the golden field. And Avery, the seal, cradled by wonder, darts into the light.

In my own hands I study the small whittling scars, the insignia left by a mishap with bleached coral, the numb place where I almost sliced off my finger cutting firewood in the rain. I wonder what indelible traces will be left by this next endeavor — teeth marks from carved mouths. I reach toward a horizon of prophecy, to mentors and unknown guides, to an unbroken cord of lineage secured at the source by invisible hands.

This is where I begin: with everything.