The smell of fresh wood filled the air, warm and sweet like morning bread. I was only ten summers old when I watched Master Song, the village woodcarver, shape a grand bell stand from a single giant log. People came from miles away to watch. The curves danced like waves, and the wood looked as if it had always wanted to be that way.
"How did you do that?" I asked him, my voice barely louder than the whispering wind.
He looked up from his carving, his face full of laugh lines and quiet eyes. "I didn’t do anything," he said.
That didn’t make sense—not to a boy like me who believed that effort made everything happen. I pointed to the wood chips at his feet. "But you carved it. Everyone saw you!"
Master Song smiled and set down his carving knife. Then he motioned me to sit beside him on a flat stone. “Listen carefully,” he said. “When the request came from the temple to make the bell stand, I didn’t start right away. I fasted for seven days. After three days, I forgot my rewards. After five days, I forgot what people might say. After seven days, I forgot myself.”
I blinked. “You forgot yourself?”
He nodded. “Only then did I walk into the forest. And there, in silence, I saw this log. Not because I chose it, but because it called to me. Its shape held the bell stand already. All I had to do was remove what did not belong.”
I didn’t understand. How could not doing lead to such perfect doing? The grown-ups in our village always said, “Try harder.” But Master Song spoke of letting go.
For days after, I kept thinking about what he said. I tried to forget my own ideas like he did, but my thoughts raced like wild ducks. I wondered if I’d ever become a woodcarver like him.
One morning, Master Song asked me to carve a small bowl. I put all my effort into it, thinking of every stroke.
It was awful.
He looked at it gently and said, “You're holding the knife too tightly.”
“I wanted it to be perfect,” I said, almost in tears.
“And that is why it’s not,” he said. “When you chase the perfect, you stiffen. The bowl wants to be round. Let it show you how.”
The next day, I tried again—but this time, I breathed slower, listened to the grain. I didn't force. I let the knife glide. The bowl wasn’t perfect, but it felt right.
“That,” said Master Song, “is the way.”
Years later, I still remember that moment. Not just how the bowl looked, but how I felt making it—free, open, part of something bigger.
I didn't change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to force things, I remember the tree and the quiet man who listened more than he carved. I try to do a little less, and somehow, that’s when things come out just right.
That, I think, is the woodcarver’s secret.
The smell of fresh wood filled the air, warm and sweet like morning bread. I was only ten summers old when I watched Master Song, the village woodcarver, shape a grand bell stand from a single giant log. People came from miles away to watch. The curves danced like waves, and the wood looked as if it had always wanted to be that way.
"How did you do that?" I asked him, my voice barely louder than the whispering wind.
He looked up from his carving, his face full of laugh lines and quiet eyes. "I didn’t do anything," he said.
That didn’t make sense—not to a boy like me who believed that effort made everything happen. I pointed to the wood chips at his feet. "But you carved it. Everyone saw you!"
Master Song smiled and set down his carving knife. Then he motioned me to sit beside him on a flat stone. “Listen carefully,” he said. “When the request came from the temple to make the bell stand, I didn’t start right away. I fasted for seven days. After three days, I forgot my rewards. After five days, I forgot what people might say. After seven days, I forgot myself.”
I blinked. “You forgot yourself?”
He nodded. “Only then did I walk into the forest. And there, in silence, I saw this log. Not because I chose it, but because it called to me. Its shape held the bell stand already. All I had to do was remove what did not belong.”
I didn’t understand. How could not doing lead to such perfect doing? The grown-ups in our village always said, “Try harder.” But Master Song spoke of letting go.
For days after, I kept thinking about what he said. I tried to forget my own ideas like he did, but my thoughts raced like wild ducks. I wondered if I’d ever become a woodcarver like him.
One morning, Master Song asked me to carve a small bowl. I put all my effort into it, thinking of every stroke.
It was awful.
He looked at it gently and said, “You're holding the knife too tightly.”
“I wanted it to be perfect,” I said, almost in tears.
“And that is why it’s not,” he said. “When you chase the perfect, you stiffen. The bowl wants to be round. Let it show you how.”
The next day, I tried again—but this time, I breathed slower, listened to the grain. I didn't force. I let the knife glide. The bowl wasn’t perfect, but it felt right.
“That,” said Master Song, “is the way.”
Years later, I still remember that moment. Not just how the bowl looked, but how I felt making it—free, open, part of something bigger.
I didn't change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to force things, I remember the tree and the quiet man who listened more than he carved. I try to do a little less, and somehow, that’s when things come out just right.
That, I think, is the woodcarver’s secret.
