The ax smashes down, the solid thunk of metal on wood echoing up, out, and across the hollow. I bring the old, chipped blade up again, then drop it, sliding my hands down the shaft for momentum, letting gravity do the hard work.
I’ve got a rhythm going; a steady drumbeat against a backdrop of droning insectoid hum. The pace slows as my arms tire, my lungs cry out. The lactic acid surges and settles in my arms; the log isn’t even that thick, but it’s work to get through it.
It’s hot outside, and I’m sweaty. There’s brush to clear and weeds to whack ad infinitum at our new home, a never-ending battle against the tide of nature, one that would swallow us all back up in a maw of brambles and wild berries if we gave it half a chance.
I set my ax down and pick up my beer.
A key aspect of ritual is intentionality. Many behaviors and habits can become ritualized, made sacred and hallowed through so much repetition they become as normal as breathing. Your commute, that first cup of coffee, flipping open your laptop for the day. But true ritual—the kind we laud with major ceremony, like a wedding—requires a specific outlay of thoughtfulness to properly empower.
I’ve had this ax for a long time. It’s a simple felling ax with the words “American Hickory” running down the smooth wood of the handle. I’ve always loved the symbology of an ax: It’s part tree already, turned against its own kind, but only because we know wood is so strong and flexible and abundant. Swinging it, engaging all those muscles in your arms and back and shoulders, feeling the wood give under the force of your will, connects you to something primal, something ancient. I can feel my ancestors hewing logs for their homes, splitting cords for their hearths, making safe their land for the generations to come.
I want my land to know that I am here. With my blood and energy I manifest my intent to be in this place, in harmony as best I can, a steward to these branches and bowers. Forests run wild with chaos, seeded by their own selfless, solipsistic sanguinity to grow, grow, grow. It seems random to the layman, but to the old hands and hikers every protruding root and soggy slope and secluded clearing is of divine design. I seek not to box that in, but rather state my desire to be among it. What is yardwork, if not the hilarious hubris of humans trying to organize the entropy of nature?
I also have a chainsaw. A 20-inch Stihl FarmBoss, a complete monster of a machine capable of making short work of these logs. But to the peace of my trees, it sits in its carrier, and I bring the ax up again. Automation is wonderful … eventually. But these first few outings, I do my best not to fire up engines, leaving the work organic and raw. The roar of internal combustion is the roar of progress but it’s also dissonant and brutal and decidedly antithetical to being one with the natural world. As much as I love engines, I love tools and timbers more.
For me, the old-school and hands-on. My fingers wince as thorns poke through gloves, while sadistic oil from poison ivy slides across my skin. These woods are not afraid of me. Orb-weavers’ webs cover my face with sticky warnings, and old, gnawed bones wink memento mori. Those who know the forest know its dangers. Those who don’t are quick to suffer its unique sting.
My intention in my weekend rituals is to greet our trees with reverence and honor, show them the kind of person I am, explain to them, through sinew and succor, that I am here to help, not harm; coexist, not dominate. They respond in their own way: long, deep groans as wind shifts stiff bark and heartwood.
An ax is still an enemy to a tree, but they’ve known and know much worse. I raise my beer up to the shy crowns, who sway gently against the blue and white of late summer’s sultry sky. They meet my toast with a gentle whisper of wind through leaves, raining yellow and gold onto my head. They know I am here to enjoy, not destroy. I take a sip. One of the top five beers a person can drink: one drunk in celebration of hard work done, place established.
As I work, 10,000 more seeds shoot out tiny roots, setting up my next 20 years of projects. It’s a Sisyphean joy; work that never ends but that I never grow tired of. It’s an excuse to get outside and be among the elder voices of this planet, a process I’ll forever cherish so long as I’m above the ground and not below it.
Another swing, but this time, the sound of the collision is dull and flat. I’m through the other side, and have to wipe the dirt from the edge of the blade. I throw the ax over my shoulder and take a deep breath. There’s still a lot to do, but for now, me and the trees have reached an understanding.
