A Lesson from a Woodcuter

Years ago, I decided to start cleaning out the back part of the lot where my roommates and I lived. It had a lot of brambles, dead-fall, and such that gave it an untamed look. So I went and bought an axe, a machete, a pair of gloves, and a sharpening stone. Got home and want to work. Before too long I noticed the machete wasn't cutting nicely so I stopped and sharpened it for a while. Then went back to work. The whole time my mind was not thinking about how the land would look after I'm finished, and I wasn't thinking about what we were going to end up doing with it, or even how long it would take me to finish. I just kept thinking, what's next?

Every so often, I would stop to rest and noticed my arms were burning from all the sweat that kept dripping into all the scratches and cuts I received from the thorny vines, brambles and branches I kept clearing away. I didn't stop working and I didn't think about the pain. It was natural. You hack away at some bushes and try to clear some land…its' inevitable that you’re going to get scratched up. You just keep going.

After I cleared most of the brush, I went to chopping up the deadfall. Several trees lay about and many of them would make good firewood. So I chopped and cut into the first tree. I paced myself but didn't rest until I cut all the way through the trunk. My arms burned and my back grew taught each time I lifted the axe. But I wasn't thinking about this. I wasn't even thinking about how much it was going to hurt tomorrow and the day after. I just kept cutting. When I broke through it, I put the put the axe down and picked up the three or four foot piece and carried it away. More brambles and thorns caught at my legs but I didn't think about this. I thought about the best place to put the log. I found it, dropped the piece and went back to work.

The second cut took longer because I needed to take a break in the middle of it. I didn't think about how sore my arms were getting, but I did think about getting some fluids in me so I didn't get dehydrated. I didn't think about how much more of the tree needed to be cut up, but I did sharpen the axe while I rested.

Back to work.

I removed that piece the same I did the other, then went back, sharpened the blade again, took a drink, started on the next piece. This one took even longer than the others. I rested more frequently as my arms weakened for the constant lifting and dropping of the axe. My back grew uncomfortable and my legs began to burn from the strain. But I didn't think about this. I thought about making the right cut, chopping in a cross-cut pattern to be more effective. I thought about keeping the axe steady as it came down so as not to cause the blow to glance off and hurt me or damage the axe. But I didn't think about the pain of the scratches on my arms, the ache in my back, the burn in my legs, and now the numbness in my arms from the unrelenting blows. I just kept swinging.

During one of my breaks, my roommate came home. He offered to lend a hand. I accepted. He went to work. There was only a few inches to cut through, not very much, and he went at it without a word. I sat and watched how he held and swung the axe. The near perpendicular swings and the parallel cuts he made. The way he stood, slightly off balance so that he had to take a quick second to recover after each blow. I watched how it took him longer than I to cut through the little bit because he hadn't the practice and experience to do the job in a more efficient manor. Nevertheless, I didn't think about this. I thought about drinking some more Gatorade and resting before going back to cutting the tree apart. He did the job, though it was more of a struggle for him than for me. He did it with enthusiasm and intensity. And I let him without complaining, without guidance, without anything but thankfulness for the short respite and joy at seeing someone else benefit from the work.

Someone once said: Progress is a natural result of staying focused on the process of doing anything. In other words, Process begets Progress. That's discipline in a nutshell. Turns out that discipline is something imitated and learned. Certainly there are those with wills focused and strong enough to make that discipline come easy, but for the rest, it's trait developed over time. Watch or read interviews and biographies of any great person, especially the rags-to-riches types and you rarely find they fell into that greatness on accident, haphazardly. They worked, often very hard, to reach that level.

In his younger years my brother was into body building. I was into video games. Everything he did seemed to come easy between his workout routine, job, and leisure activities. He always walked with the air of constant success. Even in the video games I was dumping my youthful hours into, perfecting skills and technique, finding the shortcuts and power-ups to do it faster, better, he would still crush me. Repeatedly. 

And he viewed confrontation as something to better himself. He didn't invite it, necessarily, but he wouldn't hide from it. After one particularly cruel thrashing he gave me playing one our favorite games, I exploded at him. His response - "Dude, just play the game. You play with cheats and look for all the tricks. Just play the game." In today's lingo - git gud.

It was years later before I realized what he meant. And it's something I share with my kids now. Play the game. No cheats, no shortcuts. Sure, you can ask for help, look for tips, but don't take the easy path. And remember, there will always be someone better than you, just like you will always be better than somebody else. 

Clearing that lot was one of those moments. My roommate was inexperienced with an axe whereas I grew up chopping wood. Doing it wasn't glamorous or dazzling, but it was satisfying. And in part that's where my work ethic comes from. I hunt the same piece of land year after year and I've been successful at it. Yes, there's other properties with big deer and more plentiful options. And yes, I've scouted them, hunted them, and harvested a time or two. Is it worth it? Yes. But hunting this little slice of woods I go to, that's where the discipline was built. Cutting the lanes, scouting the right place to hang the stand, food plots, and feeders. Checking their movements and setting up pinch points and funnels. Watching the boundary lines. It all comes from the doing of it. The discipline. 

My kids love to come hunting with me. But they hate the hours of sitting and the hours of prep to get the blind in place, the stands hung, the early morning hours when everything is still asleep. They want the adrenaline. The fever, the rush. They want the harvest without the trek in and the packing out. 

My oldest is just to the age where he's able to responsibly use a rifle. And last year was his first year small game hunting, unsuccessful though it was. Unlike video games, targets don't typically stand still and wait for you to shoot them. Nor do they step out in the clear and give you a perfect sight window. But he learned a little more about the waiting, the preparation, and the discipline it takes to hit your mark.

Most often we are hobbled more by our perception, our thoughts of the situation or challenge, rather than act of it. What I mean is this, I didn't stop and think about the scratches from brambles or aches from constantly sawing and chopping and lifting or the blisters where the tools rubbed my hands. They were part of it. They were expected. There was no getting around it. Well, not by hand anyways. And that's just it. If you ever played a sport, you took your lumps - losses and failures. If you stuck with it, you understood discipline and perseverance. Careers and passions share that commonality. 

My career path has been anything but straightforward. Companies close, positions disappear, better opportunities present themselves. Sometimes in the short term, sometimes much longer. But they are all means to an end. Not that collecting a paycheck and being financially secure is that end. But there's more, more to work, more to play, more to relationships than the spurious moments we find so fulfilling until they pass. 

I'm in my mid-forties now. Twenty plus years have sped by since I cleared that lot. My roommates, like myself, are married with kids and in new places, far removed from that house in a small neighborhood somewhere in Maryland. But the lessons learned are ongoing. I don't know if my roommate had the same or even different revelation as I did, but it took years for that experience to finally blossom into something life changing. But that's discipline - progress through process.