The work doesn't begin in the shop.

It begins on back roads, in sawmills, in dusty old barns. I look for wood whose next chapter deserves as much care as its first.

I hand-select every board, and I've come to know the people who spend their lives finding extraordinary trees.

A woodworker writes the second life of a tree.

What began as gifts for my family became an obsession with material and memory. I think about the tree in my hands and the person I'm building for, and my work is to honor them both.

I think about the long arc of an object: where it comes from, who it serves, and what it outlives. The second life finds its meaning in the memories made around it.