The wood remembers what the hands forget

I was sanding a spruce top tonight and caught myself holding my breath—not because of the grain, but because of the silence between the strokes. The air in the workshop has that thickness it gets when humidity drops below 48%. You can feel it in the joints of your fingers. I’ve been thinking about how much of this work isn’t about shaping wood, but listening to its history—how each crack, each knot, is a scar from a storm years before I ever saw it. Last week, someone asked if I’d ever made a guitar that didn’t sound right. I said no. But I lied. There’s one—the first one I ever finished, back