The Maker I’ve Been Missing: The whisper from the bench

Lately, my days have been filled with conversations, deep ones.

I've been teaching, coaching, troubleshooting, and listening. Talking with clients about project chaos, with friends about meaning, with family about shifts. And in each of these moments, I've found something real. A flicker of purpose. A steady rhythm of giving. When I get to share what I've learned, what I've tested, and what I've refined, it fills a part of me that's hungry to serve.

But there's another part of me, just as hungry, that's been whispering lately.

It doesn't speak in strategies or slide decks. It doesn't care about positioning statements or pricing psychology.

It speaks in cedar and steel. In the weight of a mallet. In the scent of sawdust and the hum of a blade finding its line.

That part wants the bench again.

Not the one at the boardroom table.

The one in the studio.

The shop.

The dojo.

The place where hands think and minds go quiet.

Where you wrestle with material until something beautiful emerges, not because of your control, but because of your attention.

I've been reimagining what my ventures are and what they want to become. And again and again, the vision returns to the bench. To the shop I haven't visited enough. To the practice I've left dormant while I've been helping others with theirs.

Because here's what I know now: The more I teach, the more I need to do.

The more I guide, the more I must remember what it feels like to get lost in the process.

To forget the clock. To ruin a cut and fix it. To solve something with a clamp, a jig, or sheer stubbornness.

Teaching sharpens one part of the blade. But making sharpens the whole.

Without the bench, the words go hollow.

Without the studio, the strategy floats.

Without the work, the wisdom gets dusty.

It's not about building something for show. It's not even about finishing anything.

It's about staying honest.

Because you can't teach the craft if you've stopped being a maker.

So this morning, I'm listening to that whisper.

Not to burn it all down, but to return.

To the place where I began.

To the place where I still belong.

To the bench.

Field Note:

The teacher must stay close to the work. Because mastery isn't a title, it's a rhythm. And sometimes, the soul needs to make something again.