Why My Workbench Is My Temple

On sawdust, silence, and the sacred rhythm of making things with your hands.

There’s a particular kind of silence you can only find in a workshop.

Not the empty kind. The kind that hums with purpose. The kind that settles in your bones the moment your hands touch the tools.

For me, it happens at the workbench.

No emails.

No meetings.

No theory.

Just wood. Tools. Time. Presence.

When I step up to the bench, something shifts.

My thoughts quiet.

My breathing slows.

My posture resets.

I’m not performing.

I’m not teaching.

I’m not solving problems for a client.

I’m building.

Sometimes, it’s a sketch that comes to life. Sometimes, it’s a repair that needs finesse. Sometimes, it’s just an excuse to move my hands and get out of my head. But every time, without fail, I come back changed.

The workbench is where I remember who I am.

People talk about meditation like it’s something you do in a quiet room, cross-legged on a cushion. And sure, I’ve done that too.

But there’s another kind of meditation that smells like sawdust and sounds like a sharp chisel slicing through pine.

It’s the meditation of motion, of rhythm.

Of work done with care and presence.

It’s where I hear myself think again

It’s where I connect to something older than me.

Something every maker, builder, and craftsman throughout history has known:

That to make something with your hands is to steady the mind.

That to build something real is to become real again.

So yeah, my workbench is a mess sometimes.

Covered in clamps, offcuts, and pencil shavings.

But it’s also sacred.

Not because of the tools.

Not because of what I make.

But because of what it makes in me.

Field Note:

You don’t need a cathedral to find meaning. Sometimes, all you need is a flat surface, a sharp blade, and the discipline to keep showing up.