Mark Love Furniture
Custom Furniture Austin, Texas
1430 South Rainbow Ranch Road
Wimberley, Texas 78676
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The Healing Power of Making Stuff.

"The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise. Children are now tyrants, not the servants of their households. They no longer rise when elders enter the room. They contradict their parents, chatter before company, gobble up dainties at the table, cross their legs, and tyrannize their teachers." Stop nodding your head in agreement for one minute and guess who said this. Was it Andy Rooney? Archie Bunker? The old balcony guys from the Muppets? No, it was Socrates. About 400 B.C. Just in case you thought there was anything new or original about this feeling. Just in case you thought the current

Have I Wasted My Life?

If you visit my wood shop and look around for a while, you'll probably notice them, and you'll probably say something. Something like, "Wow that's a lot of nice looking wood in those barrels. You just gonna burn all that?" And if you're a blunt person -- say, not from the South -- you might shake your head and add, "Seems like a waste if you ask me." It's right now in the calendar, October, when my scrap wood supply levels always peak. No fires in the stove since March means I've been packing away all the little end cuts and strips and mess-ups from seven months of woodworking. Like some balding oversized squirrel, I hoard/prepare for winter all summer long. And it's nice wood, mostly. Expen


Working wood is always a rhythm. The mallet strikes the chisel, then raises up, then strikes it again. The hand plane sweeps the board, pulls back, then sweeps it again. The saw pulls, then pushes, then pulls once more. Again, and again, and again. Repeat, and repeat, and repeat. Even the wood, if you look closely, is made from rhythm. The rings are a repetitive story of robust growth and protective retraction. Of summers when the sap flows freely and the leaves are green and broad, gathering sunlight-food as if there is no end. But then, always, winters, when the light fades to a dim gray, when one must pull back and harden and protect, wondering if the sun will ever return. Our stories, l