Carve Life's Masterpiece

There have been moments when life felt like it handed me a block of wood and a carving knife—no instructions, just the tools. I didn’t always know what I was supposed to make of it. But over time, I began to notice that many people seem to be handed the same tools. Some know right away what to carve. Others, like me, stand there staring at the blank grain, wondering where to begin.

It’s been fascinating to observe how differently people approach this. I’ve seen those with a clear vision, chiseling with purpose from the very beginning. And I’ve also seen how easy it is to hesitate, to delay, and how in that pause, life—or someone else—can start shaping things on our behalf.

Looking back, I’ve often found myself slowly whittling away without knowing what I was creating. Sometimes it felt like shaping air—no form, just movement. But I started to sense that what I was really after wasn’t out there to be found. It was buried inside—something woven into the texture of my own being. When I allowed myself to follow that thread, even briefly, it felt like the wood began to offer up shapes of its own.

I’ve met people whose sculptures seem fully realized—symbols of something greater, almost mythic. A hawk here. A bull there. Some leave legacies behind in every careful cut. Others remain half-formed, tucked away, unfinished. I began wondering where I fit in that spectrum. My block still feels raw in places, but I can see where some curves have taken shape.

A line came to me recently:

“Inspiration that’s left to inspire fulfills its purpose. Inspiration left to acquire loses its way.”
I don’t know where it came from—maybe it was always with me.

It made me think about how often I’d looked outward, when what I needed was already present, quiet but persistent. There’s something powerful in recognizing that the act of carving doesn’t require certainty—just movement, attention, and a bit of trust in the process.

I turned 30 not long ago. That realization—that I could still carve something meaningful—didn’t feel too late. It felt timely. Maybe even urgent. The block gets smaller, yes. But the value isn’t in its size. Some of the most remarkable things are tiny—diamonds, seeds, moments.

So here I am, still carving. Still unsure. But now with a sense of wonder rather than dread. The wilderness of life is wide. And maybe the point isn't to finish the sculpture, but to feel it come into form, one careful cut at a time.