The Journey of Japanese Planes and a Whole Lot of Humility
You know, it’s funny how woodworking can lead you down some winding paths. I’ve spent countless evenings out in my garage after a long day at work, just trying to whip up something nice with my hands. A couple of months back, I decided to dive into using Japanese planes. Now, let me tell you, I thought I was ready for this venture, but the reality hit harder than I expected.
So, there I was, my trusty coffee mug in hand—nothing fancy, just a chipped one from when my wife and I first got married. It’s not about the mug, really; it’s about what’s in it. I’d sip slowly, gearing up for a Saturday full of excitement. I had this beautiful piece of cherry wood, and I figured, hey, what better wood to start my plane journey with than something that smells so good? Cherry has this sweet, nutty aroma when you work it, a kind of fragrance that makes you feel at home. I can still picture it: that gorgeous reddish hue glimmering under the fluorescent lights of my garage.
Now, if you’ve ever used a traditional Western plane, switching to a Japanese one is like shifting gears in a foreign car. I first picked up a Nishiki No. 2, a gorgeous little plane that promised precision. I had read all about it, admired its craftsmanship online, and thought I could tackle this with ease. Ha! I had no idea what was coming.
The First Mistake
The first time I pulled it across that cherry, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Instead of a smooth slice, it felt like dragging a spoon across gravel. What the heck? I couldn’t figure out if I was using it wrong or if it was simply a bad piece of wood. In moments like this, I’ve almost been tempted to throw things, you know? But then I remembered some advice I read—or more like skimmed—about tuning the blade.
So, I took the plunge and started fiddling with that little lever cap—took me a while to get it right. After what felt like a lifetime, I finally got the iron sharpened and set to a fine cut. When I managed to make that first pass and, oh boy, the shavings that curled off were like delicate, golden ribbons. I laughed out loud. It was like I had earned a small victory; it felt so rewarding!
The Setback That Almost Broke Me
But, as life goes, things turned south pretty quickly. I got a little cocky and decided to go for a wider board next. I grabbed a piece of soft maple, thinking it’d be a breeze, and yeah, you guessed it, I learned the hard way about my limiting abilities—or perhaps my lack of patience.
The moment I tried to plane that board, the heart of it snagged on something hidden. “What in the world?” I exclaimed. I should have known better; the wood had some hidden knots. They chewed right into that lovely blade I had just sharpened. My heart sank. I almost threw in the towel. I mean, who knew this was going to become such a battle?
I stood there for a minute, staring at this piece of wood like it had personally insulted me. It was one of those moments where you question your entire life choice, the kind of moment that made me feel like maybe my high school shop teacher was right all along. “Not everyone should have a saw,” he had joked.
Finding My Way Back
But, man, I remembered how great it felt to take small bites out of that cherry. So, I put my coffee down, took a deep breath, and started to think things through. I wanted to learn from this; it couldn’t end here. I pulled out my chisel—good old trusty Narex. I took my time and focused in, carving out that knot like a surgeon. It was hard work, but here’s the thing: the feeling of turning a problem into a solution—that’s the magic of woodworking.
After a couple of hours, with my back aching and the garage smelling like shavings and sweat, I finally got that maple smooth enough to move on. Getting back on that plane was like climbing on a bike again after a bad crash. It wasn’t just a lesson in woodworking; it was a lesson in perseverance.
Why I Keep Coming Back
Now, I’m not going to pretend like I’m some master craftsman; just the other day, I totally miscalculated a cut and ended up with two unusable pieces of wood. But who cares, right? Every mistake is just another chapter in this journey.
What I love most about the process is that it connects me to the world outside of my daily grind. Each plane stroke brings a sense of meditation; I can lose myself in the sounds—friction, shavings whispering against each other, and that satisfying thwack when the blade meets the wood.
So, if you’re thinking of trying your hand at woodworking—maybe with a Japanese plane or anything else—just go for it. Embrace the chaos. Lean into those moments where everything seems to go wrong; they’ll teach you more about yourself than any tutorial ever could. And just remember, it’s not about perfection—it’s about finding joy in any little triumphs along the way. We’re all just out here trying to make something beautiful out of the chaos, one plane stroke at a time. Cheers!
