Working on furniture has done more good for my perfectionism than anything else, aside from therapy. Every afternoon, rain or shine, whether I have the necessary supplies or not, I have to figure out the next step. I must get the piece to market.
It would appear that I work on furniture. But at any given moment, I am rarely working on furniture. I’m trying to unload a lowboy dresser out of my truck, by myself, without damaging the piece. I’m placing centimeter by centimeter of painter’s tape. I’m washing paintbrushes. I’m trying to locate a single screw that I saw no less than ten seconds ago. I’m messaging a person on Facebook who asked for the dimensions of my piece when the dimensions are clearly listed in my description.
I’m figuring the next thing out, my real job. Most days, it’s horrifically humbling.
With every piece, the whole job looks doomed for a stretch. I have no idea how it’ll work out. I’m convinced the piece will never come together. Here, I get stuck in a paralysis of sorts, where I search Google for the perfect missing piece or daydream about finding the exact piece I need on another theoretical piece of antique furniture that just happens to theoretically exist in my city. When these pipe-dreams burst—as they always do—I’m forced to get relative with my situation and begin. I’m forced to do the most mundane thing first, which is often sanding. So, l sand the bastard. Next, it gets thoroughly cleaned. By then, several hours later, I’m humming along, layering on stain, sealer, toner, and lacquer, my search for the perfect solution an afterthought. When the job is finished, I often chuckle at that period of paralysis; the solution always arrives, somehow. And it wasn’t perfect. But it got the job got done.
When I surrender to the work, when I embrace not having the answers, and when I’m working on the piece, the answers come. I’m starting to believe the piece intentionally hides the solution from me until I’ve put in enough sweat and grind to earn it. And you know, I like it like that (after the piece is finished).
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
(As in furniture, I often waited to long in my life for the perfect opportunity to carry me from medicine. This week, I wrote about the one ability that helped me build my way out.)