"The Sled of Swans" (Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
When I first saw the sled, it was already very old. It had survived, lived, in three centuries; and, it might live in three more. The wood used to assemble it had come from a mighty oak in an ancient forest. The life of that tree still reverberated in the wood of this sled.
We often think of wood objects—tables, chairs, desks, and even sleds—as inanimate. Yet, they possess a life force of their own. It takes unique individuals to listen to these stories, to touch these memories. The woods—whether they be oak, birch, maple—carry the history of the forests, and then they gather to themselves the memories of their existence.
This sled was finely crafted by an artisan for a family that lived in a land where the winters were snowy and cold. It was built with magic in its wooden bones, gliding through the snow as gracefully as a swan across a frozen lake. It was solidly constructed to transport precious cargo—children bundled in woolen scarves, lively puppies and curled-up cats, stacks of groceries, and armfuls of wood for the hearth. In its very grain, this ancient sled held the echoes of laughter, the warmth of families, and the quiet joy of snowy paths traveled.
By its third century, the sled was worn and tired, no longer used as often. It resided for a time in an antique shop, admired but untouched. Eventually, it was purchased, not for use, but for display in a beautiful home. But fate had other plans. A fire struck the home, filling its walls with smoke and flame. Though the sled was not entirely consumed, it bore scars of the ordeal. The heat had cracked its varnish, and in its wooden heart, fear still trembled. It knew that its aged wood and timeworn finish were things that fire relished.
Yet, it survived.
Rescued from the charred remains of the home, the sled was taken to a woodworker for restoration. But this was no ordinary craftsman. This was a woodworker who could hear, who could feel the whispered stories within the wood. As he set to work—patching, strengthening, sanding, varnishing, painting—he listened. The sled told him of children’s laughter, of crisp winter mornings, of journeys under star-strewn skies. And so, with great care and reverence, the woodworker restored the sled to its former beauty.
On a snowy day, when all was complete, the sled sat outside once more, its polished runners gleaming under the winter sun. And as the wind whispered through the trees, the sled whispered too—a quiet "thank you" to the woodworker who had listened, who had understood.
Will this wonderful sled see another three centuries? That is a good question. Most likely, it will.
~Wylddane
(Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
We often think of wood objects—tables, chairs, desks, and even sleds—as inanimate. Yet, they possess a life force of their own. It takes unique individuals to listen to these stories, to touch these memories. The woods—whether they be oak, birch, maple—carry the history of the forests, and then they gather to themselves the memories of their existence.
This sled was finely crafted by an artisan for a family that lived in a land where the winters were snowy and cold. It was built with magic in its wooden bones, gliding through the snow as gracefully as a swan across a frozen lake. It was solidly constructed to transport precious cargo—children bundled in woolen scarves, lively puppies and curled-up cats, stacks of groceries, and armfuls of wood for the hearth. In its very grain, this ancient sled held the echoes of laughter, the warmth of families, and the quiet joy of snowy paths traveled.
By its third century, the sled was worn and tired, no longer used as often. It resided for a time in an antique shop, admired but untouched. Eventually, it was purchased, not for use, but for display in a beautiful home. But fate had other plans. A fire struck the home, filling its walls with smoke and flame. Though the sled was not entirely consumed, it bore scars of the ordeal. The heat had cracked its varnish, and in its wooden heart, fear still trembled. It knew that its aged wood and timeworn finish were things that fire relished.
Yet, it survived.
Rescued from the charred remains of the home, the sled was taken to a woodworker for restoration. But this was no ordinary craftsman. This was a woodworker who could hear, who could feel the whispered stories within the wood. As he set to work—patching, strengthening, sanding, varnishing, painting—he listened. The sled told him of children’s laughter, of crisp winter mornings, of journeys under star-strewn skies. And so, with great care and reverence, the woodworker restored the sled to its former beauty.
On a snowy day, when all was complete, the sled sat outside once more, its polished runners gleaming under the winter sun. And as the wind whispered through the trees, the sled whispered too—a quiet "thank you" to the woodworker who had listened, who had understood.
Will this wonderful sled see another three centuries? That is a good question. Most likely, it will.
~Wylddane
(Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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