Little Spruce

Dear Little Spruce,

I know you can not possibly understand the reason for your pain, the wrongs that have been endured.  I don’t have the guilt you probably think I should, If you even conceive of my existence.  What I do have, though, is compassion.  Love. Everything I have done is because I care for you so deeply.

You never imagined how I watched you as you grew surrounded by your family, swaying as the cool winds blew across the northern slope.  It was almost as if you leaned into the laughs of children rising up from the small village below.  Such joy.  You were beautiful, so full of potential and strength.  It was winter, just after the first dusting of snow.  Early morning.  You imagined the spring when your pine cones would bud as the edge of my saw made the first cut.  I remember the sap weeping, uncontrolled, down the bark.  When your confusion ended with the realization that spring would never come, it was my eyes that filled with tears.

To you I am certain my methods seem crude or even cruel, but you need to know that they are not.  I can not deny that I cut you down, that I pulled you from your beautiful mountain top, away from your family, away from your village.  I know I caused you to contemplate what you had done, why it would be you who was punished.  Nothing.  What you don’t see is the precision of every cut, even the time is chosen in the cool months to make for perfect aging.  I cut you on the quarter for strength and into perfectly sized billets to be dried.  This was never to punish you, but to craft you into something more, something it would be hard for you to grasp.  It will be at least ten years before the next step is ready to begin.

Please, Little Spruce, don’t hate me.  Let me try, as best as I can, to explain.

At this moment I would understand if you could only see me as the destroyer of families and the murderer of trees, but this is dwelling on just one hard moment.  If you could step back you would see there is so much more.  I am a sculptor and engineer, tool and varnish maker, musician and acoustician.  I bring to life the new and restore the damaged.  Yes, there is pain and loss in my work, but it is the only way.  I too hate the saw, but it is not the craftsman’s fault.

I will use my rare talent on you to sculpt an instrument which is both hard and delicate.  One that sings with mystery.  You will be made in the model of ancient and priceless samples that have come before you.  This will allow you to speak in your own voice, but with a timeless tone.  Drying as you are, in the dark, you can’t see the concerts you will play or the way you will be sought after.  As beautiful as you were as a tree, you were meant for so much more.  

Long before this sad moment I prepared for you.  I kept a set of specialized tools: knives and plane irons, chisels and gouges.  I maintained their razor sharp edges.  I would not use anything less than the best on you.  I even carefully crafted the varnish which would be applied.  I purified and bleached them in the sun.  I cooked together and mixed the exact resins which were needed.  While I slept at night, I dreamed of the perfect application to bring out all of your natural beauty.  You needed to look as perfect as you would sound.  Every element would make me proud to have my name upon you.

I imagine how the sounds caused by the bow on your strings will bounce around your body and fill the concert hall.  Every hidden modification and improvement I will make within you is to bring your voice to life.  Rich and with carrying power.  Easy on the player’s ear.  Enticing for the audience.  See, Little Spruce, in my heart you are not a damaged tree, but my child.  To me you are already the instrument you will become.

I know a tree is not a musician and not a violin maker.  So, you long for your mountain.  You blame me for your pain.  You ask what you had done, why I could not take the oak or the pine.  You even wonder why you could not have stayed just a little longer.  Heard the child’s laugh one more time.  I can not stay your grief.

What you need to know is you are not the first and will not be the last instrument I will craft.  There may be a moment when you will step onto the stage and give your new voice alone, but that is not your greatest purpose.  See that family that has passed before you, those that have too been crafted, wait for you on that stage.  There is an orchestra filled with violins and cellos, violas and basses all of which I have crafted to sing together.  They wait on that stage for you now.  They cheered at your selection.  They wait to be reunited with you.  You see, Little Spruce, I cry at the pain you must endure, but I can not feel guilt because I know what you will become.

I tell you all of this not so you will understand.  How could you?  Especially now, so overcome by loss. I tell you all of this to bring you hope.  Please, Little Spruce, trust me.  It is ok to long for all that you no longer have, but have faith that this old craftsman loves you and wants the best for you.

With love from seed until stage,

The Instrument Maker