Windows

I like windows. Among all the structures that make a home, windows are to me the most interesting ones. Not for what they actually are, but for the space they frame.

Windows come in all sizes and shapes, and locations. Some are no higher than the ground level, just enough for a beam of light and hope to streak into dark basements; others are on the roof, as to remind us that there is always an escape to the sky above. Some windows are huge, inundating the room with sunlight; some are narrow slits, just enough to let the archer point down his bow and arrow from his fortress dungeon, or for the condemned man to wait for the crack of dawn. We open windows to welcome fresh air into our homes, and we close them for protection from natural elements or for privacy. We decorate our windows with lace curtains, knickknacks, plants and flowers - small treasures we want to show off to the world.

There are few things in the house that change by the hour of the day, or by the seasons of the year, - but windows do. Clouds racing in the sky, trees shaking in the wind, rainbows and raindrops, sunrises and sunsets, a neighbor rushing by, the splendors of fall colors and the revival of spring, all are life pictures timed and framed by our windows. And when nighttime comes, a bit uneasy seeing myself reflected in the darkened glass pane of my window, I too draw down the shades and withdraw from the world.

Windows tell us so much about ourselves - how we see the world from the secure walls of our home, and what part of us we allow others to see. And like many questions and issues in life, windows are not defined by what they are, but by the perspectives they frame.

May your window frame, in this holiday season, be made of understanding, humility, and grace.

Chinh Le

Corvallis

(Published in the Gazette-Times, December 30^th, 2007)

Gardening

Autumn is such a nice time of the year in Corvallis. After a dry summer, the thirsty earth soaks up the gentle rain. In the hills above our town, shades of gold and orange dot the evergreen forest, as swirling clouds from the West announce the coming of winter.

October calls the gardener outdoors for many chores. I find my most peaceful moments raking leaves that whisper the sad song of good-byes, or pruning branches that bore us fruit and gave us shade, or planting bulbs that will herald the coming of spring. Kneeling over the earth, I find my best moments reflecting about myself, and the world around me. I am reminded that there are seasons to everything on this earth, and within us. That seeding, nurturing, reaping, pruning, and decaying are but cycles of life and death that make us who we are; that many a seeds I planted earlier in the spring never took roots, like many great ideas conceived in the passion of the moment never go on to change the world. Yet some seeds blown from somewhere manage to find a home in my own backyard; and that we can pray for sunshine and dance for rain, but much of what comes from the sky and the wind is beyond our control. We should just receive it with grace and humility. And that too much of a good thing can wilt plants, just like overeating can kill our bodies and greed can poison our souls.

The way we garden is an expression of ourselves or of our superego. A garden is a place where we think we can wrestle the control of living things from Mother Nature, and reshape the world, our world at least, to our own definition of beauty. Yes, I have to confess that in my garden, I have played God among living things, and divided the world between beautiful and undesirable, friends and foes, good and evil. In my garden, I have practiced racial profiling and affirmative action, and even ethnic cleansing with my weed digger, only to inflict at times much “collateral damage” to my more valued plants.

Gardening allows me to rediscover that my bare hands are still the best tools I have, and that patience and moderation are the best virtues. There is diversity at every corner, for there are plants that thrive in the shade, and plants that thrive in the sun; plants that demand an abundance of water, and plants that are grateful but for a few drops of dew. My garden can bloom in its greatest splendor, but only if no tree monopolizes the sun above, and no single species captures all the resources buried in the soil below. I humbly learned that the weeds and pests I tried to eradicate all summer long hold the survival gene that we, humans, wish we could possess. Finally beaten by the tenacity of these creatures, I decided that perhaps they too have the right to be happy under the sun and in the rain. Even in my own backyard.

Soon I will retreat from my garden, as winter sets in, still mourning this year’s natural disasters and on-going man-made calamities. Perhaps one can bring back the words of Thomas Paine: “These are the times that try men’s souls”. When spring comes, I will pick up my gardening tools again. Next time when I kneel down over the earth, I will remember that all that I have learned about myself and about my world, I have learned in my garden.

Published in “Local Writers’ Corner” of the Gazette Times (Corvallis) and Democrat Herald (Albany) – Sunday October 29, 2006

			Vincent’s Irises Silk painting by Le trung Chinh

A luthier’s journey through the woods

Two weeks into my guitar building class in Vermont, I realized that a guitar is just a big box with a stick at one end, made of wood - bent, braced, polished and held together by glue! But like any oversimplified truth in life, that description of a guitar hardly gave justice to the beauty of its birth and the wonders of its composition.

Building a guitar “from scratch” with George and Ben at the “Vermont Instruments” workshop was a unique experience for me. I learned to appreciate the properties and qualities of different types of wood beyond their grain, strength and coloring. Choosing the right type of wood is as important to a luthier as choosing the right fabrics is to the tailor. Like for many things in nature, the full beauty of the wood only reveals itself to those who take the time to explore and study it. I also learned that a tool could help or destroy if used properly or incorrectly, and that my hands need to be firm yet gentle. In using tools, one has breath-holding moments, especially for me with some non-forgiving high-speed power tools, and one can enjoy the journey in meditative motions, while gently tapping on a chisel. In making my guitar, each step required different materials, tools, and skills, but at the end, it all came together. I had to remind myself frequently that one should never fight or force one’s own tool. If a process takes too much effort and causes frustration, one is likely making the wrong effort or not using the right tool. Life should be lived that way too. “It is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things”, Thoreau said. I should always remember that whether I am woodworking or dreaming about changing the world.

Planning the work ahead is very important, but so is the absolute concentration on the task at hand. Shortcutting or multi-tasking is a definite path to disaster. No longer can I hope to turn an “Oops!” into a brilliant, creative serendipity, like I have done at times in my paintings. In short, to reach perfection, the task of fine woodworking revolves around many “P” words: planning, preparation, precision, practice, patience, personality, and overall, passion. A passion for perfection itself. Yes, in the final sense, a guitar is just a wooden box attached to a stick and laced with strings. It only comes alive when we put all our heart and skills to bring out the music hidden deep in the wood. Build it to perfection. Then play it, and play it with passion.

Snow fell outside, silently, so pure and so white on these early April days in Vermont. It fell so peacefully over meadows and hills, trees and roofs, as we worked noisily inside our dusty workshop. Snow and dust, dust and snow. Within myself, I became more humble as I coped with the limitations of my skills, the shortcomings of my personal traits, the “P’s” that I lack, as more than once I paid the price for forgetting to follow instructions, and for my clumsiness at the tasks at hand. While in the past I have indulged in defining myself as a self-congratulating scholar or painter, I now consider fine wood working a much more demanding science and occupation. I hold tremendous respect for the artisans and craftsmen of centuries ago who produced infinitely better work with simple basic tools than I could with the high-tech gigs that are available to me today. I am thankful for the masters who are passing the wisdom and skills of this beautiful trade to the next generation. If in an earlier essay, I stated that all I have learned about the world, I learned it in my garden, I can say now that all I’ve learned about myself, I have learned it while building my classical guitar.

Post Mills, Vermont, April 2011