Dust motes dance in the sunbeam slicing through the cabin window as I sand the rough-hewn log wall. My muscles ache, but the rhythmic shush-shush is meditative. Outside, wind whispers through pines; inside, only the rasp of grit on wood and my dog’s soft snores from his bed by the stove. Each pass smooths the timber, revealing warm grain beneath the bark’s ghost. It’s slow, solitary work, yet profoundly peaceful. Here, with just my loyal shadow and the wilderness pressing close, sanding isn’t just prep for chinking—it’s smoothing the edges of my own soul, one careful stroke at a time.
