Little bits of steel

I use to always have a knack for making things sharp.

A sort of natural precision when it came to metal.

When I was a kid my father put me in charge of sharpening the family knives...

All but my mother's, she didn't believe in sharp steel, and I'm to this day amazed that she never cut herself on the dull blades she use to force through her cooking.

But even as a child, maybe especially as a child, I could achieve an edge freehand with an oil stone that most folks couldn't replicate with several hundred dollars worth of sharpening jigs and machinery.


And I had this knack, and practiced it religiously up until just a few years ago. 

But then one day I found I couldn't put an edge on even the finest of steel.

Or I suppose it would be more accurate to say I was no longer interested in spending my limited free time in the pursuit.

This dismays me somewhat, but not overmuch as I figured it is just a symptom of my increasingly hectic life, and my deteriorating ability to compartmentalize.

Or, on further reflection, a sort of laziness.

A weakness of character that my recent years of soft living and comfortable routine have imparted.


Irritating, but not insurmountable.


But the winds are shifting, and I think I smell such a thing on the breeze as we've not seen in generations.


A catalyst approaches









 "The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”
―Ernest Hemingway―