A Thing of Beauty -- original story

In the days before plastic gadgets, there existed a pile of wood that lay in a woodworker's shop.  And in that pile of wood there lay a particular piece of wood.  It sat in the woodworker's shop, day by day, not being a very useful piece of wood.  It was actually content at first, sitting there amongst other pieces of wood.  But then, it noticed that one by one, other pieces of wood were being chosen and used to make beautiful pieces.  Suddenly, it was most pleased to find the calloused hands of the woodworker actually touch it, to pick it from the crowded mass of wood!  The woodworker peered through his round, wire-rimmed glasses, emitting a "Hmmm" and "Yes, I think this may be the right piece of wood, indeed."

As a newly minted member of the special few travelled to the master's workshop, it imagined itself becoming a grand piece of delicately carved work, to be placed upon a mantle, admired and adored by all who would enter its master's presence.  Or, possibly, a beautiful frame in which it would hold a treasured painting.  Or, maybe, a lyrical instrument, the sounds emitting from it that would inspire and delight hundreds, even thousands!  Or, even, a favorite toy with which a young master or miss would enjoy for many years, to be passed down from generation to generation.  It could not wait to be formed into what it was meant to be and awaited the master's touch upon it.

Suddenly, it experienced a new sensation:  it was being whittled away, pieces of itself felt like they were literally being chopped off!  This experience actually hurt, and hurt badly!  It did not realize that to be chosen meant that it would be changed in such a drastic way!  It felt like the cutting would never end, the gouging fierce.  A feeling of dread overcame the block of wood that was being changed into something that was unrecognizable from what it once was, and at times wished it could turn back, go back to what it was.  But there was no going back, and it realized that it needed to yield to the woodworker's cutting, chiseling and gouging, or else it would break, and not be usable at all, except for the firewood that fed the woodworker's stove.  So, it submitted to the skilled hands of the woodworker. 

It was content in being formed little by little, and actually felt like all of the cutting, chopping and chiseling away had finally come to an end.  It was relieved at this thought, actually.  The woodworker even let it rest for the night, which made this unfinished bit of work truly think it was perfect just the way it was.  It awaited daybreak, when it would finally find out its purpose for being.

Daybreak came, and instead of being released to its place of usefulness, even MORE changes were happening!  Hard, coarse sandpaper rubbed steadily against the piece of wood, causing even more consternation.  It desired to be what it was meant to be, and here, even more of itself was being worn away!  Admittedly, it was not as drastic as the initial cutting, chiseling  and gouging, but being sanded down, little by little was also not the most pleasant experience.  As the sanding continued for what appeared to be hours and hours, it realized that the sanding did not hurt as much; in fact, it felt as if the coarse sandpaper was replaced with a smoother and smoother sandpaper, eventually feeling like a gentle rub in the hands of the woodworker. 

Finally, the woodworker said, "Ah, you're almost done.  Now, where is my walnut oil?"

He rummaged through items on his shelf, until he finally found what he desired to finish his product.  He gently rubbed the walnut oil into the pores of the wood.  This part of the process felt the most rewarding to the former block of wood, which was getting anxious to fulfill its destiny.  It was confused that walnut oil was chosen to complete itself, as it expected the finishing touch to be nice, shiny varnish that would show off its beauty.  After all, the carpenter spent so much time with it, it HAD to be something very special, indeed.  It was placed in a special holding place until the morning once more.  The anticipation was growing too much for this chosen item.

Morning dawned once more which found the woodworker retrieving his piece of art, gazing at it with a most pleased look upon his face.  "Yes!  You are finally finished!  And you are going to make a most useful spoon, indeed!"

A spoon!  Did this piece of wood understand what the woodworker said, correctly?  A mere spoon?  It was hoping to be a source of admiration while fulfilling its purpose, to have the praises of men and women heaped upon its beauty!  But a lowly spoon, to stir food, mix messy ingredients, or endure the humiliation of being shoved into peoples' mouths to feed them was not a possibility it ever imagined for itself!  As it was handed to the baker, the spoon resigned itself to do the best job it could be, just as the woodworker had designed it to be.  For it was the woodworkers skillful hands that formed it into the item that he chose.  After all, how could the piece of work demand of the skilled woodworker what IT wanted to be, when it could do nothing apart from the initial choosing and work of the carpenter?

In time, it realized its humble existence was actually a happy one.  Because, instead of collecting dust on a mantle, it was a very useful tool in the bakery.  It enjoyed the fact that it was used to make bread that would ease the pain of hunger of men, women and children, as well as cakes and cookies which would supply joy to many.  And, when the wood on the spoon would get rough, as wood occasionally does, the woodworker came and sanded it gently with the smooth sandpaper, then rubbed oil in the pores to make it almost like new.  When its time of usefulness had become complete, it was most thankful to be a wooden spoon, as it became an invaluable instrument, which is truly, a thing of beauty, indeed.