How to Arrive at Perfect
Read Time: 4 minutes
I was in the shop today. Nothing special—just another ordinary day that shouldn’t have been worth writing about. But a familiar thought showed up again, the same one that always taps me on the shoulder at the worst possible moment.
You know the moment: everything’s looking good, the machining is clean, the board is flat, the cut is crisp… flip it over—and there it is. Tear‑out. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Real wood doing what real wood does.
So I’m staring at this first board thinking, Yeah, okay, probably just this one.
Run another—of course it’s worse.
Ugh.
I adjust the setup, change the approach, and the rest came out fine. A little sanding, a little fill, and it’s all good. But that’s not tonight’s story. That was just the spark that lit up an old question I’ve carried through a lifetime of building:
Will I ever—just once—build something truly perfect?
To any aspiring woodworkers out there: I don’t think it’s possible. Not the way I imagine it. Not the way I’d like to see it go down. Not here, not for me, and not for lack of trying.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that “perfect” in the shop doesn’t mean what it means anywhere else. Perfect is for machine‑made things. A new cellphone is perfect. A CNC part is perfect. But shop life? Hand tools? Real lumber? That’s a different world.
If something in a woodshop is called perfect, it’s only possible one way:
You have to embrace the imperfect. Only then does it become perfect.
And I know a few of you are wondering what I’m drinking while I write this nonsense.
Root beer. Obviously.
But hear me out.
Wood—real wood—is imperfect. Why would I fight that? That’s the good stuff. The knots, the grain reversals, the stubborn streaks that refuse to plane clean. Even terrible wood has beauty if you know how to look at it. If you don’t see it, look harder.
I can build something beautiful out of rough, cranky, difficult boards simply because they’re wood. Wood never imitates plastic or metal. It has character, style, and a kind of stubbornness that keeps woodworkers like me from ever achieving the mythical “perfect build.”
After all these years, I’ve learned to take a breath and be patient.
The wood is just being wood.
Some of my favorite pieces—the ones I’m proudest of—are the rough‑textured, live‑edge, knotty builds with machine marks intentionally left behind. Texture you can feel. Scars that tell the story. Marks that let the piece breathe and carry a beat.
Wood is wonderful and frustrating all at once. But it’s a privilege to work with it, to chase perfection knowing I’ll never quite catch it.
Don’t get me wrong—I usually get almost perfect. And I’m my own worst critic. But handmade, with wood? I love it.
If I ever arrive at perfect, I’ll write about it.
Maybe.
Step inside Behind the Grain, if you’d like to sit awhile.
