From Whisper to Song: How Wood Speaks Through the Maker

by KnotWright Woodworking

I wasn’t searching for anything mystical that day in the lumber aisle. It was over two decades ago—long before I knew where this path would lead. I had decided to learn how to make flutes, and I had a few fine pieces of hardwood picked out to begin.

But as I turned to leave, I felt it.

A pull.

I stopped mid-step and turned back. And there, resting among the ordinary boards, was a simple piece of straight-grained pine. It wasn’t remarkable, at least not to the casual eye. But it felt like it had a light of its own. It called to me.

So I added it to my pile, took it home, and decided I would start with that one.

The First Flute

It wasn’t the most expensive. It wasn’t the best material. But it wanted to be a flute—and I, though new to the process, was willing to listen.

That was the real beginning.

As I shaped it, the pine began to guide me. Gently but clearly. It would tell me when to stop, when to go deeper, when to pause. I know how that sounds. But I’ve learned not to doubt the wood when it speaks.

It was a humble flute. The walls were thick, the voice was soft. But it had a voice. And for a first creation, it became exactly what it wanted to be.

It taught me something I never forgot: that working with wood is never just about making. It’s about listening.

A New Chapter

In the years since, I’ve balanced two lives—one in the skies, and one with my hands on grain. I made flutes when I could, turned bowls when the wood called, and learned the language of tools and silence.

Now, newly retired from flying, I find myself returning to the bench with more time, more patience, and a different rhythm in my bones. And there’s one piece of wood that has waited quietly for this moment.

A beam, salvaged from the internal bracing of a piano built in the mid-1800s. Not part of the polished exterior. Not the strings or the keys. It was the hidden heart of the instrument—the strength that held everything together.

I was gifted this wood many years ago by a friend who helped dismantle the piano with reverence and care. Its owner knew it was no longer playable but hoped its parts could find new life.

When I first held that beam in my hands, I felt the weight of its silence. It had been there for every note that was ever played, for every hymn, every jazz improvisation, every quiet moment. And yet, it had never made a sound of its own.

That time is coming to an end.

What the Wood Remembers

This piece will soon become a Native American–style flute. I haven’t shaped it yet—not because I wasn’t ready, but because it wasn’t ready. Or maybe, because we had to become ready together.

Now, in this slower season of life—post-flight, post-noise—I can hear it more clearly. It wants to sing. It wants to become.

When the time comes, I’ll adorn it with salvaged ebony and ivory from the keys it once supported. I’ll listen as I did with the pine, and let the wood tell me what it wants to be. And when the first notes emerge, they will not be mine alone—they will carry the memory of the music it once supported, the trees it came from, the hands that once played above it.

The Philosophy of KnotWright

This is what KnotWright Woodworking has always been about. It’s not just about crafting useful things—it’s about honoring the story each piece carries. A root-bound tree that needed to come down. A piano that once brought joy to a congregation. A forgotten board that caught my eye beneath fluorescent lights.

Each one spoke. Each one had something to become.

And I simply listened.

From My Hands to Yours

I believe the world is full of stories waiting to be heard. Some are loud. Others whisper. The ones I love most are those that wait quietly, patiently, until someone notices them again.

Those are the pieces I work with.

So whether you’re here to browse, to learn, or to feel inspired in your own work—I’m glad you’re here. You’re part of this, too.

Because when you hold something made from wood that has waited… you’re not just holding a thing.

You’re holding a second chance.

You’re holding a story.

You’re holding a whisper made real.