The Saw: Part One
If all tools express a natural law, then the saw enunciates. It is preexistent, delicate biology translated upon the anvil. We set and sharpen and polish its teeth ‘til the metaphor gleams. The saw has a long and surprisingly fabled history. This is the first in a series of posts retelling various mythologies of The Saw.
Part One: The Treatise of Lu Ban
“Heaven and earth don’t need the compass or the angle board to make a circle or square.” — Lu Ban
Lu Ban was born on a Spring afternoon in the Warring States period in the era of the Hundred Schools of Thought. At the sound of his cries, cranes flocked together and a cloud of incense filled the house. But as he grew, people took these signs for a mistake; the misjudgment of some aging god. He was a lazy child, and slow to learn. He spent his days chasing birds, tumbling to sleep in a meadow and waking to start again.
Suddenly, when he was nearly a man, he ran off to study with Duanmu Qi, disciple of Zixia, disciple of Confucius. Together they lived in a hut near Confuscius’ grave. Lu Ban wanted to contemplate nature and learn the subtleties of virtue. Instead, his master made him practice carving and cutting, painting and engraving, and every technique of carpentry.
Eventually Duanmu Qi died, and Lu Ban returned to his village a skilled and useful man. He built stables and ladders, homes and carriages, and his reputation grew. When the dynasty became divided and warlords began seizing power, Lu Ban turned his energy to weaponry. It was Lu Ban who, by observing the sophisticated methods of a troupe of marionettes, built a wooden bird that flew into battle and rescued the King.
His name a murmur in the courts, Lu Ban was commissioned to build a palace for King Yuan, twenty seventh sovereign of the Zhou Dynasty. He had no choice but to accept, though to him a palace was as foreign as the pyramids. He laid his plans, gathered his crew, and determined to build a palace so great it would transfigure all who looked upon it.
Intent on using only trees of the finest hardwood, he sent his disciples to an ancient, undisturbed forest at the top of Tianmu Mountain. Day after day, they dulled their axes on the rocklike giants. After a week, Lu Ban climbed the mountainside of long grass to see their progress, but not one tree had fallen.
He became anxious; a palace requires a forest. Careless with worry, he tripped and slid down the mountain, but narrowly caught a blade of grass before plummeting to the rocks below. Opening his hand, he saw a fine cut; blood rose in beads, like ink from the scribe’s pointed brush.
Lu Ban studied the blade. He flattened himself on the earth and dug his nose in the grass. He lay there examining the small hairs that coated each narrow leaf, clearly visible in the midday sun. They angled this way and that, overlapping like peasant’s thatch.
Lu Ban lay there all afternoon, like a lizard on his rock. He was so deep in concentration that he merely blinked when a grasshopper landed on his nose. He watched with renewed attention as the grasshopper began to eat. It spread its jagged jaws then closed them on a blade of grass, leaving behind a sharp outline of teeth. It ate quickly, slicing a patch of tall grass down to the dirt. The grasshopper hopped on, leaving a neat clearing beneath Lu Ban’s jealous gaze.
He was a child again, mindless of himself. Nature surpasses all man’s methods, he thought. I may strain the power of my eye to the utmost, yet only glimpse the spirit of construction. If I made a tool with an edge like this grass, or a teeth like this grasshopper, he wondered, would it be sharp enough to cut through wood? And rolling the rest of the way down the mountain he rushed to his workshop to find out.
At the dedication of the palace, King Yuan paid honor to Lu Ban for his speed and craft. Prepared for the King’s praises, Lu Ban answered, “The universe and its works are already in the Tao, but human beings walk away from the Tao. Thus human beings need the compass and the angle board to make the circle and square.”
The palace had taken many years to complete and Lu Ban was now an old man. He returned to his master’s hut, happy to be at rest. But he could not stop the stream of craftsmen coming to seek his wisdom. He gave them each the same advice: “Learn to concentrate, learn to cultivate your mind, to harmonize your mind with the heart.”
When he died he left only his saw behind. It is there now, though the hut fell away, though the palace crumbled.
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