There is a specific kind of dishonesty in a perfectly finished surface. We apply the varnish to protect, to enhance, and to hide. It makes everything look intentional and permanent. But if you spend enough time around old things, you realize that the varnish is often the first thing to fail. It cracks, it yellows, and it eventually reveals the wood beneath, which may be beautiful or may be rotting. We spend so much of our lives maintaining our own personal varnish, terrified of what the air might do to the raw material of our souls.
The problem is that we start to believe the surface is the reality. We become experts at the finish, but we’ve forgotten how to inspect the grain. When we see the signs of decay in ourselves—the doubt, the exhaustion, the pettiness—we just apply another layer of polish. We tell ourselves that if it looks good, it must be good. But the rot doesn't care about the polish. It works from the inside out, eating away at the structural integrity while we are busy worrying about the shine. True honesty requires us to strip away the varnish and look at the wood for what it is.
This stripping process is painful. It exposes the flaws, the stains, and the knots that we’ve spent years trying to conceal. But it is the only way to treat the underlying issues. You can't fix rot by painting over it. You have to cut it out, sand it down, and sometimes, you have to accept that the piece is irreparably damaged. There is a strange beauty in an unfinished, unvarnished life. It is vulnerable, yes, but it is also real. It has a texture that no amount of polish can replicate. It’s better to be a rough, honest plank than a gleaming, hollow box.