Most people who know me know that I am a cabinet maker. What fewer people know is that I began as a furniture maker—and even fewer know how early that journey started.
I was twelve years old when I first felt confident enough to build a dining chair entirely on my own. But my exposure to the shop began even earlier. At ten, I was already spending my days there—not because I was forced to work, and certainly not for money. Tatay and Nanay were more than capable of feeding me, clothing me, sending me to a private school, and providing both my needs and wants. What drew me to the shop was something else entirely.
Unbeknownst to my family, I applied for a part-time job at a small workshop near Saint Anthony School in Singalong, where I was then a Grade Four student. My tasks were simple: cleaning the shop and running errands to the hardware store just across the two-way street. I worked from 7:00 to 11:00 in the morning, Monday to Saturday. Classes began at noon, leaving me just enough time to prepare. The shop was only a few steps away—close enough to feel like a second home.
The retired old-timers in the shop took a liking to me. They taught me how to hold tools properly, how to strike a nail with intention, how to guide a crosscut saw, and how to sharpen blades—knives, chisels, hand planes, spokeshaves, and scrapers. They showed me the correct stance for planing, the proper way to drive a mortising chisel. In those quiet, repetitive lessons, I fell deeply in love with woodworking.
The following year, Tatay found out about my job. Instead of stopping me, he took me under his wing. He taught me how to operate power tools safely—the rules, the discipline, the dangers to respect. Where the old men gave me patience and hand skills, Tatay gave me structure and caution. I fell in love again—this time with machines.
Through repetition—doing the same tasks over and over—I gained experience. Not quickly, but honestly.
In 1988, our move from Makati to Parañaque became a turning point. Nanay encouraged me to set up a small shop in her backyard. The absence of heavy woodworking machines—bandsaw, jointer, planer, lathe—forced me to adapt. Cabinet making became the practical choice. Plywood and surfaced lumber were more accessible. A simple DIY table saw and a plunge router were enough to begin.
I eventually went to school and studied engineering. That decision amplified everything I had learned from mathematics and science in high school. Naively, I did not realize that I was beginning to merge carpentry with engineering principles. Before I knew it, I was approaching cabinet making scientifically.
With the knowledge I had accumulated, I equipped myself with methods uncommon among cabinet makers of the 1990s—at least here in the Philippines. Being a single worker with a lightly built frame—only 5’3”—I had to confront the reality that cabinets were often larger than life. So I began to think differently. I looked for ways to make the work easier, safer, and more efficient. That was when I arrived at the idea of building cabinet carcasses as boxes.
At the time, I had no idea that this was already standard practice in Europe—what the world would later call modular cabinetry. The internet had not yet arrived, and email accounts were rare. What I had was not access to information, but the habit of thinking.
And that is where knowledge reveals its true nature.
Knowledge, like water, is a currency. It has current. It moves. It grows. But when it stagnates—when it is hoarded and kept still—it dies. Like a polluted river that no longer flows, stagnant knowledge loses its life and purpose.
Knowledge is earned through time—through listening, observing, repeating, and doing until mastery takes shape. And once acquired, it carries responsibility.
Knowledge brings power—but power unused or unshared is wasted. Knowledge must move. It must be passed on. It must not remain trapped in a single mind. When that mind is lowered six feet into the earth, unshared knowledge is buried with it—lost forever.
Just like water deprived of its current, knowledge that does not flow ceases to be alive
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters
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