It was the summer of 1989. I had already spent a full year renting Nanay’s backyard, drenched in sweat, carrying the musky, wet scent of solid timber on my skin. My once white shirt had turned into a canvas of streaks—pale lime green from the yellowish sawdust left by fine sanding. The bed was finally taking shape. Corners neatly chamfered, edges smooth, surfaces silky soft. It was all ready for the indulgence of Danish oil.
Almost.
Something about the third face drawer on the left side of the headboard bothered me. The clearance was not uniform—off by just a fraction of a millimeter.
My Tatay was a craftsman himself, far superior with his hands than I could ever be at that age. I was lucky—lucky to have learned from him, and luckier still to stumble upon the technology that shapes woodworking today. Tatay trained my brain, but I rented Nanay’s backyard and built my own little shop instead of joining his corporation. Still, his lessons followed me everywhere.
He taught me the anatomy of wood—its character, its moods. He taught me to measure twice and cut once. Never to use a dull knife. To twist the pencil as it slid along a rule. Even now, his words resonate: sharp, steady, unforgettable.
Coffee break was over. I honed the jack plane, then drew it passionately across the stubborn drawer, sliding smooth, aligning with sheer persistence. It felt good. It looked better. This was, without a doubt, my career-best Opium bed. Nothing else after that would feel quite the same.
Nanay peeked inside, calling me for dinner. I said I’d eat late—crunch time was upon me. Summer was slipping away, and the vacation days were numbered. The bed was stealing hours from a teenager’s itinerary, but I wasn’t ready to stop. She told me everything was already fine. But I wanted more—I wanted every brass screw on the piano hinges turned, each head aligned vertical, perfect, uniform.
She sighed and asked me a question.
> “What would you rather be? A craftsman like your Tatay, an artist like your kuya, or a businessperson like me?”
I froze. No easy answer came. She gave me clues.
“Craftsmanship will bring you recognition from a handful of people who share your passion. Artistry immortalizes—the artist and the work live beyond generations. But business… business provides. Not just for the entrepreneur, but for everyone under its shelter. Sometimes even for those outside it.”
In the end, I chose business.
Senior high school was just around the corner. I needed school supplies, new black shoes, half a dozen white sleeveless shirts, and plastic covers for books and notebooks. The future was still too far away, too wide, too unfinished. The Opium bed, however, was larger than life—too large for a boy with a craftsman for a father and an artist for a brother. I had poured my skill into it, but choosing business meant something different: multiplying myself, letting others take part, sharing work, sharing blessings.
Still, the choice meant something greater. Business meant multiplying yourself—letting others take part, sharing the work, and sharing the blessings.
That very conviction became the seed of what would later grow into Journey WoodBlock. A company built not only on wood and skill, but on the principles Nanay whispered and Tatay hammered in me: share the work, care for the people, and let blessings flow beyond yourself.
I was fortunate—my family supported me, even in our love-hate dynamic.
Dinner was superb that night, but Nanay’s words lingered deeper than any flavor:
> “Ang matalinong isip na walang puso, manhid. Ang pusong di nag-iisip, bulag.”
An intelligent mind without a heart is numb.
And a heart that does not think is blind.
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters
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