When my hands close around the shaft of this Adze, I am not merely holding wood and stone; I am holding the condensed weight of deep time. I feel the pulse of the Waitaha, Moriori, and Kati-Mamoe rivers running alongside the mist-shrouded lochs of my Celtic forebears. Every chip of the blade is a conscious summoning, an act of remembrance that bridges the chasm between distant shores and forgotten epochs.

In this object, my bloodlines cease to be separate streams and instead converge into a single, roaring current of identity. The craftsmanship demands a stillness of mind - a meditative state where the ego dissolves and the ancestors guide the strike. As the blade shapes the material, the material in turn shapes my understanding of self. It is a living altar to endurance, a physical manifestation of whakapapa that whispers a timeless truth: we are never truly alone, carrying within us the songs, the struggles, and the quiet resilience of everyone who had to survive for us to draw breath today.

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