My father was an extroverted musician recognized among people, but he had rituals in his privacy that only belonged to him and the family. One of them was woodwork. When I see wood I immediately think of my father, because he was like it: strong, robust, useful, multifaceted.
I imagine that there was an identity relationship that perhaps he unconsciously had with the wood. Ironically, or perhaps coincidentally, his ashes were delivered to us in a wooden box. A box that could have been made by him.