Just like a topographic map, isn'it? Enough to send the mind on a flight of fancy towards some terra incognita.
Working with wood, as with any natural material, awakens dormant poetic impulses. (I'm often reminded now of Gaston Bachelard's writings on that subject.)
There is also that peculiar joy, when chancing upon a piece of wood that seems to have been waiting just for you, that stems from a sense of revelation: a happenstance meeting between your own hitherto unconscious desire and its object suddenly revealed. Objective chance, as the surrealists called it: that moment of perfect coincidence between subjective and objective reality which defines the marvelous.