Dreamt I was planing a board that never ended

I'm standing in a workshop I've never seen before, but the wood on the bench is familiar — it's the same oak I used for my mother-in-law's hope chest forty years ago. But every pass I take with the plane, the grain shifts, and the curl of shaving falls away into a puddle of light. The workshop goes quiet, and I hear someone say my name, but I can't look up because the board is still rough. I wake up with my hands aching.