Whittling is subtractive. You begin with more than you need and remove what does not belong. There is no undo, no revision history. Every cut is a commitment, and the wood remembers each one.
My grandfather whittled birds from hazel branches — sparrows, mostly, though once a heron that took him three evenings by the fire. He never sketched beforehand. He said the bird was already in the wood; he was just letting it out. I thought this was mystical nonsense until I tried it myself and understood. You learn to read the grain, to feel where the wood wants to give, and where it will fight you.
The shavings curl onto the floor like small questions you have already answered.