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The Chair

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Lots of things have been tumbling through my thoughts lately. First, I’m not sure I want to go heavy-deep-and-real with the first person narrative of my life quite so much. Plus, I don’t know how much healing there is versus how raw and exposed I make myself. Is it good? Is it helpful to others or to me? I like the writing component, that’s for sure. Playing with words is as fun to me as playing with paint on canvas, plants in dirt, dough into baked goods. Creation is fun. I’ve got lots of ideas swirling around fictional characters and plots. Often with fiction, great truths can be told more boldly. Maybe I’m longing to dig deeper without giving away the farm in the process.

This evening, I had the chance to meet up with Mary’s mom for a beer and time to catch up. It was wonderful. We talked about loads of things as we often do, covering the gamut of home projects, professional endeavors, family, trips, our kiddo, and more. I told Sara about a home dec project I have in mind and how watching my cousins do a complete renovation to a home in desperate need of healing has inspired me. We talked about how houses, with love and attention, can heal from neglect and can have renewed life and joy. She spoke of how old furniture can be like that too. How wonderful it is to honor an old piece, nourish the wood, bring it back to life with new springs, cushions, and fabric, and revitalize what once might have been trash into something cherished again. That gave me an idea…

Once upon a time, there was an old wingback wood and leather chair. It had been languishing in the storage section of a garage, nearly forgotten until it was time to clear out some old junk. But this chair had stories to tell, lives witnessed, seasons celebrated and mourned. Certainly, this couldn’t be the end–a ride in a pickup and finishing up at the town dump. No. This old chair had made its way across great distances to find a new home with new possibilities. It wasn’t going to end like that.

It lived with a family for a number of years until a daughter got married and was planning to move across rugged territory to a new home. Her parents gave her the chair as part of her trousseau. Choosing what to take in a covered wagon was dicey. Every ounce mattered. Every thing selected meant something else had to stay behind. This precious chair made the grade. Long months, fraught conditions, frayed patience and health meant great relief once they’d arrived and settled. The chair had its new home. It became the center of the living space. Stories read. Babies held. Anguish and joy settled into every carved bit of the wood. Stains and worn places on the leather meant this chair mattered. This chair was right in the middle of life.

Then the babies, most of them, grew up and moved out. Grandpa nodded to sleep for good in this chair. Mama read letters from her soldier in this chair. She darned socks in this chair. She hummed hymns of gratitude and hope in this chair.

Time past. The chair grew out of style. Moved to a back room. The guest room. The office. Finally to the garage. No one had the heart to throw it out. No one wanted it either. So it sat. Waiting.

One day, on a lark, the chair was offered to the local upholsterer. “Can you do something with this old chair?” She could and she would. She cleaned up the wood, taking away the old stain and nourishing the wood with beeswax and orange oil. The wood soaked it up like a thirsty man in the desert. The old fabric and padding was removed. New webbing, springs, and cushions added along with a fine piece of rich brown leather carefully pulled into place and fitted around the frame. It almost seemed the back of the chair stood taller. Was that a deep breath and a sigh of relief? New life is possible and is here. A family found this revitalized chair and gave it a good home. Stories told. Hot cocoa by the fire place. A cat nap on a rainy afternoon. Reading a book into the late hours of the night. Ah yes, a very good home.

[If you get anything extra out of my writing, entertainment, edification, intense laughter, and you feel so inclined, you’re welcome to leave a tip here: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1 ]

And yet…

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I tried so hard to plan, to prepare, to be ready for a hard winter. I got a gym membership in late summer to establish the habit. I started using my lamp (finally) in December. I’ve kept up on my vitamins and healthy eating. And yet…

This was a REALLY hard winter for a number of things–illness, bruised heart, anxiety about dramatic cultural and political shifts, cold weather, anniversary of the hardest time in my life. I don’t know if my efforts actually mitigated things and they might have been even worse, or the circumstances of life simply overwhelmed my best efforts.

Finally, it’s March. And I’m emerging from the feelings of “would I have chosen to be born if this is what living feels like?” to hope again. Like I said, a REALLY hard winter.

And yet, in the darkest of moments, I had friends drop off Powerade and tea, siblings checking in on me, my kiddo offering grocery store runs, her mom bringing me lunch. And yet, I had people offering reminders of what is good, why we are here, to love each other, to lift each other up, to remind us of our core selves. And yet, I still had the energy to paint and create. And yet, I had kitties curl up next to me, purring, keeping me warm, offering comfort.

This world seems more absurd than a 20th century French author might even suppose and may continue further on that trajectory. And yet, our commitment to one another, to choosing hope and joy, to building instead of tearing down, to making the table bigger instead of excluding, to asking ourselves, how can I make this journey a little easier for others, to possessing a spirit of gratitude…

And the light and the flowers sure help, too.

two

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Two years ago on this very evening, Bryan Lubbers slipped from the constraints of this mortal plane. I won’t go into the details of that night except to say it snowed…appropriately. I miss him every day and anniversaries like this, his birthday, our birthdays, high holidays, etc. hit harder. It just is. So instead of being somewhere warm, or visiting one of his bucket list places, I hunkered down in our home for most of the day.

Grief is interesting. I mean it’s painful as all hell, but when I step outside of it to analyze it like my mathematically-inclined husband might have, it really is quite interesting. Initially, it hits like a massive, traumatic injury. Acute. Piercing in pain. The body goes into shock. The efforts for triage are to maintain the core functions and to keep alive. Then, as time and a bit of healing occur, things start to get achy, itchy, abrasive, but one has to keep exercising and stretching physically, emotionally, spiritually. Wound care moves to physical therapy. Eventually, an emotional arthritis sets in as one continues to live. The pain flares up in the most unusual places and times. Bryan used to talk about sitting with heartache on a melancholy evening or after a “high gravity day” and sipping a little whisky, raising a glass to memories and even the pain. Maybe that was his acknowledgment of emotional arthritis.

I don’t sit alone in my grief. We are connected. I appreciate the way folks reach out to say I love you, I’m sorry, I hurt too. Bryan was an incredible human who filled a room with his spirit and his voice. His hugs were the best. His laughter my drug of choice. He did everything he could to love and protect Mary and me to the very end and after. I miss him.

Crumbs v Cake

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Recently, on top of all the things, I’ve been a little blue because my attempts to re-enter the dating world went sideways and I got my heart bruised. It’s all good. Many lessons learned there as life is so excellent at teaching me. My sister encouraged me to create art for myself to put around my house as reminders to myself. I thought it was a good idea and I share with you in case you need to be reminded, too.

Crumbs. Less than the bare minimum. These are unacceptable in a relationship—both in the giving and receiving. Sure we have off days and in good partnerships we can pick up the slack or the other one can just so that the average is approximately 50/50. But it is better to be without, to be alone than to have crumbs consistently, perpetually.

I know what it is to have my whole cake. I had to have a painful reminder why less than that is not okay for me. It shouldn’t be okay for anyone.

Oh sweetheart, you deserve the WHOLE cake.

Connection and Care

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Apparently I needed extra this week–counseling with my counselor, counseling with my hair styist, counseling with a dear friend over popcorn and tasty hot beverages, and of course the counseling from texts with my sibs, bestie, and dear friends. I am not a rock or an island or whatever metaphor for isolation you prefer. I am unable to do *waves arms* this without help.love.support.

In the darkest moments of my life, it is the connection with and care from others that has sustained me. Someone might ask, what about faith and hope in God? The Divine? I guess I understand the way God moves much like the space between in a murmuration of starlings. The space in between the warmth and love of people and the effects thereof are what make God’s love visible to me.

We’re nearly at the two year marker of Bryan’s passing. It hardly seems possible–that he’s gone, that this much time has passed, that I don’t get to feel his hugs again. Grief and mourning don’t stop. They don’t ever go away. They are baked into every thing. Yes, I move forward. Yes, I live. And I am lifted and supported every step of the way. I’m so grateful for that. And my heart is still broken.