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.
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Feryl Files 