2020.03.01 This LIttle Chair of Mine

Downsizing is an ongoing process, made bearable by tempting interruptions. Unlike Jesus, I allow myself to get drawn away from the task at hand and into the sweet joy of every distraction—whispered memories that remind me who I am and who we are.

Many pieces of furniture have a story to tell. I listen to their stories—sad, funny, puzzling, sacred, delicious. The stories let me know which items I will keep for now, which will go to 1-800-Junk, to the weekly recycling bin, into the city sidewalk box to be picked up and treasured by someone else, and which will stay with me till death do us part.

This little chair of mine is I suppose an antique. It is over eighty years old, like me. It was a gift to me on my birth day from a woman I used to call Aunt Dodie, the first wife of Uncle Louie, one of my dad’s older brothers. That’s the brief bio of my little chair.

I adored my little chair from the beginning. Less so Aunt Dodie who was a woman of extravagantly overbearing personality. She did, however, hit the jackpot with my little chair. I sat in it each night as my parents enjoyed their cocktail hour—a boring ritual that shifted all attention away from me and onto a martini glass. I rocked very fast in my sturdy little chair, hoping to attract attention. My chair did its job perfectly. I trusted it to stand guard on the cocktail hour while I hopped off, snitching some Ritz crackers as any wise explorer in search of other “worlds” would. I ended up under my parents’ large dining room table where I chattered, kvetched, and lamented to God who listened to my every word without comment. Such was my earliest spiritual experience. Such is the story the little chair tells.

I’ve had my little chair reconditioned twice. It has lived with me in New York, Connecticut, Alabama, and Massachusetts in five different towns and two cities. It has rocked more than one of my own children and a grandchild or two.

Today it sits next to my home altar in Cambridge, Massachusetts, but it is never alone. Our Francis bear, a tiny disheveled dog named Love sit in the chair, and a St. Bernard rescue dog named Steadfast stands at the ready next to the chair. Francis is curious and has never-ending questions, like me. Steadfast and Love I gave to my beloved when we were courting. They represent how we feel, and sometime behave, towards each other. More deeply, they represent the principal, and I’d dare to say only, quality of divine love, as does my little chair.

I hope a great grandchild will one day sit in my little chair, add to her story, and rock and rock and rock. The story goes on.

I’ve come to believe that when we stack up all our stories, including those we hear from our most treasured objects, the story-power alone will bust through any dammed up resentments, hostilities, or fables that threaten to keep us apart. 

Thank you, Little Chair.