A More Meaningful Present

    My partner, Callie, first spied the chair on an early morning walk. It lay discarded by the roadside, weathered by time and neglect. Knowing my sensitivity to energies attached to wood furniture, she hesitated, then decided that this chair was worth carrying home. Fifty years of stories and secrets lay hidden beneath layers of dust and grime. It called to me, whispering, hinting at the past, and begging for another chance. I knew I had to reclaim it, not just as a piece of furniture, but as an artifact of living history--its stories deserving of honor and respect.

The process began with a smoke cleansing ritual, to purify and renew. As the fragrant tendrils of smoke curled around the chair, I could almost feel the weight of its history lifting, each wisp carrying away the years of being ignored. With each pass of the smoke, the chair's energy shifted, becoming lighter, and more vibrant. 

Next came the gentle sanding, a meditative process that connected me to the chair's past. As I worked, the wood began to reveal its story. Psychic visions filled my mind; an older woman, chic with age and happily non-conformist, sitting gracefully in the chair. She lit a pipe, the aromatic smoke mingling with the scent of fine bourbon and warm wood. An orange cat and a black dog lay contentedly at her feet. The soothing sounds of Miles Davis drifted from a spinning LP, filling the room with a mellow, timeless melody. Nearby, a kettle announced its readiness for coffee, adding its soft whistle to the symphony of home.

As I worked oil into the dry wood, it was as if I could hear the chair sigh and stretch with relief. Its grain began to glow, revealing the beauty hidden for so long. With each stroke, I could feel the chair returning to life, its spirit blending with mine. I know from where this chair came, though other than a magnetic pull to the beautiful old structure, nothing else referring to the residents of a large, gable-roofed farmhouse, built in 1912 could be sensed. Unoccupied for over 20 years, it still stands atop a hill overlooking the wooded lake where our home now sits. At times, I felt as if I were in the woman's body, seeing what she saw as she looked out arch-paned windows to the trees and water below.

Callie reinforced the back slats, and finally, I applied a light coat of varnish. The satin gloss brought out the chair's shine, highlighting its once-golden accents. It now stands proudly, a testament to its resilience and the love that had been poured into its construction and its restoration. As I gave it a final touch-up, I could almost hear the old woman's laughter, and see her contented smile.

Now, the chair and I share a bond that goes beyond the physical. Each gentle rock is a dance of gratitude, a celebration of the present moment. The rhythm of the chair becomes the soundtrack to my musings, inspiring stories to share. Together, we blend our spirits, creating a harmony that speaks of the past, present, and future.

In reclaiming this old rocking chair, I have also chiseled a new facet of myself. Its herstory and my own have intertwined, creating a tapestry of memories, dreams, and possibilities. As I sit in the chair, I am reminded that every object has a story, waiting to be told and that sometimes, in reclaiming the past, we find our way to a more meaningful present.