Day 28: Pobject's rocking chair

The chair, physical manifestation of her chaired professorship, was made of black lacquered wood with gold lettering on its decorative back. It stood unceremoniously to one side of my colleague’s office, piled chaotically with books and papers, post-it notes exploding from both.

I sat in a simpler chair, one with a soft green vinyl seat and unadorned wooden arms. I pulled it closer to her desk, and we broke the ice with a story of the beach-themed party her departmentmates threw her for her 60^th birthday. “Complete with sand, inflatable palm trees, and a playlist of Beach Boys songs looping endlessly on the computer.”

What’s the comfort in a rocking chair?

Does the back-and-forth swing remind us more of life in the womb or life on the porch?

Rocking Chair

As old and squeaky as they are, these rocking chairs provide the best workspace.  Lined up like movie seats in a natural theater, the worn wood of the seat had adapted itself for comfortable sitting after years of practice.  And the equally worn bench in front of it morphed into an impromptu desk, allowing me to organize myself, my thoughts – a requirement for productive work.

I became so engrossed with the reading and the writing of the day that I would periodically forget my surroundings.  But when I paused, looking up to turn an idea over and around in my mind, the view was still there, better than any wall hangings one could select for an office.  The mountains were still green in the distance due to the unusual heat of this year’s fall, and they seemed alive and warm, breathing.  The path below the wooden rail led to memories of campfires, roasted marshmallows, banjo sing-alongs, and slightly buzzed conversations with new friends and old souls.

Wild Acres Retreat – our annual work meeting with other writing program administrators in the Carolinas – has become a pilgrimage of sorts.  While it is work, the setting provides a cleansing of my soul.  Like stumbling across a random chalk mural etched on the sidewalk of our local park with swirling, red letters reading START OVER, sometimes all you need is a reminder, an allowance.  And Wild Acres has yet to fail to provide that.

I didn’t notice until later that Stephanie, office mate for the day and roommate for the trip, picked up my phone to snap a picture of me – rocking, working, breathing, cleansing, and renewing. 

Each night, after the day of work and perhaps a couple of games of ping pong, the line of rocking chairs and their bench mate forgot their previous working purpose and become our space for having a cocktail, sharing tattoos and their stories, talking about our families and friends, and considering the possibilities and collaborations the future could hold.

It is these memories, tied to the rocking chair in my mind, that allow me during a long workday in my four-wall office, to take a deep breath and, at least for a moment, start over.

Day 1: Lobject’s rocking chair

 Our new house is filled with old furniture—a cherry, Pilipino mahogany dining room set; the round kitchen table and heavy, curved chairs my husband ate dinner at as a child and resembles the Sunday spaghetti dinners of my youth; a small, simple desk his father built in 8^th grade; a stained singer sewing machine; and other tables and dressers—all with a patriarchal history. These items are memories rich with family traditions and comforting like meatloaf and mac ‘n cheese.

The rocking chair in our guest bedroom is the only thing we have from his mother’s parents. It belonged to Maw Maw, a woman I’ve only seen in pictures, but when I close my eyes and visualize the rocking chair, I see her in it. She’s a young mother nursing her first child. She’s meekly smiling and wearing a long, white, cotton nightgown. My husband tells me the rocking chair sat next to a china cabinet, near the clock on his parent’s mantle. I just can’t see it, though. Not there.

I’ve put a worn, blue blanket on the back of the chair. I imagine draping it over her legs and a soothing, “Thank you, dear.” She’s drinking lemon tea. A splash of milk goes in the mug first. Coral slippers push gently off the rug and it’s snowing outside. She’s come to visit the grandkids we don’t yet have. She sits there throughout the day and she’s happy for us in our new house. She watched over our guests and the house.

At first, I didn’t like the rocking chair, told my husband it would not go in the living room. “A room upstairs,” I said, peering above my glasses—my classic I-mean-it look. I meant it when I said it and I think Maw Maw would like her rocking chair in the corner by the window, but I didn’t see her in the chair, the curved wood of her limbs, the back and forth of her body as she speaks, children upon her lap indenting the weaved, lattice base. I still don’t see the rocking chair through my husband’s eyes, but I see Maw Maw in my own way and I’m happy to have her in our house.