The Rocking Chair

The rocking chair has yellow paint on one of its struts, and one rocker looks distinctly chewed. It creaks something fierce. And if you pulled too hard it would come into pieces, the glue that kept it solid long since evaporated.

It might have been the climate that did it. The dry cold winters in Prince George or the hot summers in Invermere. It might have been the damp in Nanaimo, the forest chill in Terrace, or a season spent in a storage locker.

Or it was transit, being trucked here or there in the back of a station wagon, a Subaru, a Dodge, a Toyota. Down some stairs, and up an elevator. Stacked with boxes, with blankets. With clothes.

It might just have been years of use. Rocking a baby from her first day at home. The carelessness of a toddler. The roughness of a teenager. This cat, that cat. The dog that chewed it instead of a shoe. A woman who writes while she rocks.

The woman who can’t imagine her home without the rocking chair. It doesn’t suit any particular style and wasn’t built to last forever. But then, neither was she.

The Rocking Chair

Scale

What scale would you use to answer the question, “Why are you here?” where why means for what purpose? Here in this place right now, or here in your current situation this season, or living on the planet at all, ever?

For me, for many scales, these answers have recently changed very quickly. I live somewhere new and most of my habits have been forced to adapt. This new setting has encouraged me to examine my life by the largest scale. To look not at what I want to do tonight or this weekend, but at what I want my situation to be ten or twenty years from now, or further. Where do I want to be in the world as well as what person do I want to be in the world? And how do I get there?

Like most people I dynamically create assumptions about where I’m heading from day to day, without paying much attention to the why. So what’s interesting now is realizing I can take control and change the result. It feels like knowing there’s an extra line of text beneath the words I’m reading, and I’ve suddenly remembered to read it too.

Scale