As I stare out in the back yard I see my little fire pit enclave- a stone fire pit with an adirondack chair and an odd wooden couch with no cushions. Everything was covered with a few inches of snow, up until today when the ice storm condensed the snow into a shiny, but less pretty mess of destitution. I saw these empty chairs combined with the throes of a cold winter and the seating reflected my mood. But this vision, this seeming reality, led me to think of another pair of empty chairs. A very talented photographer friend of mine took a picture of two chairs perched together for conversation in the midst of a flowerbed of what we technically called "blue flowers." The first time I saw this photograph I fell in love with it. These two chairs, although empty, are filled with promise. The promise of another spring. The promise of fulfilling their purpose of conversation. A copy of this photograph will soon be mine to enjoy every day. (I couldn't be more thrilled that this friend accepted an exchange of her photograph for a pair of handcrocheted mittens- fun to make, more fun to someday see warming her fingers.) Envisioning the promise of those chairs made me think and rethink about empty chairs.
I think of my favorite chair, which we call my "office". This ridiculous chair, very comfy, purchased for $3 at Centre Peace resale shop on a complete whim, is a scene of comfort in my house. This chair in which I can find a hundred ways to sit comfortably while reading, crocheting, sometimes napping. This chair the location of many conversations with the children. There have been numerous times when I would say to a crying Katie girl, "Do you want to come into my office?" She sits on my lap (sometimes even still and quiet), as we negotiate through the drama of her life. An office conversation never fails to end with a hug and a laugh.
I think on the funny little love seat I insisted we pick up off the street. Yes, I'm somewhat ashamed to say we are notorious furniture scroungers. This happens when you have 2 messy kids and 3 cats with claws. We learned the hard way that there is no point in buying nice furniture. This love seat currently is not empty- holding the bellowing child who wants me to be there with her instead of blogging. However, when it is empty I can think of many times when it is not. The times when we watch a family movie. We've tried to have all four of us sit on this little couch. If anyone could sit still, this might work- it's a tight fit, but doable. I can think on nights after the kids are asleep (getting rarer with that teenager who stays up too late), when the man and I can share a moment of quiet closeness or watch tv together. We have to be close, not only because it's a small couch, but also because the cushions lean in to the middle. Then I can remember a gathering of friends where somehow we had 10 people draped and gathered on this funny little couch and somehow we still looked comfortable.
That little fire pit arrangement in the back yard doesn't represent destitution at all. The chairs may be empty now (and I sort of think I might go sit in the rain today), but they hold the promise of future fullness and memories of the past. Those empty chairs hold memories of a chilly October evening when friends sat around that fire enjoying conversation and laughter. Those empty chairs hold memories of my daughter Katie and I huddled in blankets as I read (with too little light) aloud Harry Potter. Those empty chairs hold the memory that my handy hubby created that fire pit because I said I'd like one and helped me drag those chairs around it. So. An empty chair is simply a chair that is not currently physically occupied- but there is plenty in it.
