Everything, tables and chairs, trees and flowers, perhaps money, have a history, if only they could tell their story. Well, maybe not rocks but possibly them too.
Imagine the tales.
What brought me to this was a recent re-acquaintance with my truck. Having been parked since last year it came time to reposition it in my yard, to move it off the grass to allow cutting etc.. In the process of climbing inside I felt this kinship, this connection with a vehicle that had consumed many happy hours of my life, both during a reconstruction and subsequent use camping.
It was a warmth I can’t really explain, a certain kinship with what many would say had no life. I would beg to differ as this truck surely has as much character, maybe moreso, as some humans I know. Yes, some of that was borne of my experience with her, but it goes beyond that. It’s a sense, a “feeling” for lack of any better description. It has a soul, and it saddens me when I think my connection with “her” will ultimately be severed.
One of our fellow bloggers, Cast-Light, recently posted of her experience in having to take down an old silver maple tree. It had become part of her family, a link to her past, and as such when it had to come down she wanted to hold a funeral. Some may poo poo this and think it’s a strange thing but I understand perfectly, the tree had a life, and long and beautiful memories attached to hers. It deserved no less.
So the next time you encounter an antique wooden chair or table run your hand gently across it’s surfaces, “feel” the energy and think of the history associated with it. It was once a majestic tree, perhaps young when the land was discovered and growing long enough to see the land developed, settlers fashioning their properties to their needs. It may have seen wars, or perhaps even births and deaths of those struggling to survive in it’s forest. It was taken down and hewn into furniture, to be used by those very same settlers. Imagine the life it has had, the people who sat in the chair while holding their children or grandchildren, the meals that were served across the table and the conversations that sprang forth. Imagine if that object could speak. What would it say, what stories could it tell, the secrets it could divulge. If only it were alive, or we could hear. If only.