Sunday, January 5, 2014

2. She calls it My Chair




Wooden Woman’s father had His Chair. Wooden Woman has My Chair. Big enough to scrunch her whole self into a corner, feet curled under her. She leaves room for My Dog. My Dog is gone now—a story for another time. Suffice it to say chairs and dogs are conducive to both reading and thinking.


Today Wooden Woman crawls into My Chair and looks around the room. This is how her prayers begin:

Oh my.             And...                 There you are!
Greetings to God.


Then...           Oh my.              And...      
she does a lot of explaining.

Wooden Woman finds faith to be a mirror tilted to see her invisible self.



What is it about mirrors? Almost miraculous. She dreads knowing...it’s going to look bad...and she simply cannot resist standing there and staring.

Wooden Woman is probably hoping Beauty will be lurking in the background.

My Dog thought Beauty and Mirrors were WoooooooOOOF.





In the end Sorrow sits in My Chair quietly for a while: warm and comfortable and broken.


*

Books are mirrors.  Wooden Woman calls the good ones My Books.



My Books climb into your insides. Certain scenes press their reflection against your breastbone for a lifetime. Thin and pale, dirty...hair shorn away to spite the lice…smelling of that distinctly human smell that accumulates on the one rag you get to wear and lingers there on the back of the neck…then miraculously released from the concentration camp…tossed into a hospital…and ordered to get clean…

What does a bath feel like to skin that dirty? Wooden Woman doesn’t want to leave the warm water of that first cleansing either. Eventually there was the softness of a new nightgown cozied around her. Two clean sheets enveloped her with unknown kindness…she hesitates to go to sleep for fear it is just a dream…

In the dark of her room Wooden Woman feels her way to My Big Bed. She turns on a bed warmer under the sheets.




Oh, she knows there is life, even good life, without My Chair, My Books, My Dog, and Automatic Warming. 

Still each night Wooden Woman rolls into that same old story of a God that rescues. She lies on her back, looks up into the ceiling, and feels it all over again—the goodness of being clean and lying in a bed that never gets cold.



*
  
   
  


(Wooden Woman)

5 comments:

Brian Miller said...

take what you got...count it as blessing...

books def play a big part in my life....more than mirrors...they only tell you what is outside...

if something happened to pups, i am sorry.

Craig and Bethany said...

The prayers! The prayers are perfect. The ebb and flow of exchange. I love Wooden Woman. She's real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, she's REAL.

She's like my best friend.

And the BED. Awesome bed. An anchor of a bed. The perfect fortress.

I love this one.

thefisherlady said...

Wooden woman~ what an amazing post!!!
To start with, the chair is 'just' exactly like one at my daughter's in South Africa that I curled up in each evening after the kiddies were asleep. It housed us all plus cat while they were awake, three kiddies and books unending. At night it was a spot to sit and admire my daughter from, her with a heart so big to take in eight to care for in a land where people are thrown away...the chair was my resting spot and my lifting to God spot. And then it was about your dog... the story for another time. Today it is my cat, and I have waited for Ole to just purr and sleep and not wake up but today he hurts more than purrs and I think I must take him in and hug him and say my good-byes... my heart is heavy...with love for a twenty year old cat... all those years of play and happy; now sleep is imminent.
And how you pray... I understand the how... I see myself...
and how you stretch out at night ... your thoughts on the 'book' people and their real pain; then the thoughts as you settle in for the night....

loved ths post~ Blessings dear one. so much beauty here

Goat said...

Thank you for your kind words.

Fisherlady your story sounds so full of interesting people and places and pets. You love deeply and are unafraid of sorrow. A recipe for kindness.

S. Etole said...

emptied and filled ... reflections and redemption