A House for the Soul.

In my soul house, there are lots of empty chairs handcrafted in the finest wood one could imagine. Each chair spaced out like wandering ants at a summer picnic, no one necessarily following the other but searching for its own source of food, along its own journey.

A guest may wander in and sit, her ankles crossed, hands on her lap, with scattered breath and a first-day-of-school kind of anxiety. She waits for the agenda and her eyes wander, looking for corners to define her space. But there are none. She finds no end to this madness, just miles and miles of empty chairs in every direction, all turned at various angles.

The sun climbs up and down the sky of my soul house, yet the chairs remain.
Waiting to be used.
Waiting to be noticed.

My soul house is a resting place. I wander from chair to chair depending on my mood and settle in, sometimes with difficulty, sometimes with ease.

A rocking chair that leans back like a fearless child, letting go of all restraint.

A chair with little to no room for my achy back, forcing me to find rest despite my high-maintenance expectations.

A queen’s throne, elaborate with jewels, shining with glamour of all kinds.

I find my chair.

It finds me.

I sit.

I rest.