This arrangement still strikes me as odd, the wicker rockers so much a part of my story not gathered for conversation, but side by side, facing opposite directions, like a married couple who long ago said goodbye to kindness.
My studio is so much more inviting if the chairs are arranged for conversation, and faithfully each time I vacuum the chairs are placed where society says chairs belong -- side by side, angling slightly toward each other, inviting us to gather, sit and chat. Then, as the week unfolds, I turn one toward the patio door to watch the sunset or a passing storm. The other is drawn in the opposite direction toward the vintage oak table that functions as my desk as I snuggle in to write or edit, or perhaps listen to a podcast of a sermon from Fellowship, the community of believers I left behind.
This morning, I am moved toward understanding the movement of the chairs:
Friends are welcome to visit, yet to extend an invitation is rare.
Widowhood is my current season, tears still fall unexpectedly.
Solitude is my refuge, a hallmark of my introverted nature.
Exhaustion in my soul deters me from spontaneously returning the chairs to a welcoming posture...
... ready for an unexpected guest.
Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. -- Matthew 10:29 NIV