Outrunning The Empty Chair
When sitting still with loss feels impossible
As a child, I had little trouble being still. I could do nothing for hours. At least, the adults called it nothing. But people-watching from my bedroom window, re-reading favourite passages from overdue library books, or writing love letters to boys who ignored me in hallways didn’t feel like nothing. The journal hidden under my mattress was a testament to that.
The responsibilities of life in a big family, however, often disagreed. Sooner or later, Mum — or one of my seven siblings — would pull me away to help with some household chore or other. Precious moments of stillness were jammed into a noisy soundtrack: raised voices, banging doors, the daily wail of someone who can’t find their shoes, and the endless clatter of meal preparation.
So it’s the irony of my adult life that I now find it almost impossible to relax. To be still.
Somewhere between childhood afternoons lost in daydreams and middle-age, I became someone who can’t sit without reaching for a worthy activity, list-making or finding something to fix.
But not this weekend, I promise myself. This weekend, I will sit, I will relax, I will read. I address these intentions to his chair as if saying them aloud might make the promises stick this time.
The book is already picked out — one of several languishing on my bedside table. They form a small tower, growing taller each month, a constant reminder of something I once read: that past a certain age, we’re more likely to die before finishing the books we’ve accumulated on our nightstands.
Being of a ‘certain age,’ I eye the growing stack wondering if it will, indeed, outlast me.
I take James Baldwin and a cup of peppermint tea to my favourite chair — our favourite chair — waiting patiently by the window.
But before I can officially enjoy the business of doing nothing, surely I must first take care of the inconvenient chores of living. Putting on a load of laundry, clearing away last night’s dishes, and readying clothes for the week is a clear pathway to guilt-free relaxation.
Anyway, who doesn’t read better in a place so clean you could perform open-heart surgery on the coffee table? With this last thought, I yank out the vacuum cleaner to terrorise the Persian rug.
He always loved how beautifully I kept our home.
Scooping up my untouched cup of tea, I muse on how accomplished I’d feel if I completed one last pesky task: meal prepping lunch boxes.
Come Monday, I have little appetite to examine where the weekend went. Again.
A random leaflet suggests guided meditation as a route to all-encompassing healing. It’s from the local Buddhist centre, not far from where I live. The leaflet quickly answers my first question: no, I don’t have to become a Buddhist to join the weekly sessions. That’s good. I’m already a semi-lapsed Catholic who can’t find time to sit and read a book, never mind lapse on a second religion.
Could this be a way to rediscover stillness, if not peace?
Very un-Buddhist-like, I imagine, my mind wanders as I listen to the low, melodious voice of the meditation teacher. A sound, not unlike wind chimes, reminds me of the bustling family he and I built in that remote, rambling farmhouse — the ancient wind chimes a long-ago anniversary gift.
It was our habit to sit on either side of a roaring log fire, putting the day to bed over a couple of single malts before our own king-sized bed called.
I had banked on sitting there with him well into our retired lives.
From a distance, someone is thanking me for gifting my time today as they hand me an impossibly white handkerchief.
I remember the guests, laughter and tears finally departing. Surreal days filled with home cooking and bonhomie. Days that, somehow, felt almost joyous. Until I turn to share one of the jokes or memories with him.
The stillness I once craved had found me, but not as I’d imagined.
Setting James Baldwin aside momentarily, I gaze through the window again, making up stories about unsuspecting passersby. An eclectic bunch who would make interesting journal entries.
But not today.
Today our chair is not to be outrun.
