The Blue Chair


I was standing at the sink prepping vegetables for our afternoon juice, Sayla happily entertaining herself in her room. She likes to flip through books, empty toy bins, cuddle stuffed animals, and I get the smalls things done; these are blissful moments. I usually hear her babbling on, but a period of silence–the eerie silence–caused me to pause. Should I check on her? Nah, what if she sees me and wants to play or read? Then I won’t be able to finish this task! But my mothering instinct prevailed: I slowly tiptoed toward her room so as not to give away my position, just barely peering my eyes past the door frame.  Behold, there she was, standing at the blue chair positioned in the corner of the room, her back to me, a small black spot forming on the arm of the chair. What? Abandoning caution, I zoned in for futher inspection to find something completely unexpected. Sayla had snuffed out a cigarette on the chair used her bottom teeth to scratch a hole in the faux leather. Insert shocked/annoyed/are-you-kidding-me emoji face.

Naturally, this little black hole got me thinking: there are more moments like this, happening all the time, when a thought crosses my mind requiring action, an opportunity to either respond or supress. A momentary pause, a split second. How many times have I let that moment pass by, brushing it off, saying it’s nothing? More often than not, I know.

See, I am a creature ruled by logic, given to utility. These moments of yeilding, however, are not always practical, not always easy or convenient. They beckon, but I say no because I don’t understand the point. And sometimes these moments, these inklings, are just little things, like furniture being used as a teether. But sometimes they’re big things, like people and relationships, like hopes and dreams, like life and death.  I may not understand or know the reason for pause, but this should not disqualify them from my attention.

So here’s to all the blue chairs in my life, to heeding the Still Small Voice. Here’s to a new perspective, to being fearless and attentive. A new decade. Change. Here’s to thirty.




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