Here is a photo of a rocking chair.
It has a nice cushion with birds, it sits in a bright room by a window, it looks like a comfortable place to hang out with a book.
Does this chair have a story?
You bet it does.
This chair belonged to my Grandfather, my Mom's Dad Papa Louis. He used to rock her in it when she was a little girl.
He rocked in it when he was living his final years with my parents. It's been in our family ever since.
My Mom rocked me in it when I was little. I remember so clearly the terrible earaches I used to get before my tonsils came out. Mom would rock me, late at night, when I couldn't sleep. I had a little corduroy bathrobe then; it was sky blue, with a pocket that had orange and red embroidered flowers on it.
Mom rocked my sister and my brother. Visitors have enjoyed the chair. It's been moved around a lot. It is a well traveled piece of furniture.
Objects can trigger us to remember, and remembering forms the basis of our life stories.
This rocking chair has history. It holds stories of pain, of joy, of relaxing with good books, meditating to the gentle rocking motion of a comfortable old chair ... it's been to many places; front porches in Florida, living rooms in Seattle, Washington and Auckland, New Zealand, and now it is in my place, by the window, still doing its rocking thing.
It's just a chair, made of wood, solid. It cannot speak.
I can, so I tell its stories.