There is a chair to sit in, a book to read, a page to write. There is a brush and a tin of paint, waiting to transform another chair. I’ve never met a chair I didn’t like, which suggests a form of chair dysfunction. From elegant: turned legs, clawed arms, carved backs to simple: sturdy legs, wide arms. Chairs that have graced servant’s quarters and the grandest of dining rooms suggest the best stories.
Chairs are often discarded curb-side or to wait, lonely, beside a rubbish bin. Usually a chair can be restored with vision, a few coats of paint, and a new seat cover (Hint: Grab the chair with the removable seat.). Gorgeous fabrics abound to offer ‘looks’ from farmhouse to manor. Painted red, a chair becomes the curiosity in a room.
I choose minimalistic, affordable furniture. Favourite pieces are hand me downs or shabby finds, tufted and French. I stick to Benjamin Moore: ‘Winter White’, add shots of colour, and invest in bowls and pitchers. The couch is slip covered, white. There is silver from a grandmother and an aunt. There are oils from a mother. I’ve removed blinds for linen curtains, pulled back to reveal light. Simple chandeliers sparkle and shine. Bouquets of roses gather in glass. A chair waits in the kitchen.
I’m not a designer, rather, a woman who searches for beauty in the raw and spent. Every piece of furniture should suggest a story. I prefer simple lines, a reminder of a common lady who kept a sturdy chair beside an oven, sugar biscuits in a tin, and splashy rose covered tea cups on the table.
“Sit down,” she says. “I’ll fix a pot of tea.”
I settle into the empty chair. In this moment, the world slows to a crawl. Pressing thoughts are forgotten. On the window sill is a pot filled with flowers, their petals bright as jewels. She believes in violets, claims they grow where they are needed.
Once more, we return to one another.
“Vacant chairs always leave me wondering who had sat there in the past.”
― Anthony T.Hincks
Annie Sloan Chalk Paint: ‘Pure White’
There is a hush within the edges of time. If one listens, one can feel it.
It is early dawn and I am easy, not required to be anything people think I should be. There are no demands placed upon my time. Within this pause, I imagine the gift of another day, open to whatever magic it may bring.
Silence is my church. It is where I do my deepest work. As the stars lean in to listen, I spill my holiest thoughts. Morning shines like a beacon of hope.
I worship the margins of time. There is room to rest as the simplest of moments begin and turn each day. It is where I find clarity.
If you ask,
I’ll show what matters.
Beneath a peach moon, they set sail.
Dream Catchers are simple to craft. Find an embroidery hoop and a doily. Attach the prettiest ribbons you can find. Sweet dreams my Littlest Star Catchers.
Her needs are simple.
Flowers in a vase,
Nests under glass,
Poetry and words,
Music in the dark,
A gentle heart that beats her name,
Two arms to pull her close.
~ High Maintenance
One less tear drop, one more kiss.
~ One Less, One More
simple is not a step backwards
~ bird song