The Rocker

The birds must be beginning to migrate. When I write, I sit facing a picture window that is filled with tall evergreen trees, domestic Christmas trees if you will. Different kinds of sparrows and finches are covering the trees like Christmas ornaments. Not only their numbers but their size tells me they are migrating birds. My “home birds” are much plumper (smile) and well fed I must admit. No these are leaner, and their feathers a bit tattered. They do not linger at the feeder like the home birds.  They grab the seed and rush back to the safety of the evergreens’ arms. I would think this is a bit early, but these are definitely migrating birds. I have to wonder how they found my little bird feeder. Have they been here before? What in their journey has allowed them to find rest, water, safety and nourishment in my little back yard?

Instead of looking dead center into the window, two festive birds catch my eye in the lower corner of the window. Watching them, my eyes roost upon an old rocking chair. It was my grandmother’s rocking chair. I do not know how long she owned it, but I know she rocked my mother in that chair and years later my mother rocked my brother and I. The rocker has journeyed many miles and seasons. It is still sturdy, comfortable and, with only a slight squeak, it does what it does best –it rocks. The arm rests are natural to your body. The back fits your back like a hand scooping water. And most importantly, its height is perfect for my legs. A natural push back and forth against the floor and I rock.

Some days seem a bit more migratory than others. Days that are leaner and your wings feel a bit tattered. You don’t  have a map or GPS to tell you in 150 yards turn right, your spirit just knows. I pull the rocker into the center of the room and my migrating spirit crawls in. I lean my back against the rocker and nestle against its natural curves that wrap around me. My arms rest upon its arms and I can feel the texture of the wood and even scars from its past. A gentle push against the rocker, it pushes back and we rock together and migrate. I can feel the history in the rocker. I can feel the gentle curved rockers blending youth and age into one movement, one rhythm and one heart beat.

Some days are a little more migratory than others. You feel a bit leaner and perhaps tattered. The journey may have us well above the clouds without exit signs or "you are here" signs. If we look, we’ll see the welcoming arms of evergreen trees, a little green and a yellow John Deer bird feeder with special seed. The destiny of migratory souls are never unquenched or left hungry for long. And if we listen as the wind blows against the face of our migrating spirits, just listen, you may hear the sound of a rocker calling you home, to the journey’s end. If not the journey’s end, a place to rest your heart.