“Looks like a forest in here,” our grandson says, peering through the fronds of a fern. We’re in our “new” (old) living room.
Wait. Let me rewind. Months ago, we discovered rampant household mold. Dreamer’s health was at stake, so we scheduled remediation.
In the process, we also discarded many cherished possessions.
Rugs, favorite chairs, couch — but Great-grandma’s Victorian-Era, Eastlake loveseat?
Most fabrics can be cleaned, but microscopic mold spores can penetrate and colonize foam inserts, eiderdown, and woolly batting. Decades ago, we rescued our elegant heirloom with its masterfully tied coil springs (increasingly rare these days) from my grandma’s garage. Perhaps even then it harbored mycotoxins.
Constructed with rigid, strictly perpendicular seating, why gut, then reupholster, the chronically uncomfortable?
It had to go.
But a dumpster? I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
A quirky idea beckoned.
Picture an aging heiress
in her garage, poised
to dismantle what is,
these days, a dying art . . .
Strange, how a project can mirror life
Strip ornamental trim (all non-essentials must go).
Peel away fabric, then muslin lining (aiii, this feels personal).
Trash the batting (i.e., forfeit risky comfort).
Kneel (does it always come down to this?).
Pry off tacks and burlap webbing (bandage hands, as needed).
Sever twine network, seemingly miles of it (to the novice, a baffling cat’s cradle).
Pause. Sit back on heels . . . and marvel (who goes to such trouble these days?). Three long ingeniously knotted lengths of jute, one per row, somehow compress the tensile force of 18 vintage, coil springs. Exactly spaced knots create a shallow dome shape — in the trade, known as “crown-tied.”
Utter deconstruction — can it nudge us nearer the kingdom?
Yank springs and outer rail (goodbye, tension; farewell, anchoring core support).
Upend frame (maybe upside-down is the new normal).
Cut away delicate, black-cambric dust cover (everything now exposed).
A dying art, achingly personal
How fatalistic I sometimes feel about “dying to self.” Resignation. A shrug. Other times, fear weaves an inner knotwork akin to our loveseat innards.
Oh, how the dearly-familiar shape and angle of life can be skewed by a loved one’s illness, or scary symptoms yet-to-be-diagnosed!
“Rule out one thing at a time,” the specialists say.
Well then, go after each broken, embedded tack (roughly 20 gazillion).
Ponder tack strips: scratched, splintered, nail-scarred (oh dear . . .).
Beautify the salvaged (to deter slivers, adhere new braid, gently mitering corners).
The art of dying: “He knows our frame . . .”
WHEN READY, fill emptiness with the living. Literally.
I position the loveseat frame in front of the window, cram the opening with flowers, house plants, and summer coleus prepped for winter. Yes, it looks like a forest in here. And perhaps, a legacy. The unusable, now reconfigured, thrives, lit by four glass dragonflies adorning the lamp I place in the center.
“A sense of gracefulness shimmers,” artist/author Jan Richardson writes in support of reclaiming the dignity of domestic tasks.
She also quotes author Esther de Waal saluting an imagined, Celtic-era housekeeper:
“She has made the mundane the edge of glory.”
Friends, are you in the process of dismantling? How might you inhabit the growing edge?
P.S. DREAMERS RECENT EEG ruled out epilepsy. THANK YOU SO MUCH for your prayers and words of encouragement!
HISTORICAL NOTE: Charles Lock Eastlake’s carved walnut, cherry, and rosewood furniture eschewed over-the-top Victorian furniture design, pioneering a cleaner, “reformed style” (read more here).
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PHOTOS by Dreamer and yours truly.
I just knew the finished project would be beautiful, designed by someone as creative as you. But the photo still wowed me! That peaceful vignette must make you smile every time your eyes glance its way. Your great-grandmother would be delighted to see how you’ve re-imagined her loveseat! Thank you for sharing the experience with us, and the lessons wrought as you worked. And praise God Dreamer does not have epilepsy. I still continue to pray for the two of you.
Nancy, it still surprises me every time I walk past. And you know, I hadn’t stopped to imagine my great-grandmother’s response. I like your idea way better than the possibility of her rolling over in her grave! : )
From Dreamer and me, we appreciate your prayers more than I can say. But this might: (minus the bit about Asia) 2 Cor. 1:8-11 says it far more eloquently than I ever could! https://www.bible.com/bible/111/2CO.1.8-11.niv
Brilliant, brilliant repurposing! I love it. Save the frame….fill it with green and remember 🙂 Such therapy and beauty. Wonderful.
Dear Jody, thank you! You’re right. It was therapy. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but it fits. Plus, the session was free! 🙂
May healing beauty fill your days, friend . . .
Rejoicing with you two that epilepsy is no longer in the picture. And I love how you brought new life out of something so hard. Thank you!
Thank you for being glad for, and with, us! The loveseat planter gives me great pleasure. However, I hadn’t foreseen the way the it would remind me of that famous line gifted to us all by Emily Dickinson: “I dwell in possibility.”
Does my soul good, every single day. 🙂
💝
Thank you, Laurie for these words…your thoughtfulness and depth….I too am in the middle of a “strip,sever and trash” project in my own life and hope to find a creative place in my heart….but your new space surrounded by the old is perfect and beautiful!
Dear Roxanne, this work of winnowing can be so challenging . . . and tiring! Countless decisions. I don’t know about you, but I’ve waved goodbye to parts of myself in the process, knowing I’m not “that person” anymore. Some wrenching farewells, others more peaceable. Even practical.
A few friends I’ve watched streamline their lives speak of the joyous freedom and clarity and relief they felt almost immediately, and still feel. For me, it’s a little shift here, an adjustment there, often in surprising ways.
However your project unfolds, may creativity and beauty daily accompany and inspire you in deep, healing, strengthening ways.
Oh, my dear friend, Laurie.
You create beauty wherever you are. With your voice, your hands and your heart. You inspire. You uplift.
You are one of the beautiful gifts from our Creator, Giver.
How lucky we are to have you.
Oh goodness, I think even my fingertips are blushing as I type. Thank you for your loving affirmations! I feel beyond lucky among friends like you. Truly, deeply blessed. Thank you. <3
The picture of life growing yet in great-grandma’s era🌱
And no epilepsy for Dreamer. So thankful.
Meanwhile, two+ months of clearing out my mom’s house, bake shop, and garage of nearly 68 years. Al.ost ready for sale. Tis a God-driven season for many. Get some rest, you two 🏡
Nancy, the way you phrase that (“Life growing yet …”) makes the project seem all the more remarkable in the aftermath. Thank you.
My heart goes out to you in your long endeavor—so much can get stirred up (including dust!) when we sort through what our parents saved, cherished, needed, perhaps couldn’t deal with.
Oh, the energy required! Sustained over days and a thousand-thousand decisions.
And this: “God-driven”—what an insightful summation!
May God guard and guide you in the final stages. May the right buyer fall in love with the property, at the right time. May Peace encompass you.
I love this! Recently I was talking with a woman at my church who was telling me that she had heard a song years ago that really caused her to seek the Lord. It was “I Love You Lord”. I was so excited to tell her about you! I am going to loan her my old cassette player and my precious tapes of your other music.
Your music has encouraged me since I first received 2 cassettes from a church that met at Colorado Bible College in Lakewood, CO 41 years ago! I regret that the cassette player stopped working in my car the reason I liked having an old car.
Hi Ruth! Lovely to hear from you.
Thank for telling me about your friend’s experience with the song — and the loan of your tapes and cassette player.
You are so kind to share her experience with me, as well as your own. I still have a tape player and favorite cassettes I play in my art studio when doing projects with grandkids.
Laurie, you define courage and you make me laugh at the same time. “go after each broken, embedded tack (roughly 20 gazillion)…” Courage is the key ingredient in sanctification–the fancy word for spiritual strip, stash, sever, yank.
The older I get the more I realize letting go does not mean loss. But that is the fear. Courage confident enough to spring a little humor shows the losses might just be places of healing–healing that perhaps I never expected or even knew I needed.
Susan, as ever, you tender a fresh slant on what I think/hope I’m beginning to understand. I’d not thought of “courage” as a player, nor sanctification, nor the healing role of humor amidst that passel of serious verbs! It’s hard to feel scared when laughing . . .
Thank you!
We’ve spent the week “getting ready to get ready “ by getting rid of stuff. Really bummed by how nonchalant people are about blowing off appointments and commitments. No firm plans yet, but looking forward to change.
Love that phrase “getting ready to get ready.” (And the Viking headgear.) And yes, being “stood up,” so to speak, is SO frustrating. (I assume your refer to prospective buyers of your stuff?) Wait. You’re not selling your TOOLS?!??
The old is new again! You are reclaiming health in the wake of so much loss. Thank you for sharing your journey. You inspire me to keep going.
Kathy, thanks for that energetic, observant assessment! May it be so. For us. For you.
I’m grateful to think that by reading the post, fresh hope is transfusing your outlook.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you, friend. <3