Although Mother has left life, her incredible energy and spirit have remained. In this photo is an armchair which she sat (and beside a large window) being entertained by children playing, by birds feeding, and was always prepared to listen, and provide widsom and guidance as one of her children sat in the second chair.
I had the good fortune to inherit her chair and frequently softly rub of the wood armrests which have remained warm from her spiritual energy. She is with me every day.
A friend introduced me to a poem today and as it was read, I became very moved by the words that so well express the history of this chair. The poem is that of Eliza Cook, a British and Victoria individual who so well represents that which comes from the heart. Following is a poem that speaks for myself:
Poet Eliza Cook
"The Old Arm-chair"I LOVE it, I love it: and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize:
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
"Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? - a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing its that old Arm-chair.
In Childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God fo rmy guide;
She taught me to lisp my earlist prayer;
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day.
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey:
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped -
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died:
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul form a mother's old Arm-chair.
