Enjoying this mid-spring warmth, my daughter and I set off on another outdoor adventure, this time exploring a path we hadn't ventured onto in a few years. Walking stick in hand, I traversed the uphill climb, grateful I had been walking and lifting hand weights all winter. I took in the variety of wildflowers and marveled at some of the amazing looking trees I had forgotten about - their massive, stout and winding branches creating a cool canopy for warm days. After a short time, we came upon this bench - alone - under a tree.
It spoke to me.
How many people had sat on it?
Not very many given how it looked. A couple of weeds growing through the slats, debris and dirt scattered all over it and an unusual situation I would not have discovered had I not sat on it: it was uneven, sloping downward, or as I announced to it "my but do you have a sloping issue."
So sat on it, I did. I closed my eyes, asking my girl for some quiet, as I let my imagination drift away, wondering who had experienced this bench and what was going on in their lives at the time.
A poet, I first felt and saw. An elderly woman. Widow. She had sat on this bench and written poetry. Having lost her life-long husband only months prior, writing poetry was something she hadn't done in decades, instead making her husband and their three children her focus. Now that the children had long left home, and with the passing of her dear beloved, she had decided to take up the craft again, using this bench and the nearby scenery for inspiration and much needed solitude. She would get so lost in her prose; she would forget the bench had a sloping issue. She poured out her grief, lamenting about loneliness and the scathing pain when you suddenly no longer have a hand to hold or a lovers embrace in the middle of the night. She would pause now and then to wipe a tear or shudder a long sigh. The sight of a butterfly passing by or the sweet smells of a patch of flowers nearby carried by a cool breeze would bring her back to the present moment - sitting alone she was, on that bench.
Then my imagination presented me with the image of a child - a boy - all of 5. He wasn't interested in sitting on the bench. He was interested in hitting it with a stick. And not just any stick, but the largest stick he could find. His mother nearby, occupied with an infant, would bring him to this walking path so he could release that energy only found inside a 5-year-old boy. Hitting objects with a stick was just his "thing". And did that young boy wail on that bench. With the many trees around, he could always find a broken branch or two to use in his work. And it was work, for not only would he hit the bench, but he would also often make up a song. It went something like this: "Oh I hit my bench, my bench, my bench. I love my bench, my bench, my bench." Then he would suddenly point his stick to an invisible enemy. "YOU!" he would state with authority. "Stay right where you are. Now I have you as my prisoner. You will do what I say." With great flourish, he would state his commands which ranged from walking the plank (which of course was on top of the bench) to bringing him a new stick in which he would use to wail on the prisoner. His mother, looking up now and then to make sure he wasn't hurting himself, smiled, before returning her attention to her infant.
Well, this image was becoming a bit too much for my mind, having already left those rambunctious child rearing years behind me so I tuned in to see what else this bench had experienced. I was flooded next with a variety of images: A middle aged man pausing to tie his shoe while out on a run, using the bench to prop up his leg and complete the task. Teenage kids using it as a means to sit in solitude and have a smoke, away from adult eyes and nagging words. A young girl using it as a space in which to engage in some water-colored paintings, quite fond of painting the nearby Gazebo. Squirrels enjoying playtime with one another, using the bench as a jumping off point. And even the sun found its way to this bench, casting a ray or two through the foliage at certain times of the day.
After those images raced through my mind like a movie on fast-forward, all was suddenly quiet within. I sat there, reflecting. What other experiences had this bench had over the years. Certainly there were more. Just as I began to think the bench had nothing more to present to me, was I given one last image. It was an image that rather surprised me.
I saw - me.
Just me - sitting on that bench.
And I was doing more than just sitting on it. I was bringing out all of these stories it had held for so very long. In short, I was bringing that lone bench and all of its experiences to life.
I have long stated that we all have stories that tell of our lives. But I was always referring to people. Perhaps there's more to that statement.
Perhaps, even that Lone Bench in the woods also had a story it wanted to tell. If so, I was - I am - happy to serve as the storyteller.
Victoria
