There’s a place I’m privileged to visit on occasion—a civilized wilderness of sorts—where very few people intrude and my desire for hermitism (not to be confused with hermetism which is a philosophical or religious system based on the teaching of Hermes Trismegistus . . . mine just means I like being left alone) is fulfilled. I can sit for hours in the solitude . . . thinking . . . writing . . . reading . . . napping (lots of napping) . . . doing all the things one might enjoy when one is an aspiring hermit.
There are various places about this paradise that are conducive to all of the aforementioned. The porch swing is one. The tree swing on the other side of the pond-lake is another. And a third is a spot overlooking one of the marshy coves that stretches into the property as the pond-lake grows shallow. The previous owners took the time and put forth the effort to level out the ground and stabilize it with timbers. Then they added two metal chairs facing the water. You know the kind. The ones found on all the 1950s’ and 60s’ porches with a pie-crust design on the back and seat and bouncy legs for when you wanted to sit still but couldn’t.
I don’t know how long those chairs have been where they are now, but I do know the bright yellow paint has faded and begun to peel, revealing the other colors that once graced their frames. In the early spring they’re surrounded by daffodils scattered about as though someone took a handful of bulbs and just tossed them into the air, allowing them to grow wherever they might land.
It’s difficult to find a more beautiful time of year than the early spring when the earth comes alive once more, waking from her slumber and bursting forth in every imaginable color. Fall may actually be my favorite season (minus all the nose blowing and perpetual sneezing) and winter brings a purity that I appreciate with its cold, crisp air and blankets of white (as long as said blankets do not result in power failures and a loss of water). Summer is lovely even if it is kinda melty in our neck of the woods . . . but there is nothing to compare with the magnificence of spring. It is a season of renewal . . . of rebirth . . . a reminder that there is Life after the season of Death that winter brings.
Despite their worn appearance, those chairs that sit above the water’s edge are still strong enough to fulfill their intended purpose. And the daffodils that grow around them must force their leaves and buds through the earth’s crust, pushing aside the frail, dried leaves of past autumns as they stretch toward the sun, often struggling to endure the unexpectedly cold nights after being led to believe spring had come to stay.
Survival is never easy. Renewal and rebirth are difficult, even under the best of circumstances. It’s something those who are grieving share with chairs that are still strong and resilient, though weathered and worn by time, and newly bloomed daffodils that have risen from the cold and gray of winter. Spring always brings with her a message of hope. She always comes bearing the promise of continued life beyond the loss.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
