Transitions

Tonight, while I compile lists of data for my current job (soon to be my old job) in preparation for the transition from old to new, I rest my feet on my favorite piece of furniture.  This small seat is the perfect height for a foot rest, and in fact, many would probably suggest that it is in fact more of an ottoman-like structure.  The truth though, is that this compact, four legged mini-stool, outfitted with rather ornate, geometric carvings, is a prayer stool (or meditation stool, as that is what I've most commonly used it for, as have my predecessors since its arrival in the U.S.) from Africa.

Now, I wish I could tell you exactly where it originated, or even delve a bit more into its cultural significance, but I can't.  All that I know of the stool is that it was picked up in Africa on a trip taken by a dear spiritual friend of my family (probably received as a gift while he was there), and in turn, somewhere over the course of my knowing him, he passed it rather graciously on to me.  It has been with me ever since (probably a good ten +  years now and counting), and has been the ground to my soul on many occasions.

The curve of this particular piece of furniture is glorious.  Its hand carved and crafted, and I'm sure, having just the slightest experience in woodworking, that although it is simple, its the type of object that many a woodworker could admire.  As you sit in it, you first realize that yes, this is wood, and unforgiving, but soon accept how wonderful that is.  It forces you to sit erect, spine aligned, while at the same time, allowing you enough support and comfort to relax and focus on quieting your mind.  More importantly, when placed beneath a desk as I have it, the stool makes for the most exquisite foot massage tool.

Sadly, (no, joyfully, really) I digress.  My point here is not entirely related to the comforts of this little seat, passed from person to person and country to country, but instead, the journey that it has made and how symbolic it has become for me in terms of transition. 

My stool, made of dark wood, standing only a few inches off the ground, has seen far more than I have thus far in life.  It was made with great love, as many endeavors are, and when it came time to transition, it did so gratefully and unassumingly, ready to meet its new fate and keepers without fear or hesitation.  And while I realize that hesitation is not always a negative thing (sometimes we are best to pause for reflection before conquering the new aspects of our lives), in almost every respect I aim to move forward with the same poise as this sturdy, lovable little stool.  Hopefully that will be possible (I certainly don't see why not, because I've put in my fair share of work, and am happy to say I've tried my very best to be honorable to every party involved, including myself) and years from now I will be able to look back and say that I learned best how to transition from a stool.

At which point my grandchildren will most assuredly look at me like I've gone batty and run off to play in the snow or tattle on me to my future grown up children.

Cheers to the prospect of that!