One of the things that I love about living in a city is the constant recycling and moving around of furniture. Oftentimes pieces are older, made of real wood, and so unlike anything in modern stores. Seeing these pieces always makes me wonder about their story.
Sometimes people leave furniture out on the curb for the taking. Other furniture comes from Craigslist or thrift shops. But whatever its origin, inevitably some of this furniture will make its way home on a bus or on foot. People buy used things when they move into the city and give it away or sell it before they move out. Everything has a story.
Earlier this week, Benjamin came with me to pick up my [new to me, old in age, real-wood] desk. We carried it out the door of the guy's home, down a couple of flights of stairs, out the front door of his building, and headed down the hill, along the sidewalks for a mile until we got it home.
We had a blast. We smiled at a grandfather and a mostly naked baby out in their yard as the baby watched us and the grandpa talked to the baby about how hard we were working. We stopped for cookies when we passed our favorite cookie shop. I told him about an awesome 80s movie I started watching today and he told me how he's been thinking recently about how many different shades of blue my eyes can be. I sang out "I've Been Working on the Railroad" as we walked in step to the song. And now all of that is added to this old desk's story.
After making a space along the wall for it, I pulled out all the doors and vacuumed it out. Then I spent that evening, late into the night, finding new homes for all of my stationary, paper-crafts and art supplies. I savored the process. Now, in our tiny home there's a space, fitted to me, to sit and dream and create. The desk's latest narrative began last night with its journey home. I look forward to continuing that narrative as I use the space it holds for me.