It is early in the morning.
A soft light filters through the window.
The patina on the workbench has a glow to it.
It is not much light, but it is enough
to work on the parts and pieces
and fix the old furniture.
It is slow work, repairing broken things.
A different kind of art.
It takes patience. Trial and error,
a bit of wizardry. A bit of luck.
A willingness to work without clocks.
Progress. That is all that matters.
Not the clock. Not the calendar.
A whisper of movement early in the morning,
True to yourself, True to the old wood
and design of old masters of creation, you are content
being the restorer of things, souls and yourself.
About this poem
It has been an odd year of progress and falling back. Of regaining strength and health and losing it and soon I believe, to regain it again. Of progress and disaster and victories and failures. There is a lot of me that needs repair work. It’s not the first time.
I grew up learning how to restore furniture from my father. As a young man I did not have the patience for it. As I have aged, I have learned that patience. With stuff. And with myself. That second one was the most valuable lesson.
Contentment is hard to come by sometimes. It is priceless when you have it.
It’s a good day,