“Uneasy in My Easy Chair,” an essay by Cathy Fiorello

Nonfiction

Uneasy in My Easy Chair
by Cathy Fiorello

Chairs have always been essential props in my life. My first special chair was my father’s, actually, a brown leather man-styled, man-sized Morris chair commandeered by my mother to help see me through a childhood illness. She tucked cushions alongside its arms and a pillow against its back, fussing until it was a perfect fit for my frail young body. The chair stood next to a sunny window in the dining room, where I could watch her budding hydrangea bushes grow in the garden, and she could watch over me as she toiled in the kitchen. That’s where I got my first sense of the comfort a special chair provides. I was seven years old, and I never forgot it. As I passed from one stage to another in my life, I have sought and found a chair that stood open- armed, ready to embrace me when I needed refuge from the world outside.

I’ve had special chairs at different times of my life, wherever I lived. The yellow chair in my suburban home was my sanctuary when I needed respite from the demands of young motherhood. It absorbed today’s stress and restored my resolve to face the same anxieties tomorrow. This chair was indisputably mine. The green metal chairs in Paris parks were shared with dreamers the world over. They were always there when I returned, be it after months or years. I relied on them for the stamina I would need to visit again the sights that I never tire of in this city that I love. These chairs have had the easiest task of all—they simply make happy times more so. My current chair, purchased when we furnished our new home in San Francisco, wasn’t chosen for its style or color. The only requirement was that it be comfortable. There is no way the chair itself can compete with the view it looks out on. Outside my window, the Ferry Building’s clock tower presides over San Francisco Bay, the flapping of its flag an indication of how windy the day. Behind the tower, the Bay Bridge is strung out in sections, its illuminated cables make nighttime magic. Between the tower and the bridge, the white wings of sailboats glide over the Bay.

I sit here now not because I am stressed or over-worked or multi-tasking has left me frazzled. I sit here now just because I am tired. I find I need to sit more at this time of life, to rest when nothing untoward has caused fatigue. My earlier chairs called to me at the end of the day; this chair beckons more frequently. When I was little and we went for Sunday afternoon drives, my father would sometimes pull to the side of the road, turn off the ignition, and announce, “I need to rest.” My sister Eleanor and I whispered quietly on the backseat as he dozed for fifteen or twenty minutes. He woke refreshed, and we continued our drive. I have not yet given in to the mid-day nap.

Though I’ve never allowed my advancing age to dictate what I can do and what I can’t, I’m beginning to think in those terms now. This conflicts with the fact that I am still excited about life; I still delight in achievements, mine and those of others. I have not yet drawn the curtain on learning; I am still a classroom junkie. I am awed by a technology I don’t understand but appreciate its effects on the world I live in, and can only imagine the monumental changes it will bring to a world I am no longer in. But the need for more rest, more often, is undeniable. This makes me uneasy in my easy chair.

An underlying need nudges at me. Put your life in order, it says. Do not leave chaos behind for others to deal with. I’ve started dispensing my personal treasures to those who I think would love them as I did. Letting go of things I’ve cherished is a source of serenity. Yet, paradoxically, this, too, makes me uneasy.

Lately, when I look at the view from my current chair, I have a different perspective on the Bay that I love. I see it as my final resting place, where I’ll ride the gentle tides along its shore, then float out to sea to places I’ve never been. Though I couldn’t swim in life, I will float fearlessly out of it. Toss in some flowers to escort me out of the harbor—daffodils, if they’re in season. If there’s music, let it be Edith Piaf proclaiming she has no regrets, for I’ll have none either. And for the loved ones who’ve gathered to wish me Bon Voyage, champagne to toast me and each other.

About Cathy Fiorello
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Cathy Fiorello
Find your passion and follow it! - Oprah Winfrey.

My passions are food, Paris, and writing. A morning at a farmers’ market is my idea of excitement. Visiting Paris is my idea of heaven. And much of my writing is about food and Paris. Oprah would be proud of me. I worked in book and magazine publishing in New York, freelanced for magazines during my child-rearing years, then re-entered the work world as an editor. I moved to San Francisco ten years ago and published a memoir, Al Capone Had a Lovely Mother. I have two children, one on each coast, and four grandchildren, two on each coast. My mission is to make foodies and Francophiles of them all.