The orange chair

On trusting intuition and ancestral wisdom

This fall, I dropped our thirteen-year-old off at football practice. Two hours until pickup. I could have gone home.

But it was still light out. Still warm. I had packed a camping chair in the trunk and my writing bag — yellow pad, pens.

I found myself turning left at the chapel. Past the inn. Pulling over next to the cemetery.

When we buried my aunt and uncle, we brought camping chairs so the older guests wouldn’t have to stand. It occurred to me that I could bring one anytime.

So I did.

I unfolded the orange chair and set it near my grandparents.

All five of them are buried there, alongside my aunt and uncle. We already know where my mom’s spot will be.

I took out the yellow pad. Put my phone in the cup holder on the chair. Clicked a pen open.

And I asked:

Dear loved ones,

What do I need to know for the coming year?

What wise counsel do you have for me?

Then I tried to release control and let words move through my pen and onto the page.

Three things came.

The first two were specific: treasure your kids while you have them close. And go to the archives — read your grandfather’s papers, his personal correspondence, the story of how he managed with a sick daughter and a dying wife. Do it now while you’re close.

Then came the third.

Tell stories. You have some amazing stories. Tell them. People love stories. They will listen.

You will help people by sharing the stories that you have — not advice, but stories. No need to hit them over the head with it. Don't be pedantic. Let them make their own meaning. Each person needs a different lesson.

Your stories can help people. You don’t have to know how.

I’ve been writing these posts — about dreams and ancestors and planes that land softly and rocking chairs in the rain — because of what came out of my pen that afternoon.

Tell stories. You don’t have to know how they’ll help. Just tell them.

And now I’m following where it leads.

These stories are becoming a book. I’m working on a proposal — a memoir in vignettes about dreams and ancestors, about leaving a career and finding my way back to the work that was mine all along. About what happens when you stop trying to figure it out and start listening instead.

If you know anyone in the publishing world — especially literary agents — I would be so grateful for an introduction.

And in the meantime, I’ve got a lot more stories. Even though I don’t understand yet how they are helping.

🕊️

SAM

two hours until pickup…