It doesn’t look like a magic chair when you see it at first.
It’s the one with the comfortable cushion seat, a high back complete with the buttons and rust-colored fabric straight from Goodwill central casting.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a bad thing to be associated with Goodwill. That’s where my wife gets her best inspiration, revelations from on high about that hidden soap carving of Tom Selleck’s 70s mustache, waiting to purchased.
I have nothing but love for my chair right next to my nightstand, consisting of two gray Rubbermaid containers. On top of the two plastic bins sits a borrowed black desk lamp.This is the night stand that Home & Shack wants a cover story on.
At this moment, a laundry basket sits in the middle of the narrow living room with dingy white walls. Four (clean) black socks hang on the side of the basket where they’ve rested for at least a week.
I’m grateful for my borrowed chair because it’s so comfortable. It brings some life to a colorless place filled mostly with silence.
But that’s not entirely the reason for magic chair status. The real reason is that I’ve nearly read a complete book in that chair.
A book with pages.
It didn’t come with an app or a request to put it on my Google reader. Nor was it downloaded.
It was just me in the chair, illuminated by the light of a 60-watt bulb, learning about faith.
I can’t tell the last time I read a real book. Probably more than a year since it happened. There always something to watch, brainless websites to scan, Netflix shows to watch.
I can’t say for sure if I would have started to read again without the chair. But I know it felt good sitting there, turning real pages like the old days. I forgot what an escape it was to read with no TV or any other sound.
If you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do.
In the chair. Depending on the book, I bet it might even be magical.
