This morning I repainted the iron table on our deck. It will be moved to our new home in a few days, and I wanted to get it done before the movers come. Today seemed like the perfect day, hot and sunny, no chance of rain. I was up early, before the heat became unbearable, so by 7am, I was out there, spreading newspaper, gathering supplies, scrubbing off peeling paint with a wire brush, then sanding the whole table. In the future, I will use spray paint, but I had a can of enamel I had bought for this table nearly a year ago, and I didn't want it to go to waste. So I painted the entire table with a good old fashioned wood-handled paint brush. I switched to a smaller brush for the little curls and flourishes, then added a second coat of paint.
Why does this matter? In the past, this is a task I would have dreaded. I would have complained inside my head throughout the entire process. But today, I let it guide me. I took my time and really focused on painting. I listened to the birds and felt the sun on my arms. I looked up every now and then, rolled my shoulders to loosen the muscles in my neck, and looked around at all the trees, lush and green from summer's heat and rains. My neighbors' crepe myrtle bloomed early this year, and I realized how much I'll miss that tree. I relished this last Sunday on the tiny deck of the home we've lived in for sixteen years. This table is one of the first things we bought when we moved to Virginia from New York City. I loved every second of painting this table.
A few hours later, my husband opened the back door and suggested we go for a bike ride. I gave the table a once over, touched up a few spots I had missed, and felt an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude. I'll always love that table because of this Sunday morning.