In the last years of her life, for much of the day, my mother sat in a tub chair looking down the long, garden-lined drive towards Port Phillip Bay. Some days the bay was still and glistening like a millpond, while other times it was grey and choppy, bleak, yet always captivating. Mum loved the view; she loved her home and garden, and she loved that chair.
It was a bit of a squish to fit the beloved object into our space, not that it mattered. Anyone who has packed up rooms or homes for people they love knows that whatever they treasure makes it precious, almost holy, and completely suitable to keep, no matter your décor. That’s why some of us accumulate particular, often peculiar, things.Back home, the chair had blended in. One day, a friend pointed out what I hadn’t noticed – that the chair held a faint imprint of Mum’s torso and arms.
Many times, the project’s starting point is a practical and necessary task such as sorting out drawers, pantries, papers, photos, gardens and clothing, answering correspondence or tackling the fate of furniture. Usually, it’s a series of smaller projects, often done amid tears, stories, laughs and frequent cups of tea.
Whatever it is, experience suggests that tackling a project is therapeutic. Unfortunately, that’s therapy, not remedy. The grieving mind is distracted from the hurt, attention is focused, hours are repurposed, and the physical activity produces feel-good vibes.