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The Rocking Chair
I'm sure that we all sometime in our life have sat upon a rocking chair or had stories told to us while we sat upon the lap of our mother, father, or grandparents. Rather than throw the old black rockers away my grandmother put it out on their covered front porch. The Porch was long as the houses back in the 40's were constructed with large porches as families spent much time outside before air conditioning. To me some of the finest memories are sitting in a large black rocking chair on my grandmother's farm on the porch just rocking away as I watched the groundhogs on the distant hillside, or listen to the rain fall. It was a place of safety and comfort to me.
Rocking seems to be the motion?
From sitting to sleeping. Did you know that there were adult rocking Cribs,? Yes made by the Shaker's (Picture above). The earliest known mention of 'rocking' motion was found in a wooden carfing in the 1600's in Germany. Perhaps even the Roman's and before used Rocking Chairs. In America Ben Franklin was noted for inventing the "Rocking Chair" It has long time been used by our Familes, Presidents, Authors for hundreds of years. Gathering around while a story is told, or sitting on the lap of a love one while being rocked to sleep. That is why I felt that the stories of Heroe's should be told from the seat of a "Rocking Chair".
 Napoleon's Rocking Chair 
The destiny of an individual from the cradle to the grave is sometimes refered to as--The Web of Life. It is an allusion to the three Fates who, according to Greek mythology, spin the thread of life, the pattern being the events which are to occur...
The Rocking Chair
by dubh sidhe
I can't sleep. I'd like to, but my head aches and I have a strange pain in my left arm. That is not what is keeping me awake, however. It is fear. The fear of existing. The fear of the Spinner who crouches in the corner. The fear of knowing that I'm living a life of dying. My rocking chair is my only safety. Safety from the Spinner. My rocker cradles me with warmth and security. With each tick of the clock, the chair squeeks, squeeks and the minutes shrink in proportion to time in the outside world.
My safety and sanctuary are in my chair. Outside, there is nothing for me. The world is busy weaving dreams. Inside, dreams no longer exist. My dreams have raveled into short threads. Past memories are no longer heard, seen or felt. Where have they gone? I reach into a nebulous encroaching fog longing to touch a remnant of the past, but the mist is cold and gray and empty.
As I rock, I ask the Spinner how many breaths have filled this house since it first became. Her ghostly voice speaks from an empty hood: First there were four exhaling and inhaling in time. Then there were three exhaling, inhaling. Next, two exhaling, inhaling. And now only one remains exhaling, inhaling. One from the beginning and lingers still, exhaling, inhaling. Waiting. Longing to stop.
Once there were no yesterdays--only todays and tomorrows. Now, there are only yesterdays. Yesterday's memories are buried in a shroud of gray under a dust covered rainbow of faded laughter, love and dreams. Still the one from the beginning lingers. Exhaling. Inhaling. Waiting.
Outside the faded flowers bow their heads. The red birds and blue birds fly away. A lonely white dove desends and perches silently on a baren tree branch. Inside is only the squeek, squeek, squeek of an old wooden rocking chair. All are gone except the one exhaling. Inhaling. In the shadows, the Spinner watches and waits--my thread to cut.
The sanctuary, once warm, is nearly lifeless and cold. Still, the shadow watches and waits. The one from the beginning exhales and a single thread falls to the floor..
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