Her

Shortly after I moved into a new house after the divorce, a dear friend asked me if I wanted a chest that she had bought at an auction. I saw her for the first time in a picture. I was immediately captivated by her beauty. I was impressed with the craftsmanship that adorned her walls. I desired to listen to her tell her story. I wanted to know how she became so beautiful, sturdy, and strong. I wanted to understand how she was made.

A few weeks later she was brought to my house.

The day she arrived at my house I wanted her to stay in my garage. Although I desired for her to be in my home, I felt like the garage would give us enough space to get to know each other.

The first evening that I had to myself I sat next to her so that I could begin to learn from her.

Her walls were structured in a way that she appeared to be made of marble. Yet, she was made from wood. Someone, unbeknownst to me, had caked walls of paint on her. I noticed that the paint had begun to chip away at her edges. Initially, I thought that her layers of paint made her unique and that her chipped edges showed the wear and tear of life.

As I sat next to her, I noticed something about her that I didn’t realize from the picture that was sent. There was a strange scent that encompassed her. When I opened her up to peer inside, the awful smell billowed out of her causing my nose to flare and stomach to turn.

She reeked. She smelled of dust, mold, and wood that had rotted.

When I lifted her lid further open, her rusted hinges pierced my ears. Her cries were alarming. As I slowly continued to open her up, I noticed that someone had covered her inner walls with strange wallpaper. Although someone must have been creative to place this layer on her, the wallpaper was water-stained and was beginning to peel away. There were also cobwebs and dust balls that had laced her corners and underbelly.

It was her smell, her screams, the parts of her that had gone unnoticed to the untrained eye, that made me take special notice in her.

Only her.

Not the paint or the wallpaper that someone had chosen to place on her, but her.

Only her.

Underneath the thick layers, she was slowly and painfully dyeing.

She needed help. She needed care. She needed to be brought back to life.

It was up to me to bring her back to life.

I had a choice.

I chose life.

I had done similar reconstructions to different items over the past few years, but none to this magnitude.

Some of the items that I had reconstructed over the years were used by

someone as a mockery to hurt me. Sadly, this tactic left me feeling very shameful of my abilities and creations. For a moment, this tactic made me not want to pursue reconstructions. I have started to understand that that voice is not one that I need to listen to. [To the right is one of the recreations I did last year. A river made of broken glass filled with hand painted roses.]

Since this project would require a lot of resources, I began to research the best ways to strip the paint while protecting her core. I read a lot of articles and watched a ton of videos from people using different strategies that worked best for them. I dove into the research not because I didn’t trust myself, but because I wanted to gather as much information as I could so that I could make the best decision for her.

She was worth my time. She was worth the research. She was worth my space.

As I researched the best methods to help her recover, I realized that I didn’t have the tools that I used on the other projects. The tools were some of the many things that I decided weren’t worth fighting for during the divorce. That meant that I needed to purchase a few tools to begin to work on her. Just a few. A handheld sander and a spatula.

At first, I tried a natural approach to remove her first layer of paint; however, her layers were too thick to be removed by my hands alone. I decided to switch to chemicals to help me remove the paint. As I placed the layer of stripper on her, I watched her first layer bubble and begin to lift off her bones.

I imagined that the paint was every lie, every deception, every torturous act that made her core seemingly disappear.

Once the stripper was settled, I used the spatula and brute force to carefully remove the paint that had been placed on her. Globs and globs of paint started to come off. It was ugly. It was messy. I went through a few packs of cloth as I rubbed the globs of paint off from my spatula so that I could remove more paint from her.

With each layer of paint that was stripped from her, I could feel her begin to breathe.

Steady.

Her core was slowly beginning to be revealed.

She was stunning and beyond strong.

Once I found a pattern in removing the paint that had been placed on her, I followed that pattern until most of the paint had been removed. At this state, she looked worse than when she first arrived at my house.

Yet, I could start to see her core. I could start to see a new path for her life. Although she was weary from the paint being removed, she began to show life beyond the paint.

I decided to leave her side panels intact. The panels were what made her unique. Those floral panels were what made me initially take notice in her. I began to sand the sides of her while being very careful not to do anything that might ruin the one thing that made her seemingly beautiful.

Finding the perfect grain of sandpaper was a mixture of trial and error and curiosity. I knew that I needed to start with a very coarse grain to remove the remnants of the paint and stain that the chemicals were unable to remove, and finish with a very fine grain to smooth her surface.

I used the new handheld sander as well as my very own hands to begin to find her. Once I found her, I was blown away that underneath the layers of paint and stain, her grains were breathtaking.

Her core was undeniably solid.

I began to see her differently. I began to see her future differently. I began to see the hope in her. Her grains were bright. Her core was brighter than the white paint that had been placed on her.

I was pleased with how she looked. I was pleased with how much she had improved. I decided that she was almost ready for stain, so I went to the supply store to purchase wood conditioner to begin the conditioning process. When I got home from purchasing the conditioner, I knelt beside her and gently placed my hands on her to feel the smoothness of her grain. As I lowered to her, I could smell a slight twinge of mold. I knew that something was not right. Mold shouldn’t be coming from her.

Confused, I walked around her to find where the stench could be coming from. Perplexed that she still smelt of mold after removing all the paint and stain, I nearly threw in the towel and gave up on her. Then, I realized that she still had the floral panels. It dawned on me, that there could be something underneath this part of her.

I really didn’t want to remove this part of her. I had worked so hard not to damage this part of her. It was the very thing that drew me to her in the first place. It was the very thing that made me want her in my home.

Yet, her life was more important than the panels.

Still in denial that mold could be on her under this layer, I poked a tiny hole on one of the panels and took a whiff. The stench that escaped this hole was ghastly. It smelled of roadkill. This part of her that was so masterfully placed on her to make her appear differently, was the very thing that was killing her.

At this, I had to go back to the supply store and purchase a new tool.

I needed reinforcements.

I needed a crowbar so that I could remove this layer. Once home, with a hammer in one hand and the crowbar in the other, I began to lift this layer from her. Each pound of the hammer to wedge the crowbar underneath this layer, dust and black mold seeped from the edges.

This sight gave me confirmation that I was doing the right thing for her. It gave me the strength to continue to press on until the panel was removed.

Once this layer was completely lifted from her, I was taken away from the amount of mold, dead debris, and dust that was under this layer. Of all the things that made her seemingly beautiful, this layer contained the most damage.

Although I was relieved to see what had been hidden for so many years, I wept with her. In our weeping, I could feel her start to take a deeper breath now that everything was starting to be revealed. I could hear her begin to softly speak as this ruthless layer had been lifted from her.

In this moment that time stood still, I knew that we couldn’t stay in the stillness for long. There was work still to be done. She had three other floral panels that needed to be removed. As I worked on removing each panel, they all revealed much of the same. Dust. Mold. Decaying debris.

Once all the panels were removed, I cleaned the debris from her. I could feel that she had grown stronger. Her presence seemed to take up more space in the garage.

She was free. She was beginning to experience freedom from every layer that had been skillfully placed on her.

Although I could see the physical damage that the panels had left on her, I could feel her heartbeat for the very first time.

I glided my hands over her sides, so that I could feel her. I could feel her pain. I could feel her grief. I could feel her despair. The panels had left quite the mark on her, but I wanted to try my best to remove as much of the markings as possible.

Why?

I could feel her hope. I could feel her strength.

I began to try to restore her deepest wounds carefully and diligently. It was painful time for both of us. At one point, something happened that was beyond restoring her that caused me to return to some very harmful past coping mechanisms.

One night, I lost hope in myself. My own personal path became blocked, and I couldn’t see my very own next steps. In my despair, I layered her with harmful chemicals causing damage to her and to myself.

In my shame of reverting back to past coping mechanisms and complete despair in my circumstances, I placed her outside with plans to throw her away. I didn’t know how to throw her away, so I left her outside for a few days so that I could figure out how to dispose her properly. While I was trying to figure things out, she experienced rain, high temperatures, storms, and more rain.

I wanted to forget her. I wanted her out of my life.

One evening I drove into my driveway after returning from a solo backpacking trip and I noticed her.

This time, I noticed myself.

With the smell of backpacking still on my skin, I got out of my car and sat beside her in the grass where I had left her. I laid my hands on her once again to feel her.

We wept.

Not only did I want to forget about her, but I also wanted to forget about me.

I wanted to forget everything.

I wanted it all to go away.

I honestly thought that my choices had ruined her. I felt as though I was ruined too. However, I wanted to see if I could begin to restore her again. This time I wanted to take full notice not only in her but myself as well.

I had a deep desire to take care of her.

I had a deep desire to take care of myself.

I began to sand her sides. At first, I used a very soft grain of sandpaper to delicately remove the stains that the water from the rain had caused. Once I removed the first layer, I used the coarsest grain to get down to her deepest core.

With each swipe of the sander, the sawdust rose from her.

With each swipe of the sander, my soul was being restored. As the sawdust lifted from her and rested on my skin, my heart began to feel again.

My core was beginning to strengthen.

Despite all that she had been through, she was brilliant. She glowed.

And there was no denying her transformation.

She had been stripped of everything.

The day after the divorce was final, I sat on the couch in my therapist’s office, and she asked me how I felt. I told her I felt stripped. A year later I gazed at her in a similar stage. All the layers, all the mold, debris, and junk had been stripped from her. Just as it had been from me. It’s a very vulnerable state to be stripped. In all its bareness, special care and treatment must take place.

8 months after I had initially purchased the wood conditioner, I genteelly and slowly painted it on her.

The timing was perfect. It wasn’t rushed. All the hard work of restoring her to her natural beauty was protected by the conditioner.

After the conditioner settled, I used the finest grain of sandpaper to sand her one last time before I was ready to place a stain on her.

During the last sand, we breathed together. We were beginning to feel restored.

A few days after the conditioning process was complete, I went to the supply store to purchase the stain and the polyurethane that I would use to finish her. As I stood in the stain aisle at the supply store, I imagined what she would look like with each stain option.

I realized standing in the aisle that it was my choice to make on what she would look like in the end. My choice of stain wasn’t dictated by anyone.

It was my choice.

On this trip to the store, I purchased new wood to use for her bottom and lid as well as new hardware for her. Her bottom had been destroyed. It couldn’t be restored. Her original lid had been painted just as the rest of her, and I didn’t want to restore her lid. In all honesty, I was tired of stripping and sanding.

I wanted to be done with the restoration.

I finished the bottom and the new lid and began to place them on her. I was satisfied with how she looked with the new bottom, but as I laid the new lid on her, I wasn’t pleased how she looked.

She didn’t look whole.

Her old lid was propped on a wall inside of my garage. I looked over to it and knew that I needed to use her original lid.

I couldn’t take the easy road out just so that I could finish. I needed to restore all of her. I realized that if I used the lid that I made, it would be a constant reminder that I had giving up on restoring all of her. I also recognized that I would always be curious what she would look like with her original lid. It was the curiosity that propelled me forward.

So, I began to restore her lid.

As I restored her lid, I wrapped her in plastic and cloth so that she could be protected. Soon after I started restoring her lid, I began to see her in yet another light.

And I began to visualize her in my home.

With a simple decision to keep working on her, I saw her completely whole. Completely restored.

And I felt content.

I smoothed the stain over her surface that I had picked out. Although it was nerve wracking to place the first layer of stain on her, in the first swipe I knew that I had made the right decision. To seal everything in, I painted the polyurethane on her so that she would be protected from all future circumstances.

My last step was to place the hardware that I had purchased for her. I wanted to incorporate metal on her. I wanted the metal to accentuate her features. I wanted the metal to celebrate her.

Almost a year after she arrived at my doorstep, she is now resting in my home.

She is magnificent.

She is strong.

She is fierce.

She is regal.

She is me.