I can only be me. You can only be you. Think about it.

by Kayce Stevens Hughlett

I’ve loved the season of summer for as long as I can remember. It was blazing hot in Oklahoma where I grew up with temps in the 90’s and humidity often as high. Fortunately, I was young and didn’t notice so much. Summer is a fickle thing in the Pacific Northwest, but this year we’ve been graced with day after day of perfection. Mid-70’s. Blue skies. Gentle breeze. It both invigorates and immobilizes me. I want to soak it all in.

Recently I found myself in a bit of a funk, even with Mother Nature’s finest tempting me to lighten up and play. I felt agitated and blue and kept fretting over not having any motivation to be creative… until, I remembered a brilliant exercise that author Sarah Selecky introduced us to during the writers’ residency in Tuscany.

Notice 10 things. Without frill. Without mediation or interpretation. List them simply as they are.

1. Bee hovering next to the rhododendron tree
2. Pale strip of white cloud in the light blue sky
3. Hammering at a neighbor’s house pierces the quiet
4. A bird chimes in. Sparrow? Robin? Chickadee?
5. Jet flies high overhead
6. Fuchsia and yellow blooms surround Sir Albert, my garden peacock
7. Amazon bags and tubs form a pile on the porch, mixed with sleeping bag and gardening supplies
8. Chocolate-stained cookie wrapper beneath “Paper Towns,” my summer read
9. Three striped hula hoops lean against the French doors
10. Striped chair—yellow, white, orange, red, purple, blue—sits alone in the dried grass.

Something shifts and right there in my backyard the chair begins to speak. I am the brilliant chair sitting alone in the dried grass. As a chair, I cannot water the grass. I can only sit with it. I can open my arms to hold people and things. I can shine brightly. I am strong and resilient. I am lucky because I can’t hear the neighbor’s dogs and their annoying barking. Nor can I hear the happy chickens clucking. I have my limitations. I can fold up… ah, but I can’t do that alone. Really, all I can do is be the chair.

My legs are steel gray aluminum. Today I face southeast, the way of the rising sun. I welcome the sun with open arms. A shadow lies beneath me. I make my own shade with the help of the sun. I am an inanimate object; bright, shiny, open, created by something greater than I. Someone placed me here and I will remain in this spot until someone or something (like the wind) moves me. I have no choice but to be the chair. You, my dear, have a choice. You can move me and, more importantly, you can move yourself. {Cheeky chair} Will you fold me up or leave me here? Will you join me? Or will you turn your back and walk away? The choice is yours.

I ponder the chair’s invitation.

I have no choice, but to be me. I cannot become a chair or a clucking hen. I can act like one. I can fold up and hide. I can sit still and be present. I can shine like the brilliant stripes or cast gray shadows. I can simply be.

Regardless of what I choose, I will still be me and only me.

Like the chair, I am light and dark, strong and frail. I can hear racing cars and hammering neighbors. I can see fuchsia and sunshine blossoms. I can sit here all day in a chair, like the chair, but I cannot be the chair. I can only be me.

Live it to Give it invitation: What does it look like to be simply, wonderfully you? 

Feel free to use the tools here: list ten things you notice. Give one or more a voice. See what you discover. Rejoice in the brilliance of summer!