The Chair by the Window

Every home has one.

A chair that no one else really uses. Too far from the fire to be called “the cozy one,” too plain to be the “statement piece,” and too worn to show up in the real estate listing.

But there it sits — by the window. Always by the window.

At the ranch, it’s the first place I go on Sunday mornings. Before the dog wakes up. Before the kitchen stirs. Before the day starts asking things of me.

It’s not the most comfortable chair in the house. The cushion’s a little stiff, and the back has that creak no amount of oil seems to fix. But it’s where the morning light lands first.

And somehow… that’s enough.

A Place to Watch the Land Breathe

From that chair, I’ve seen storms roll in like they were late for dinner. I’ve watched the pasture shift from green to gold to white and back again. I’ve seen more sunrises than I can count — none of them urgent, all of them faithful.

It’s the spot where I read mail I’ve already opened. Where I pour the second cup. Where I look out, not for anything in particular, but just to remind myself that life is still happening — even when I’m not trying so hard.

Every Home Needs a Pause Point

We talk a lot about gathering spaces. About rooms made for company. Tables that host holidays and fireside spots where stories live.

But not everything in a home has to serve a crowd.

Some corners are meant for one person at a time.
Just one. One cup. One thought. One slow exhale before the noise returns.

The chair by the window doesn’t expect anything from me. It doesn’t ask me to be productive. It just lets me be — until I’m ready to be more.

It Wasn’t Bought for This

Truth is, I don’t even remember where I got it. Probably an estate sale or a roadside shop in some forgotten Texas town. The upholstery’s not original. The legs are scratched. It’s been moved five times — once across three counties.

But the chair doesn’t mind.

Because what gives a chair purpose isn’t how it looks. It’s what it holds.

And this one? It holds quiet. It holds stillness. It holds me.

The Window Is What Makes It Matter

It’s not just the chair. It’s the light.

The way it spills in just right around 7:45 in the fall. The way it makes the dust in the air look like grace instead of mess. The way the view doesn’t change much — but somehow always says something different.

It’s where I’ve watched calves learn to stand. Where I’ve counted crows. Where I’ve seen my own reflection in the glass, older than I remember, softer than I expected.

This Sunday, Sit Somewhere That Doesn’t Need a Reason

Not your desk. Not the “good” chair. Find the spot that asks the least of you and gives the most.

Even if it creaks. Even if the cushion’s flat. Even if no one else understands why you love it so much.

Because every home needs a place to land before the world gets loud. And every life needs a corner that reminds you:

Stillness is not idleness.
Stillness is where the soul recalibrates.