Traveling solo - Rocking Chairs and Ficus Trees

8/1/25 On Promptings and Remembering

By Ruth Tindugan
‍ ‍

I was a few steps away from the last ficus tree when I felt a firm tug in my consciousness to turn back, and like a poodle on a leash, I did.

Before that, I was following the arrows to gate ten at Charlotte Douglas International Airport, and the left turn took me to an atrium with rows of ficus trees and white rocking chairs. The unexpected sight instantly made me think of a beach, a front porch at mid-day, and the tune of a lullaby. I had a two-hour layover, and I felt a pale desire to lounge for a while, but the idea of being at the gate at least two hours before departure was ingrained, so I kept walking, dragging my green carry-on.

Then I felt the “ strong tug” that made me turn around.

The atrium has two rows of ficus trees planted on planter boxes that are beneath the concrete floor. Two rocking chairs with a small square table in between the trees made the place looked like a porch with a view of the sky and parked airplanes on the ground. The ficus leaves that appeared untouched with dust, shimmered in the white sunlight coming from outside the glass walls.

I passed by a lady squatting on the floor while clicking on a laptop placed on a low square table beneath a ficus. I walked toward a vacant chair opposite an elderly man with a pleasant face. “It is very comfortable,” the man said, smiling at me as he stood up. “I’m going to get coffee.”

The chair, made of flat, wooden slats, felt smooth, and sturdy as my body settled in. I laid my arms on the armchairs, and the curve of my spine relaxed as the rocking motion sent a sensation creeping all over my body like tiny rivulets from a brook. I closed my eyes, and settled into something that felt old, warm and gentle…

————————

Years ago, I bought a 6-inch pot of ficus at the birth of my first born son. I repotted it several times as it grew in the living rooms of four houses we moved into over the years. It finally settled on a round plastic pot where it had grown a little over five feet tall. I trim the branches now and then to keep its shape and height.   On the main branch, I placed a nest made of nettles that fits into my cupped hand.  A cardboard bird painted white with brown wings and tail sits on it guarding a small egg. (I don’t remember whether it was a gift or if I bought it from a craft store).

I bought wicker rocking chair when my middle son was born.  It was comfortable but was poorly made. After a year, the frame broke, and rattan back seat material gave way. My husband dismantled the broken furniture and took it to the dumpster.

Four years later, I was pregnant again. As with my previous pregnancies, food craving was a myth. I craved for a rocking chair. 

With very little money for extras, I went to a thrift store and found one. The frame was a solid pine, the upholstery had its share of what could be spilled baby formula, coffee, and beer. The rockers had scratches and chips of age and cats. I took it home and told my husband that instead of spending money for refinishing, maybe it would be better for him to enroll at woodworking class at the community adult school, and learn a “hobby” with this rocking chair as his project. I said he has about five months to work on it before the baby arrives.  He didn’t say anything, but one day I saw him load the rocking chair into the van.  Several weeks later, he brought it back, all refinished in its natural color, with a matching light beige upholstery. It was sturdy, and it rocked gently in the rhythm of lullabies thereafter.

As the boy grew up the chair became a dumping space for smelly socks, hats, notebooks, and soda cans. I transferred it into the living room by the ficus tree. Nobody sat on it anymore but it brought nostalgia. One day, I noticed a tear on the seat exposing the foam inside the pad. I would put a shawl to cover it and a square toss pillow that matched the drapery. Eventually, its right arm got unglued. I moved it to the garage, and covered it with a towel, and the rocking chair stayed there unnoticed without judgment.

—————

“It was a long wait, about twenty minutes,” the man said.
I opened my eyes and smiled at him. I got up and grabbed my luggage.
“Have a good trip,” I said to him. We smiled as two strangers who shared a comfortable silence at an airport dubbed as “the best place to rock.”
(I googled that later.)

At the passengers’ lounge, I thought about the strong pull that made me turn back to the atrium. I remembered an instance when I felt a need to turn the car back to pick something I’ve forgotten, only to see that the stove is still on! Unlike averting a catastrophe, I realized that some strong “promptings” to return to a place passed by just happen for a simple reason: be still, and remember. The ficus trees and the rocking chairs at the airport reminded me of childbirths. My sons are now grown.

When I came home, I watered my ficus, thankful that it thrives quietly, undemanding, and without fuss.

As for the rocking chair, after postponing the idea for years, I finally took it to an upholstery shop. And, unlike the first time when money was desperately short, I had three-hundred-fifty dollars for its repair. (There’s always a price to pay in order to restore something that is broken.) Five days later it was delivered to my house looking good as new. Much, much better than when I first bought it.