My mom gave me an old farmhouse table last autumn. It was painted a dark brick red, tired and heavy, like the leaves that fell from the trees.
I have spent the past several months slowly stripping through five layers of paint to expose the natural wood. It killed my electric sander. It did not yield easily to change.
And now that its surface has been worn down, exposed, restored to its original skin, it is free to bear the weight of something new.