How often do we truly think about the dining table- beyond its size, purpose, or aesthetic appeal? For years, I didn’t. But as I’ve grown older, especially now as an empty nester in my forties, I find myself reflecting more often as I wipe down its surface.
For me, the dining table is a reminder of connection- a space that taught me lessons, laughter, and the art of resting among family and friends. I can close my eyes and still see the tables of the most important people in my life. And even if I never had the pleasure of sitting with them, they’ve always had a place at mine.
I can picture them all: my grandmother’s table, where large family meals gathered us several times a week; the picnic-style table my grandfather built with his own hands; my great-aunt’s table, where I learned to eat rice with peas and slivered almonds; and my eldest great-aunt’s table, where we held our dirty hands over our plates until someone helped us wash them clean. The stories that were born around those tables still whisper lessons if we’re willing to sit and listen.
The older I get, the more I realize the table isn’t just where we eat- it’s where we become. One of my earliest memories is of sitting in my grandmother’s lap, her hand gently rubbing my back as I drifted to sleep on her shoulder. The sound of women’s voices floated around me- a soft, steady lullaby woven through laughter, coffee cups, and shared stories. The table itself was small, and the space it occupied was cramped, but the love and acceptance that filled that little room remain vivid. Many of those voices have long since gone quiet, leaving behind lessons- and the kind of empty spaces that can never truly be filled.
What I didn’t know then was that those gatherings were quietly teaching me how to hold space- for others, and for myself. Not a single person seated around that table was without mistakes. Not every lesson learned was one of light and love; some came wrapped in darkness, deep hurt, and pain. Sometimes more than one lesson arrived in a single evening. And why wouldn’t that be so? How many of us are perfect? How many of us carry our own share of failures tucked inside the baggage we bring? What I’m saying is this: I learned that it’s okay- and that I was taught to love anyway.
The rhythm of those gatherings still echoes here; in the way I live and love. I open doors, welcome others in, hold space, offer quiet strength, and share a meal. Hospitality is never a chore- it’s a way of life for me, the core of who I became.
The table taught me grace- a lesson that perfection never could. And through it all, the table keeps doing what it does best: reminding me that every seat, every story, and every soul gathered here is a lesson in love.
From my table to yours, with warmth and grace,
Shaunta
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