Sitting on the porch

When I was a child, we regularly visited my parents friends that lived in an old bungalow on a basement apartment.  There was a porch and a porch swing and you could see the river while swinging.  I don’t remember an adult sitting in the swing, and was told to get off regularly, but always ended back on the swing, perhaps a sign of a 4 year old’s mind.  I loved that porch although I’m guessing that swing was 1 step from falling apart.

My grandmother had a porch that was enclosed, with strange windows that dropped into the lower wall and then were raised in winter using cords in the frame.  There was a manual water pump on the front porch that worked for quite a while after its need was gone, much to the joy of grandchildren and the chagrin of the person cleaning up the water we periodically dumped on the floor.  It eventually lost its function, the rubber apparently retired. 
There was no swing, but there was a rocking chair and it was a favorite place when visiting, or when reading or when just staring down at the fields across the road.  It was also a great place for snapping beans and shelling peas and removing cherry pits.

I now have a porch because those other porches convinced me of the importance of a porch for my soul’s comfort and delight.  It is a place of great greenness and color and light in the summer and wonderful breezes and smells in spring and crisp fall leaves and evening warmth.  And in winter, it provides a bit of comfort to stray cats and other creatures that don’t have the ability to hibernate.

Most houses now have a porch, although it is frequently not big enough for more than a tiny chair.  I don’t see many people setting on them.  Perhaps it is the speed we live our lives a that prevents this meditative practice.  Or maybe sitting there, where neighbors might walk by and wave…or not wave is too indicative of the disconnection people have from the people closest too them geographically.  Or maybe it’s the way the new porches are made, small, neat, architecturally pleasing but without a place to scribble with chalk or plant seeds in spring or lay yard tools when tired.  Our houses are so perfect these days, so without personality, so serious, and soulless.

Years ago, my first house had a single tiny bathroom.  The house had been splendidly decorated in late disco sparkle.  It was a perfectly coiffed little thing—except for a blue plastic radio toilet paper holder. 

I hated that toilet paper holder, but buying the little house made me unerringly broke for several years so it continued to serve its purpose valiantly.

On day, a friend told me that he loved that radio—that houses should not be so serious and homeowners should understand that they were a place to live, not a museum.  Wisest thing he ever said to me.

So while my neighbors decorate a chair that will never be sat on in honor of Halloween, while they spend every spare moment mowing and trimming and pulling—removing trees that make it harder to mow that perfect football field of grass, while they cover themselves in sunscreen and bug repellant and wear huge hats and face masks while pruning and weeding and spraying, I sit on the porch, rocking, reading, listening to the sounds of windchimes and bird calls and wind streaming through leaves and feel---happy?  Safe?  Relaxed?

I guess I just feel at home.

Just me and the weeds and bugs and little varmints that share this space—we are all at home.

At home on the earth, part of earth, sharing a little peace and contentment in that one point in space and time.

I highly recommend a porch.