Front Porch Sittin'

As a kid, I wondered why I’d see so many old people sitting on their front porches. It seemed like they were doing nothing at all. They’d wave at cars as they passed. Whoop-de-doo. Sometimes they’d be snapping green beans or whittling chunks of wood. But mostly they sat. It seemed pointless, unproductive, and boring to me as a child.

I have reached the age where my bird feeders give me more joy than the latest innovation in technology. My flowerbed sings with the colorful blooms that I planted. And I sit contentedly on my front porch now. I assume this is what middle age is supposed to be. I long for the pace to slow down. These moments of solace have been imperative for my sanity.

What I didn’t realize when I was a kid, because my entire life was ahead of me, was that simple moments of unmitigated peace are worth more than anything. The calm I feel sitting alone on my front porch has been a welcome salve these last few years.

I’m not entirely sure when this became my daily routine. Maybe during the pandemic, when we were forced to stay close to home. Of course, now that I reflect on it, I can’t remember not doing this. It’s interesting how things can become part of our lives.

Sometimes I sit out here and read. Most days, I at least have a book next to me. My iPhone often lures me to scroll through social media. It feels blasphemous to play audio while sitting in this sacred place somehow. It feels holy here.

The sanctity of my front porch feels like the woods used to for me. Don’t get me wrong, a walk in the woods still moves me to reverence, but I’ve found that simply sitting here slows my heart rate and brings me to a place of peace.

This has been a rough season for me. I couldn’t even tell you why. Life feels like a lot lately. Maturity tells me that these things are seasonal and cyclical, and I’m just in one of those times. This, too, shall pass, as the good book reminds us. I know it will.

In the grand scheme of things, my life is great. I have a nice home, a great wife, and a job with benefits. All things I prayed for. I try to convince my racing mind of these things when my brain is flooded with thoughts like a hamster on methamphetamine. Sitting on the front porch forces me to slow down.

The Cardinals chirp. Angry Wrens chastise larger birds. The House Finches nested above me, curse my intrusion. Just last week, a chipmunk ran across my foot, and I’ve even made friends with a bold five-lined skink. A few squirrels are like acquaintances—like Nubby, the one I’ve watched for at least three years with half a tail. I’ve got a resident raccoon named Ricky. I say his name with the thickest southern drawl I can muster each time I refer to him. Hummingbirds and lightning bugs visit me as I sit in the evening bliss. This is my life now, and it’s how I try to make sense of a world off-kilter.

Maybe it’s a Southern thing. Maybe it’s Maybelline. But I get a lot out of good old-fashioned front porch sitting. These days I’ll take peace in any force it comes. Those old folks must have been on to something. Perhaps I’m in the ranks of old folks now. Anyway, a black-capped chickadee is calling my name. I’m going to sit for a spell and see what he has to say.