View from the back deck

My grandfather, back in Iowa, used to sit out on the kitchen porch after dinner and chew on a sprig of parsley that he picked from the flower box. Good for digestion. Of course, not in the winter time. Winter in Iowa is not conducive to either porch sitting or parsley.

I used to notice older people doing things like that, sitting on the porch or a park bench or, most amusing of all, in the open garage doorway since so many houses are built without porches these days. It always looked kind of sad to me as I raced by in my car on the way to somewhere, to do something. How sad it must be to be old and have nothing to do but sit. Especially in the garage.

Nothing in my life encouraged me to relax and contemplate. If I had occasion to sit and wait, I usually had a book to read or a notebook in my purse so I could plan or make notes. I had kids with me, or the radio to listen to. I had places to go and people to see.

I'm starting to change my tune and guess what---- it's not sad. Maybe what's sad is all the time I've spent rushing through the world not really seeing or hearing or smelling or tasting much of anything. Until I was 30 and changed my ways, fun revolved around intentionally changing my perception as much as I could, trying to find that fine line between euphoria and oblivion. Once I put that behind me, I still wasn't ready to be present to myself or the world around me. I was busy. I had responsibilities. People expected things of me. I didn't have time.

It's only been in the last couple of years that I have been able, with any consistency, to slow myself down to a pace that allows me to simply be for longer than a few minutes. It wasn't that I didn't see any value or try to do that before, but it's hard to still a racing mind. What I discover now is that sitting and being is not sad. I don't have to always distract myself with music or a book. And most startling of all, it's not boring.

So I'm on the back deck doing the old person sit. It's the same view as it's been for the past ten years--- except it's not. The pine trees that used to come up to the first floor windows of the houses across the way now tower over the rooftops. I can't even see the houses anymore. A few days ago, the silver maple had lots of seed pods, but almost no leaves. Now the leaves obscure the seeds. The ash tree was bare, but this morning there are tiny leaves, the butterfly bush has its first hints of purple. The mockingbird--blue bird wars are in full swing.

The view may seem the same at first glance, but it's never the same way twice. The wind shifts direction, the clouds blow across the sky, the sun angles differently with each season and time of day. The corkscrew willow that dominated the yard is now gone. I've erected a bottle tree in its place, and sunlight dances through the colored glass.

I have a baby portrait of myself hanging in my study. I was about 6 months old when it was taken. It's large and framed in gold-painted wood. I've seen this photograph all my life. When I look at that picture I know it is me 62 years ago and, strangely enough, it looks like me. I haven't changed a bit, except for the growing up and growing older part. I still look like me.

So if you walk through my neighborhood and you see me sitting on  the glider out front, doing nothing, don't shake your head and feel sorry for me. I'm not doing nothing. I'm smelling the scents, just like the dogs do. I'm feeling the air move across my face and arms. I'm listening to birdsongs and relishing the first bright pink azaleas. I'm noticing the sun as it descends to the horizon and yes, I'm greeting people and dogs as they walk by.

Someday, I hope you'll have time to sit on my porch, too. We'll have a glass of tea and talk a little bit. We'll watch the evening gather and keep an eye out for the first star. And maybe we'll just sit in companionable silence for awhile. But you'll have to bring your own parsley.