Porch Time

Back in August 2011, my father was diagnosed with an aggressive form of terminal cancer.  “How long?” is one of the first questions, if not the first question, people normally ask when diagnosed with a terminal disease, and it was one of our first questions.  The life expectancy they gave him was broad; I believe they said six months to several years.  I was in denial, wanting to believe the chemo would help, and he’d be with us at least a few more years; treatment had come a long way since my mom had died more than thirty years earlier.  He ended up passing about two months after his diagnosis, but that’s not why I’m writing about this—I’m writing about this because I want to talk about what he did during those two months.

There were several things that moved to the forefront of my dad’s priorities.  My dad loved his dogs.  I always joked that he liked his dogs better than his children, and that’s okay—the dogs were more well-behaved than we ever were.  Well, the little one was, anyway.  His Corgi was another story.  Either way, they were his babies, so when he found out he may not have much time left with them, he kept them as close as possible.

The other thing that he did is something that has stayed with me.  It wasn’t long after his diagnosis that he ended up in a wheelchair; while healthy people take walking across the room for granted, his lungs could no longer bear the strain.  Although he was upset because he couldn’t do the things he normally did, he tried to make the best of the situation, and often asked us to wheel him out to my sister’s front porch.  He liked to sit outside with his dogs and enjoy nature.  Many times, he preferred to spend his time on the porch in solitude.  I suppose he did a lot of reflecting on things, and I imagine he listened to the birds chirp, and watched the various bugs and critters go about their business.  Before he got sick, he was so busy working on his various projects; I doubt he spent much time like that—being still.

My father’s porch time is something I often think about; his time spent there reminds me how important it is to be still and enjoy what’s right in front of me.  In the morning, as I am taking my dog out before work, my mind is whirling and the only thing I see is the clock moving as I wait for her to go.  This morning was different; it’s Sunday, and the clock wasn’t dictating my every move, so I was able to pay attention to the beauty that surrounded me.  I saw the morning dew on the grass; I felt the sun on my skin, and I pondered over the deep, rich purples in the single bloom of the Morning Glory vine as she climbed her neighboring bush, reaching for the sun.

There’s a saying about stopping to smell the flowers, and I guess that’s sort of what this is about; but for me, the concept of taking a few moments to enjoy my surroundings will always be porch time.

I often wonder why it takes the threat of losing something to appreciate it—why we wait until the number of chances to see a sunset becomes limited, before we actually make it a point to watch one.  We are so busy trying to get this thing done, meet a deadline, or get to this place or that place, that we blindly bypass all the splendor that screams, “Look at me!”

If there’s one thing I carry with me from my dad’s last couple of months with us it is this:  I refuse to wait to until my number of sunsets become limited before watching the sun go down.  I don’t know when my last day here will come, so each day I do something I enjoy, and I take the time to see all the lovely things around me; I make contact with someone I love, and I appreciate the simple act of sitting still and quiet—the art of just being.

Maybe my father took the time to be still and appreciate the world before he became ill, and I just hadn‘t previously witnessed it, but I’m grateful for the unspoken advice I got from being there when he asked us to take him outside.

Thanks to him, even though I don‘t have a front porch to sit on, I make it a point to get my porch time in—and I think everyone should.