Front Porch

The entrance to my humble modular home is still accessed by the same temporary set of  wooden steps that were put in when the house was first pieced together 6 years ago.  I believe that the expectation was for us, the first owners to actually take up residence within, to replace those temporary steps with something more permanent.  A deck, perhaps, or maybe a nicely formed set of concrete steps.  Unfortunately, those expectations couldn't stand up to the aggressive combination of apathy and penny-pinching that guides our home maintenance program.

Most days, firmly entrenched in the GO GO GO mentality that is so prevalent in our society, I hate those steps.  Did I say hate?  Hate doesn't carry enough emotion.  I abhor and revile those steps, with their wobbling treads and peeling paint.  I despise their penchant for impaling my fingers with splinters.  I loathe the way the nails slowly work their way out of the wood, striving to snag unsuspecting shoelaces and pants seams.  I detest the railings and their hidden unreliable nature.  When I look at them with the eyes of a consumer, a rat racer, a participant in the one-up-man-ship of neighborhood living, I wish every day that I could replace those dilapidated steps with something that more closely resembles the elaborate dreams in my head.  Occasionally, however, the scales of materialistic desire fall from my eyes, and I am reminded how comfortable my steps really are.  This morning was a perfect example of this kind of clarity. 

By 8:00, the sun had risen past the redshank bushes on the top of the hill and begun it's march across the sky, unseasonably enthusiastic for a January high desert morning.  Under this energetic glow, the front porch warmed up quickly.  The dogs, who had been baking happily on the top step until I opened the door, swirled excitedly around me as I settled my bottom on one step, feet on another.  Uncontainable in the sheer joy of human company, tongues swabbed my chin and noses pushed their way under my hand. 

I gazed out over the piece of land I call home.  A long, green hose snaked its way from the spigot at the corner of the house, through the legs of the lawn table (lonely now that all its chairs have been banished to the garage), to the base of one of the currently dormant lilac bushes.  A slight breeze danced softly through the tops of the redshank, but the air at ground level was undisturbed.  A bluish haze of mountain, trustworthy and solid, stood guard in the distance.

I could smell the ground and the bushes, the dogs and the house as they all soaked in the sun.  For a brief moment, there were no far off cars, no barking neighbor dogs, no planes zooming overhead.  There was just the peace of being exactly where you are supposed to be, surrounded by the things that bring you joy.  There was just home, and there is no place I love more. 

Broken down, old steps, and all.