The Power of Sitting on the Porch…Especially for Thinking-Too-Much People

“The front porch is a place where time slows down, the breeze always seems cooler, and the stories never really end.” —Rick Bragg, Pulitzer winning Southern writer

As summer approaches, I'm remembering my grandmother's porch in Bean Station, Tennessee. Somewhere between reflecting on hearing the humming of the cicadas and the clinking of iced teas in wide-mouthed Mason Ball jars , I realized something. Most of the real healing in life…seems to happen in porch-like places.

Porch time. That’s what I’ll call it.  It’s not an appointment. It’s not therapy. It’s not advice-giving. It’s something older and slower, a kind of spiritual art. You just sit. And breathe.

And if the other person wants to talk, you let them. And if they don’t, you just keep sitting. Maybe you notice the breeze. Maybe you count the creaks in the rocking chair. Maybe you hold hands. Maybe you don’t. But either way, you’re there.

And “being there,” I’m beginning to think might just be the most underrated superpower we have as humans.

What’s so special about a porch anyway? I’m not sure.  Maybe they are transitional spaces, neither indoors nor out.  You can easily escape. They are neither fully private nor quite public. They say come on in – no commitment. You're safe. They have long been places for soft landings after hard days.

In my growing-up years, porches were where babies got passed around and grandmamas held court. It’s where someone left a pie when they didn’t know what to say after your husband died. It’s where the older kids hung out late into the evening, hoping for lightnin’ bugs and possibly a kiss.

And when life went sideways, the porch was where you sat down in a swing or a rocker with a sigh. A glass of lemonade or tea appeared.  You didn’t talk if you weren’t ready. You could just look out at the day or evening together.

As Faulkner once put it:

“A porch ain't made for rushing. It's where you sit and let the day explain itself to you.”

Several years ago, someone told a story that stuck with all of us who heard it. She said that when her husband’s good friend died, her own husband simply went over and sat on the porch with the new grieving widow.  He didn’t say anything.  The woman later said it was the best thing anyone did for her because he didn’t try to fix anything. Just sat.

I don’t know exactly what sitting on the porch together (literally or metaphorically) activates in us. Comfort. Peace. Connection. Magic of some sort. I predict the blood pressure goes down; the oxytocin and serotonin flow. The immune system hums along.

Here’s the good news. You don’t need credentials to sit on a porch. You don’t need cleverness or a five-point plan. You just need presence.

This reminds me of the Friendship Bench Project in Zimbabwe, where grandmothers—wise, ordinary, salt-of-the-earth women—sit on benches in the community and offer what’s called kufungisisa care.

In Shona, kufungisisa means “thinking too much.” The grandmothers listen to the thinking-too-much-people who pour out their hearts.

The grandmothers are not therapists. They don’t diagnose. But what they offer—a warm presence, an open heart, a nonjudgmental ear—has been proven to lift depression and even save lives.

In a world where everyone’s rushing and scrolling and trying to say something smart, the act of quietly being with someone might just be the healing elixir we all need.

Some of us aren’t as spry as we used to be. Knees creak, memories fade, energy dips. But we can still rock in a chair. We can still sit on a porch or make a call from our metaphorical one!

I believe there is deep purpose available for those willing to be porch people. Older folks have something powerful to offer: the gift of being unhurried. The wisdom to shut up when it’s time. The courage to sit through awkward silence.

When I’ve told my own grandchildren about the success of the grandmothers of Zimbabwe, it doesn’t surprise them at all.  “Of course, they are wise. They’ve been around a long time. They've seen everything.”

I’ll offer some porch time suggestions in case you’re new to porch life:

1. No phones, unless you’re showing a grandkid’s picture.

2. Silence is not a problem. It’s a friend. Let it in.

3. If you’re offering tea or lemonade, make it cold. Ice cream works well too.

4. Eye contact helps. So do kind chuckles. Or maybe just a nod of the head.

5. You don’t have to fix the person across from you. You just be with them.

   
   

We can take advantage of summer as it pops up - practice porch time. If you’re doing it right, you’ll leave with a softer heart, a fuller spirit, and maybe a mosquito bite or two. At least that’s what happens in the South and on the back deck of the family cabin at Lake Wenatchee.

How might we journey together to The Good Life together by practicing a little porch time?

P.S. One of the family members read this post and added his sense of Lake Wenatchee cabin porch time:

[I] can’t wait to get some porch time at the cabin. It’s the best porch I know. Family, nature, kids playing at the beach, John cutting large logs, ppl sharing chores, great smells from the kitchen and trees, comfy chairs to rock in...beautiful water glistening in the sun.

What mindful and soulful prose just thinking about porch time can provoke!