Have a small wooden porch attached to the back of this house. It measures six feet by six feet, and links to seven steps down to the earth. It is a place you can loiter on, view great scenes and hear brave sounds.
It's only Tuesday, and it has been one of those weeks already.
The older I get, the more I realize how much I don't know, and can never understand. All day in class, trying to answer demanding questions about the illogical invention of code I did not create. Exhausting.
So, on days like this, I retreat to the firmness of the back porch, and sit on the landing, and let these Irish feet plant on the second step. It anchors me, and I listen to the silence, and forget about the insistence of the world.
There is an owl that perches on a birch nearby. He visits most nights when the weather is good, and I hear him hooting some kind of message in the darkness. I cannot understand what he is saying, but I am thinking my soul drinks in his thoughts. I simply absorb his sounds, and it is soothing.
In this neighborhood of rednecks and old hippies, fireworks whistle through the air tonight. Preamble to July 4th, I reckon. At the first twirl of independence noise, the owl flies away.
What are the answers? There are none. It is simply called living.
But the best part about stoop sitting such as this is that I can look up at the stars that appear in the night sky and know that the ones I care about are viewing the same light.