Tend to your porch.
An essay on overwhelm, ownership, and doing what's in our power to make a difference.
Confession: the house I currently live in has a carpeted front porch. It is objectively ugly, with scratchy industrial fiber, made worse by a massive…. what can only be described as a “patch;” an additional raised stretch of carpet that runs from the steps to the front door to cover up what must have been worn down by traction over the years. The porch has bikes locked to the railings, a crooked snow shovel, a bin of salt for the winter months, the organics bin for the house blocking a clear path to the door, someone’s rejected treadmill leaned up at the furthest side, and a broom that I can only assume came from the dollar store that is definitely intended for indoor, non-carpet use, leaning up in the corner. It would be generous to say it is lacking curb appeal. If a friend is coming over or meeting me at my house, I am quick to let them know that I have the ugliest porch in the city, making sure that they know I know it’s bad. Making sure they know I know I’d never choose to have a porch that looks like this if it was all up to me. Making sure to distance myself from what the porch might say about me, my aesthetic, and all the status stuff that comes with the things we have and the places we live.
Because the front porch is carpeted, it clings to all debris that flies on it - dried leaves are crushed and nestled into the charcoal weave. Twigs and sticks have collected everywhere. All sorts of leaves are scattered about. The dollar store indoor broom is laughably ineffective in making a dent in the foliage, so the tenants of all three apartments within this house have just allowed it to get to this state. Maybe, like me, everyone else thinks it’s not really their problem. Maybe, like me, they’ve thought it’s too far gone to make a difference. Maybe, like me, they’ve left it to someone else to put some work into cleaning the place up.
This morning when I got back from the gym, I gave the little hallway that leads to my upper apartment and the one on the main floor a sweep. It’s lined with shoes and boots and dog leashes that belong to five humans (and one chatty husky). There is a second also-from-the-dollar-store broom in there, and when I went to sweep, there was a little pile of dirt from whoever had swept before me; nice of them to tidy up, funny that they didn’t go as far as to actually finish the job. I got the dust pan that also lives on the front porch and swept it all up, and then I decided to chip away a bit at the leaves and debris stuck in the carpet. Initially I was going to just give it a quick once-over, but as I moved things around, I realized it actually made a bit of a difference. I moved the salt bin away from the front door and beside the rejected treadmill. I swept around the bikes and got at the leaves that had collected in the door jam.
I found that the best technique for sweeping was to brush as softly as possible in order to get anything to move; the bristle of the carpet is too strong for the wimpy supposed-to-be-for-the-kitchen broom. When met with stubbornness, it required me to respond with gentleness. The harsher the element, the more ease I had to bring. Slowly and patiently, the porch was swept.
My fifteen minutes of mild effort yielded okay results (it is still, after all, a carpeted porch with a bunch of junk on it.) And it made me think about ownership, as in the things I claim to be my responsibility, as in the things I put my name behind, the things I make my problem (and my solution.) I didn’t intend to live in this apartment past spring, and I’ve been using this excuse that this isn’t my place to make any change or make any effort towards improving the space. Some things feel so ugly, that is, so hopeless, that we avoid even attempting to contribute to making it better for ourselves and for the people around us.
Are we catching the metaphor here? This is literally about my super ugly porch, and it’s also about the dumpster fire world we live in. We feel overwhelmed because, hello, the world is a mess. Where to even start. We start a conversation about what’s going on and how we feel and what we think and it gets shut down before we can muddle through trying to understand. We often feel helpless because we’re made to feel helpless. We close our eyes because it’s too much and forget that there might be something we can do that can make a ripple effect. It seems so small, so menial, like sweeping some debris off a still-hideous-when-you’re-finished-with-it porch, but I beg to argue that every little thing we do to make the world a better place is worth it.
This isn’t my house. I can’t rip up the carpet and build instead a sturdy landing place. I can’t change the structure and the orangey stone walls and the weird marble-façade countertops in the kitchen. But I can tend to the porch. I can sweep the leaves. I can stack my shoes with care, line up everyone else’s in tidy rows. I can tread quietly through the hallway when I get home late. So to all of this, all the small and insufficient things, I will tend.
Ways to make a difference *right now*
World Central Kitchen provides meals in places experiencing humanitarian, climate, and community crises. They’re currently providing meals in Ukraine and Gaza. You can donate here.
Doctors Without Borders provides independent, impartial medical humanitarian assistance for people who need it most. You can donate here.
If you live in Canada, here is information on how to call your MP to demand a ceasefire in Gaza.
If you live in the US, here is where you can find out which member of congress represents you to demand a ceasefire in Gaza.
In all spaces, you can bring your softness, your goodwill, your grace. This includes towards your neighbors and your mother-in-law and the parents at your kid’s school and the grouchy post office worker and the person who elbowed me the entire time while recording the entire Olivia Dean concert on Wednesday. It includes speaking up against anti-Semitism and dismissive rhetoric and hate-speech and side comments that make your stomach turn. It starts with saying, “I don’t tolerate that kind of launguage.” It starts on our front porch and ripples out.
Sending you all so much love.
Upcoming Events
Poetry Club: Poems about Ritual
Tuesday, November 14th - 7pm EST on Zoom
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Dinner With Strangers
November 15th & 28th at Roof Garden (Toronto, Ontario) (sold out)
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December’s dinner date will be announced next Monday!
In Good Company: a drop-in writing workshop
Sunday, November 26th, 10:30am-12pm EST on Zoom
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*NEW* Yin & Poetry with Shawna Turner & Jess Janz
Friday, December 1st, 7pm - 9pm EST at Mosaic Yoga Studio (440 Bloor Street West, Toronto)
Join myself and my sweet friend Shawna Turner for a nourishing night of yin yoga and gentle creative reflection that will center around placing yourself where you are, as you are. Let us guide you through stillness, deep breath and insightful writing prompts that invite you to melt into your heartspace. Register here!