The View From His Garage

It’s been almost 300 consecutive days since I’ve committed to walking outside daily. My outdoor time has become a sanctuary of sorts. I’ve been undeterred by snow covered ice, I’ve been witness to spring’s awakening, and have thoroughly enjoyed summer’s respite. I’ve surprised myself with the tenure of my discipline. Believe me, I’m not hard-wired to stick with any commitment. I’ve historically failed at giving things up for Lent, and New Year’s resolutions last until about 5 pm on Jan 1. But walking has become my classroom, and I’ve embraced the rekindled student in me.

Over the past summer months when the morning air was balmy and warm, I often set off on the same path from my home to a nearby park and nature reserve. To get there, I walk along the busy street just beyond my neighborhood. Over the summer mornings, I began to notice an elderly man sitting in his garage in a cushioned chair with his walker within reach. His chair and nearby folding table were flanked by clutter. Never a car in sight, I gathered this man’s garage was a connection to the world beyond his limitations. Watching cars, noting the scurry of squirrels, and the beverage tumbler just beside his chair told me this “sitting area” was meant to  be just that; a place to sit.

As the summer walks continued, so did my mindfulness of him. I probably walked by him far too many days, oblivious. I was far too involved in my own narrow path. Then, one day, I noticed him and gave him that generic wave in which you merely raise your hand in acknowledgement. He responded with an extended, more intentional swing of his arm.

From then on, I became more aware of his frequent place in his garage. We developed a  distant warmth. The standard hand raise became a gesture with intention. We remembered one another, and our morning greetings reflected a hint of familiarity. We began to verbally acknowledge our “passing” with a bit more sincerity. “What a beautiful morning,” I’d say, or “stay dry,” he’d offer as the light rain began to pick up. As I approached his house, I was happy when the garage door was open because that meant he was there in his chair. His big arm swirl came to be accompanied by a smile. I became accustomed to his presence.

Now that the weather is turning cooler, the elderly man’s garage door is often closed. I find myself not only missing our warm waves, but I hope he is doing ok. I know absolutely nothing else about this elderly man, but in some affectionate way, he reminds me of my dad. Sitting in a chair, walker close by, always ready with a smile and wave are lessons for those of us who measure contentment by moving all the time. Growing older for some means their world becomes smaller. The inability to drive, the challenge to ambulate without assistance, and loneliness threaten to isolate someone to the point where moving to the garage is a big deal. However, therein lies the message. Finding purpose and joy in mere simple ways can really make the world a better place. It certainly has for me. The man whose name I don’t even know has taught me that even from his comfy chair in an opened door garage, the world can still be big. Moving doesn’t always mean progress, and sitting still just might offer the greatest gift of being present.   

As cold mornings descend and the likelihood of my distant friend’s open garage door diminish, I will continue to wave and smile in appreciation for the lessons he continues to teach me.