Front Porches And Open Windows
It was not long ago but what a different world it was. There
were front porches that looked out on the world; open windows that let in fresh
air. There were also long 
sidewalks that bordered the streets, connecting each
house to the others by the slate or concrete arteries. In the evening,
especially on summer nights, inhabitants would sit on porch swings, kick back in
rocking chairs, relax on squeaking furniture or play a game of some sort around
a card table with family and friends
Music from the a radio or record player would drift through screened windows and as you walked down the sidewalk, sidestepping hopscotch players, bike riders, and children on noisy metal-wheeled skates, you might hear from within a house the clink and clatter as dishes and silverware were put away. If you listened carefully you could notice the low murmur of conversations drifting across the front yards. You would likely come upon others strolling through the night, stopping to chat with friends and visit a while.
There was community - a looking outward - a connection with the world and its rhythm of activity and rest. There was an adaptability to the changing seasons. There was a flexibility that many today have lost.
It was similar in the cities. In New York, the porches were
called stoops. On summer afternoons and early evenings it's been said you could
walk from one end
of the Bronx or Brooklyn to the other and never miss a play of
the Yankees' or Dodgers' game as people listened to radios set next to the
windows of apartments up and down the streets. These were real neighborhoods:
people knew those around them and cared what happened in their lives.
Something happened in the 50's and 60's. Little humming boxes that dripped water started appearing in the windows of houses and apartments. People sealed up their homes, moved inside and began spending time peering into windowed devices that in general magnified the importance of insignificant things. Sidewalks were not needed anymore and they disappeared from development plans as new neighborhoods were built. Front porches seemed about as relevant and practical as a rumble seat and were either totally removed from house designs or left as a pitiful vestige to frame the front door. Patios in the back, walled in by 6-ft. high privacy fences replaced the porches.
Outside of these climate-controlled bastions, the world became more dangerous. The sense of community was swiftly slipping away and cynicism and anarchy were sneaking in.
People felt the loss and tried to fill it with activity. They ran. They set goals. They planned. They organized. When they found themselves still empty - they ran some more. They diligently taught this way of life to their children, destroying spontaneity in play and replacing it with regimentation, schedules, pressures to perform and even little adult-like costumes for the sporting events.
If something significant is changed in an environment, it has a domino effect on the species within that system. Remove an animal from its home surroundings, lock it up in a cage and it will change inside. It is foolish for humans to believe they are immune to these truths. Our hermetically sealed homes separate us from the world for which we were made. We look inward to our technology instead of outward to the beauty of nature. We lose touch with the rhythm of the earth and live by the beat of a metronome preset at the factory (even when we do step out doors to walk or run, we take the artificial cadence with us). We lock out the world because "it's dangerous out there," but the more we close ourselves in, the more dangerous it gets.
We have changed and it's not a surface change. We are self-involved. Our social interest is waning. We profess concern over environmental issues but when it gets down to it, our comfort is more important. We are less flexible, not as adaptable as we once were, which is no wonder when three degree variation in the thermostat separates our perception of "freezing" from "sweltering". We need... desperately need to regain that which we have lost.
A few years ago, there was a hurricane in Florida that knocked out electricity in a large area of the city of Tallahassee. A peculiar but wonderful thing took place. When it was over, lawn chairs were set up and grills were hauled out into the front yards to cook the meat that was defrosting the freezers. People met their neighbors and had a great time visiting. Strangers, passing by, were invited to come up and have a hamburger. The closeness was wonderful, the friendliness and connection... invigorating. Sadly, when the electricity came on again, they folded up their chairs, closed the windows and retreated again from their newly found community, back into their familiar isolation.
There's bad and good news in this story. We have become so set in our ways that we don't know a good thing when we have it. Still, there is hope: perhaps we have not slipped so far that we cannot return to that which we have lost.
Stephen Willis M.MFT