A Porch, a Book, and a Hostile Aviary
One of my favorite retirement rituals is to sit on my front porch late in the afternoon and read. Sometimes—with full honesty—a nice glass of shiraz joins me. At that hour, when the light begins to soften and the day exhales, even a few pages can soothe my busy, overstimulated mind. I keep a dedicated stack of “front porch books”—the kind that invite dipping in and out rather than plowing through. My current companions include Black Mountain Days by Michael Rumaker, Memorable Fancies by Minor White, Aperture Magazine Anthology – The Minor White Years, Leica Fotographie International (October 2026), Robert Lax Poems (1962–1997), and A Book of Days by Patti Smith. I move between them slowly, sometimes pausing for a phone call with a friend or family member, sometimes just letting the words settle.
Recently, I decided to enhance the experience by adding a bird feeder at the far end of the porch. The idea was simple: create a little distance between myself and the feeder so the birds could feel at ease… and I could enjoy their presence without intruding. In theory, it was a beautiful plan. In practice… not so much. I’ve learned that I live in a remarkably rich birding zone here in the foothills of the Appalachians. Cardinals, chickadees, titmice, goldfinches—they all show up, each with their own rhythm and personality. It’s a lively, ever-changing community. And apparently… I am not welcome.
Every time I settle into my rocking chair with a book and a glass of wine, the birds stage what can only be described as a collective protest. Chickadees scold. Titmice object loudly. There is, I’m quite certain, a level of outrage that borders on the theatrical. I’ve tried everything—sitting very still, moving slowly, projecting what I hoped was a non-threatening, contemplative presence. They are not impressed. Eventually, after enough chirping commentary, I gather my books (and what remains of my dignity) and retreat back inside.
Recently, I shared this predicament with a close friend, who suggested—quite rightly—that I write about it. Surely, we surmised, others must be facing similar existential crises. And here’s where things get especially interesting. For most of my professional life—as a chaplain, mindfulness educator, and contemplative photographer—I’ve taught about the importance of cultivating gratitude. I’ve spoken often about building what I like to call a “gratitude neural pathway”—the idea that, over time, a steady practice of noticing what is good and given can soften the sharp edges of anxiety. People are usually quite receptive to this. Which leads me to wonder… What the hell is going on with these damn birds?
Because, at the moment, their attitudes are not especially aligned with a mindful, gratitude-based worldview. I mean—have they not encountered the wisdom of Lao Tzu in the Tao Te Ching? Have they not at least skimmed Stephen Mitchell’s rather generous translation of Chapter 44?
“Be content with what you have;
rejoice in the way things are.
When you realize there is nothing lacking,
the whole world belongs to you.”
Mitchell’s translation of Chapter 44 is worth sitting with precisely because it speaks the language of our moment—a world that rarely pauses long enough to ask, What is enough? Where more literal translations of the Tao Te Ching warn about the dangers of excess, Mitchell turns that warning into something more invitational, almost like a quiet hand on the shoulder: Be content with what you have… When you realize there is nothing lacking… In a culture shaped by constant striving—more success, more productivity, more accumulation—his version gently shifts the focus from restraint to sufficiency. Not you should want less, but rather: you may already have enough. It names the quiet illusion that drives so much of our restlessness—that something is missing—and invites us to see that, perhaps, it isn’t. And when that illusion loosens, even slightly, something else begins to emerge. A sense of belonging. A recognition that this moment, just as it is, might be complete.
In my own contemplative photography work, this insight shows up again and again: when we stop trying to get the perfect image, when we release the pressure to produce, when we simply receive what is given, there is often a quiet realization that nothing is lacking. And from there, gratitude isn’t something we manufacture. It’s what remains when striving settles down.
Now, I can’t speak for the birds at your feeder. But I’m fairly certain that mine have not spent much time with Lao Tzu… or Ryōkan… or Robert Lax. They seem, at least for now, far more attached to their songbird mix than to Eastern philosophy. And maybe that’s the lesson I’m still learning. Because while I sit there with my books and my carefully cultivated thoughts about gratitude and enoughness… they’re simply waiting for me to leave. So they can get back to what matters—without overthinking it. And perhaps, in their own way, they already know what enough looks like.
