I've rarely lived in town over the course of my life thus far, and it's a challenge for someone who's mostly a loner (and frequently a curmudgeon), who prefers the company of a book to small talk and a walk in the woods or through a field and along a creek to shopping. We're still in the Wet Season here in northern coastal California, so on the rare occasions when the sun appears, almost everyone shows up outside, as I did yesterday, chopping around with my hoe, attempting to free flowers and vegetables from some of the choking weeds.
And so as I looked up to see a man walking on the street toward me with a big grin on his face, my own face grinned in response, but unfortunately this served as sufficient invitation to a visit from someone who (apparently) knows no boundaries because he proceeded to ask me about how much we paid for our house ("We don't talk about that") and to chatter on nonsensically before finally wandering away, talking loudly to himself (since I was no longer paying attention). I'd prefer not to believe the fellow was hopped up on meth (an unfortunate problem of our area) and instead is merely eccentric, but. . . this is why I don't like to spend any time in the front yard.
Instead, I dream of creating walls and barriers.
Not five minutes later, an 11- or 12-year-old boy appeared, introducing himself as our new neighbor, and asking whether he could help me (for a price, of course), and whether we have any fruit trees. I told him our apple trees are still young but that when they begin to produce enough apples to share, we would, and I suggested that he talk to his parents about planting one in their yard, too. (I bit back a wicked impulse to tell him we have cameras and motion detectors focused on those trees 24 hours a day.) He was polite and easy enough to talk to (with his shyer friend standing a bit behind him), and after he left, I began to see myself from his youthful perspective, wondering whether one day he might remember living on this street, talking to the lady who lived up the street about growing apples, and whether he'd remember her as kind; if so, I'm sure he'll also remember me as old.
Observing all these differing perspectives is what happens when I'm around people, whereas when I'm observing nature, I can simply watch and be.
