Tolerance

Last week the spiderwort threw off a few purple blooms, then suddenly the plant collapsed. The next night, the deer came by and ate what was left.

On Saturday, I plucked out the remaining stems and roots and carried them in hand to the far corner of the yard.  As I dropped the scraps of spiderwort under the wild cherry tree, I noticed some woodland phlox had mixed in.  I held up the phlox for inspection, wondering if it could be revived. 

Someone yelled at me, demanding to know what I was doing.  Our neighbors stared at me from their driveway.  The man shouted again. 

I thought about responding, but they were some distance away. I considered whether it was actually a question. I walked away.

The neighbors and I do not share the same esthetic. They hate the naturalized corner of our yard with sapling trees, a brush pile for wildlife and a compost pile for my garden.

They don't see their own yard.

With their brown Rubbermaid bin squatting at the property line, a few feet from where I dropped the spiderwort.

And a blue and black trampoline.

And multiple brown and blue rollaway bins cluttering their yard.

Accessories of civilization are acceptable to my neighbors, but nature is not. My neighbors detest the crooked trees and leaf debris in my yard but they don't see the dusty petroleum based products in theirs. 

To my neighbors, I say:
To each her own.

To myself, I say:
Practice forgiveness.

That's a tough one.