The other night I was on a walk and a shrub attacked me. Not an attack, really. We were on the sidewalk and it was claiming part of the airspace above. Of the two of us humans on the walk, I was on the shrub’s side, and the shrub and I had a temporary encounter in the same space. Its leafy branch tips plucked at my hair and my sleeve.
My companion commented on its aggression. I expressed surprise that the shrubs had gotten so big. I’ve been by them many times over the years, in multiple directions; walking by on the sidewalk in both directions, and also passing through the gap in the middle to pick figs or drop off baked goods or attend an art class. The shrubs used to be small. Now they’re taller than me.
I had a similar thought the other day, walking down the street toward the local grocery store, seeing a woman carrying her toddler, and thinking – the kids who were that size when I moved here, who I used to see being carried by their moms – how old are they now? They are seniors in high school. They’re driving. They’re making decisions about what college to go to.
When I was walking by those kids, at that age, my current age minus 15, I was working at a job that I hated and I was probably singing in way too many choirs and I still owned a car. In fact, I probably wasn’t even walking by those kids most of the time; I was probably driving.
I only sing in one or two choirs now and my job is ok, and I walk way more than I drive.
Photo: Dave Thompson, Wikimedia Commons
