I see his judgmental look as he walks past, studying my suburban field of yellow with squinting disgust. I can feel his eyes as I push the mower up another row. I can feel his assumptions about me, all due to a full jug of weed killer, collecting dust in the garage.
“What?” I'd like to spit and spark an argument. I can hear his snarky remarks, rude comments, and the need to bring in politics. I can see him standing there, hands on hips, sporting his beer gut, yellowed mustache, and white tube socks. I’d yell back, and it would feel good. But no doubt, my words would fall on deaf ears…
Or maybe, I'd say something wise, like, “If the good Lord didn't have a purpose for them, he would not allow them to sprout from the dirt.” I’d let that sink in until his yellow mustache turned up with a smile. We would have a conversation about God, and the necessity of the dandelions for the springtime bees. Maybe we’d share a cigarette, and for a moment, bond like
good neighbors. Then he would walk away, his tube socks high with a different point of view, and next season he wouldn't spray, or at least not as much. Not with obsessiveness. Instead he would look out on his little field of yellow, and see not weeds, but the beauty of God’s creation. His palate of wild yellow, green, specks of white and purple. He would see beauty for the first time, beauty that was not entangled with lust or social norms or greed or gluttony. He would see beauty and smile.
Or maybe, there was no scowl at all, and the April sun was in his eyes. Maybe my neighbor was just enjoying a walk, and really, I am the judgmental sinner in need of repentance, or another appointment with my therapist.