Friends ask: Why don’t you find another hobby? I just look at them, wondering where to start. Gardening is not a hobby to me. It’s a deep need, like breathing fresh air, hearing the sound of water, seeing the sun rise. Feeling the soil, watching an earthworm wriggle out of sight, planting a tree and helping it grow: these are as basic to my existence as loving a person. If I couldn’t garden, I would feel cut off from life.
Besides, it’s hard to know where danger is lurking, and thus hard to guard against it. Yellow jackets are all over the place, especially this time of year, and they are just as likely to land on your hamburger or your sweet soda pop at a picnic, as to fly out of a hole in the garden.
Although a careful person might tell me to limit my risk by staying inside, even that is no guarantee. Once, one flew in the window, unbeknownst to me, and landed in my teacup, where it began to drown, until I took a drink and it stung me on the tip of my tongue.
No, better to fling yourself back into the world, armed with a little more knowledge about the risks.
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