And grass grew in the street

I have grown up privileged.

All my life I was surrounded by grass.  Not always green grass, mind you, nor in overwhelming quantities, but it was grass nonetheless.  Grass in front of my house, behind my house, and to the side.  Grass in my neighbors' yards - front, back, and side.  Grass marking the distance between the sidewalk and the street where trees grew at intervals.  Grass in the parks, the school yards, the memorials.  Grass that thrived openly and freely without fences to dictate its borders.

With the grass came other joys.  The smell of it freshly cut, the childhood delight of whispering the seeds off dandelions, the feel of it beneath one's bare feet, and all the other equally and overly poeticized activities associated with it.

I wasn't raised a country gal, but I took grass for granted.

In New York City, things are different.  Grass is harder to come by and has been replaced by stone, steel, and glass.  I walked through a neighborhood the other day where there was actually grass in front of the tightly-packed row of homes and I thought aloud "These must be the rich people."  Grass is found in the parks, where it is lush and green and manicured and contained, orderly and appropriately mindful of its place in the concrete jungle.

Today I ventured to the Lower East Side of Manhattan for a job interview (yay!).  On my way back to the train afterward I decided to wander a bit because it was a beautiful day out and I really didn't have anywhere I needed to be.  So I strolled through NoHo along Lafayette and rather enjoyed eyeing up the small shops and trendy restaurants surrounding grand buildings like The Public Theater.  It was just the right mix of classic and contemporary that made me smile and feel good about the day.

And then, as I crossed an old cobblestone street whose uneven crags and crevices were an unexpected but welcome challenge for my short and uncomfortable heels, I noticed something peaking between the smooth, worn stones.  There, unobtrusive and unassuming, were the bright green slivers of grass growing outside its mandated boundaries imposed by the New York Department of Parks and Recreation.  I considered it and smiled as I walked along, slowing my pace just enough to observe it fully but careful to make it to the other side of the intersection before the red hand stopped blinking.

A tree grows in Brooklyn while grass grows in NoHo.

I may not be in my comfort zone and I may feel overwhelmed at times by my new surroundings, but if a few blades of young grass can make it in the most unlikely of places, then so can I.