The week before Cyril closed the beaches was crazy. After a blistering hot morning at the beach, my little farming family stopped at the big city shops – the South Coast Mall – for bread, milk, and Food Lover’s Market droëwors.

Myself, the toddler, and the seven-month-old stayed in the car with hand sanitizer at the ready. My husband donned his mask and queued with the holidaymakers.

The children had fallen asleep and it was sweltering. So, I left the bakkie running, congratulating myself for having children who slept in the air-conditioning for our 45-minute drive home. I was happily rehydrating from my metal, refillable water bottle when I caught sight of a grumpy long-haired man. He looked sweaty in long sleeves and long pants with slops, and happened to be parked next to us. He was looking at my van with intent.

X-ray vision might have revealed that he was muttering as he paced the steaming tar, but suddenly, he started gesticulating and shouting something unintelligible over my diesel engine. I glanced sideways through my trusty sunglasses and ignored him (obviously). Then, he knocked on the window and slid into his (rusty, dented) bakkie, winding down his passenger window and taking off his mask to shout at me again.

I thought maybe I should respond as an intelligent and calm adult, so I lowered the window (a little) and hoped he wouldn’t wake my babies. Clear as day, he was shouting, “Pollution! This is pollution! Turn off the car.” And on he went. I closed the window with a shrug, and slowly processed what had just happened.

Me? Polluting? I wanted Mother Earth to swallow me right there.

Defending Earth Lovers Everywhere

I wanted to shout back at this long-haired man that he was barking at the wrong tree lover. I use cloth nappies. I compost. I drink water from a JoJo rain tank. I replant butternut seeds. I use the dishwater to hydrate pot plants.

My thoughts raced across my Faithful-2-Nature account and fabric shopping bags. I recalled my eco-friendly (generous) relocation of the night adder that bit me last month, and my lack of chemical intervention in the garden where I’ve planted about fifteen trees in the last two years.

Crunchy Oribi Gorge Mom? Killing the earth with fumes at the Southcoast Mall?

I was, though. He was right. It was just an awful delivery of the message. Instead of making me want to change, I wanted to throw (plastic-free) shampoo bars at his sweaty hair.

Where Is the Love Man?

The point is that compassion is a key ingredient – speak the truth, but do it in love. The irate man didn’t know my context and didn’t care, either. I was a responsible parent keeping my babies safe in the midday sun.

For the record, thank you long-haired man for your concern. You might have made a nature-loving friend had you not showered me in shame instead of inviting me to where the grass was greener (and organically fertilised).

May 2021 be a more compassionate year for all (even when we’re hot and “hangry” in the parking lot).

Published here.