My building is flanked by two similar looking brick two-flats. The owners live in both buildings and they’ve assembled a mishmash of cousins, uncles, and ex-wives to fill out upper level and basement apartments.

I am not sure who, at the building directly to my north, handles the yard work, but sturdy vines, like fairy tale heroine Rapunzel’s hair, wave in and out of the diamond shaped openings in the wire fence that separates our yards. Purplish flowers, leak through randomly, and when mowing my own patch of lawn, I am careful not to pull any blossom from its roots.

Diane lives with her daughter in the building on the other side. When the economy went south and her singing career stalled, her ex made room for them, and she returned to another former role she held there, making things grow. Their pear tree drops green golden fruit into our yard all the time, and the yellow prairie flowers that line the edge of her garden look like they’re springing up to jump the fence. Not a shy girl, she’s bragged to me on more than one occasion, “I have a green thumb.”

Now that’s a claim I would never utter. I have never been very good at growing plants. Even during college, I remember bringing pot plants home during Christmas break to see if my mom could revive them. Grateful friends who’ve received help from me when they were moving have tried to gift me with beloved philodendron, ivy or schefflera that they just couldn’t bring with them. I had to decline. For a plant to take up residence in my domicile could be as sure as a death sentence.

Notwithstanding my inability to grow anything green, I love to take walks through gardens. I take no end of delight from seeing how the flowers from my neighbors’ gardens flow into my grass only yard to give it a vibrant splash of color. The flowers belong to them, but their beauty belongs to me too, and I guess the satisfaction I get from having them nearby is almost like pride of ownership.

I’ve thought about this lately as I recently caught a snippet of a conversation between young women sharing impending wedding plans. They were gushing about their choices in venue, caterers, and photographers, and relayed excesses they were allowing themselves on their dress budgets. Listening very politely to each other, they also seemed in unholy competition, as if another’s inventiveness for party planning could somehow diminish their own special day.

Beyond Bridezillas, I’ve seen musicians give up playing because their brothers or band mates may have been more skilled, athletes who lost their love for competing because they were afraid of not being the best, and successful business people who, despite their wins seemed more interested in measuring themselves against bigger winners. How fortunate, I considered, that this is not part of my makeup.

I can love other people’s talents, other people’s accomplishments, other people’s luxurious cars, other people’s interesting jobs, other people’s homes, and other people’s children. I relish having dinner prepared by a better cook. (I usually say thank you a lot and bring a nice bottle of wine.) I am happy for people who have lives that make them happy. I am ecstatic when I can be a direct beneficiary of their best. When everybody displays their talents, it makes my life sweeter.

I adore looking out from my back porch and seeing my neighbors’ flowers spill into my yard. It is fine that I don’t have a green thumb because I feel comfortable giving whatever I am good at.

Loving other people’s flowers is no small thing.