The first rose of spring has opened her petals and fairly shouted RED to the universe. We have many rose bushes, red, of course, and peach and yellow and white and pink. They are strong, independent, living creatures with purpose and joy and love to share with one another.
They are beautiful, and I enjoy sharing my life with them. I’ve said before that I don’t trim the bushes down so that they are just so, I love to allow them to be wild. I let them grow tall. The beautiful red rose I saw this morning was over my head. I celebrated that for her. She is reaching for the sun and the wind and the stars. And she is amazingly beautiful.
The flowers appear so delicate, yet they survive the spring rain showers (monsoons if the truth be told); the Santa Ana winds; and the extreme heat of summer. The best thing about roses is that they thrive on healthy neglect. I don’t fuss over them. Trimming here and there.
There are no “perfect” roses or rose bushes. Each bush lives with many different stages of life and death on each branch growing out from the center. The thorns are so mysterious to me. I wonder how that came to be?
I have written before about the aging of the flower; the wrinkles in her petals, and the fading of her colors. How beautiful she is, young or old, vibrant or fading.
Their freedom is special to me. I can not explain in words, I can only reach out to you with my heart, because if you read here, you know why I leave them wild.
I do not cut them. I do not bring them into the house, to die in pretty vases filled with water, simply for my pleasure. I encourage them to live. I talk to them. Sometimes I take pictures of them. I hope they don’t mind.
They grow more beautiful and vibrant every day; until they begin to tire and long for the next stage of their becoming. I let them pass to the next world exactly as they have lived. Freely. In the sun and the wind and the rain.