I seem to be on a Things I Love kick. Lately, my mind has been circling around roses. This morning, I went outside to finally tie up my climbing roses that had been flopping all over the ground instead of rambling artistically across the walls of my shed.
These roses matter. They were a Mother’s Day present five years ago from each of my three daughters and I cherish them.
So, dreaming of the beauty to come, I happily lopped dead twigs, pruned for air circulation, dug in the very best of organic fertilizer, and…whap!
A cane caught in the breeze and raked my scalp until it bled. A branch slipped from my hands, pierced my jeans and left the tip of a thorn in my thigh. And finally tied up against the wall, the roses looked like something out of Friday the Thirteenth, with only teeny-tiny sprouts showing there is life under the thorns.
However, to me roses are a metaphor about life, but most of all about kids. I raised three daughters to be amazing women; I taught high school for decades, dealing with the snarky comments, the wild passions of joy and grief, and the mind-numbing imperative of praising and prodding.
Kids are like roses before the blooms come – all wayward canes and jabbing thorns. And then they bloom. OMG – the breathtaking beauty of a bud opening or a mind unfurling.
Every bit of pain and angst is rewarded beyond measure. I so love roses.