Rose

I sit here on the front porch of the cabin early on a Saturday morning. The dew is heavy on the grass and the hummingbirds are feasting at the feeders. The only sound is a crow chasing a red tailed hawk over the meadow and chickadees in the pines. At times like this I wonder if I really want to leave the cabin to find a home of my own. Then I remember this past winter, shiver and continue my house hunting. I am satisfied as I look out over the lawn and see the beauty I have created here over the past six summers. The turf is well fed and weed free. The perennial beds are blossoming all around the cabin with roses, black eyed susans, peonies, hydrangeas and phlox. Pots of geraniums and beds of snapdragons add splashes of color. It has been an honor to care for this historical treasure. The peace and serenity I have found here has added a multitude of textures to the fabric of my being.

I look over the railing and observe the fullness of the wild climbing rose I cut down in April. The canes had become woody and non- productive. The weight of the plant was corralled by heavy gauge wire and nailed to the cabin logs. I’d been told by native Montanans that these heirloom roses could be cut down harshly and they would rejuvenate completely. So one very brisk morning, I conducted a dormant pruning. Donned in a canvas jacket and wearing leather gloves, I hauled out a truckload of branches. Then I waited. Temperatures rose, daffodils and tulips bloomed, the rose did not survive. I couldn’t believe I had been so foolish. I know better than to prune more than 30% of a plant at one time. Restoration pruning takes two to three years to accomplish successfully. I had annihilated my favorite shrub. Last year neighbors stopped by just to tell me how gorgeous this plant was. What was I going to tell my landlord? I accidently killed a 75 year old rose that his grandparents had placed there or the settler before them. Me, the master gardener teacher. By Father’s Day, when the other roses were blooming, there was one green sprout. Please, please grow.

Thirty days later, fertilized, watered and prayed over, it is rallying with a passion. The succulent new growth is an emerald green and profuse. Hallelujah! This plant speaks to me on so many levels this morning.

· It speaks of faith that life is reborn from the ashes of what can appear to be insurmountable devastation. Like the mythological Phoenix, we rise from our challenges and greet the new day. My faith and trust are even stronger after walking through the dark night of the soul and reaching the light on the other side. The root system was tough and irrepressible.

· What appears to be dead can be a matter of timing; it will bloom again. It may not be on our schedule but it will happen. I reflect on dreams I have carried and wonder if maybe someday… I have dreamed of a partner, a new home, writing a book…these dreams may be dormant but they are not dead. When the time is right, they will bloom. I cannot see it now, but someday I will. There is still life and growth under the surface.

· One year of flowering was sacrificed for the overall health and benefit of the whole. This rose will be even more glorious next year. Continual thinning will eliminate the necessity of such radical measures in the future. We can make huge changes all at once in our lives or small incremental moves that take us higher on our path. Sometimes we do them both simultaneously. There are times when I have taken an unnecessary detour and then I see that it was an indispensable fork in order to give me a new skill or a new perspective. The time I forfeited was made up in the awareness I gained.

· I really dislike this cliché, but it comes to mind, “What doesn’t kill you makes you strong.” Don’t people tell you this when you are so far down you can’t see any hope? I want to kick them in the shins. The rose says it more beautifully by gentle demonstration. I can see where my rough edges have been worn down by adversity. Maybe it is age, or wisdom, that allows me to accept the softer side of me. I don’t need the woody branches that were the stiff and rigid belief systems that I inherited. Through the years they have been discarded one by one. In their place is a flexible bough with budding shoots and tiny blossoms. I can bend, I can be pushed flat but time has shown me that I will rebound even more resilient.

So thank you, Rose, for giving me so many messages as I drink my coffee and the morning sun. Thank you for surviving my overzealous efforts. I didn’t mean to be so punitive in my branch removal. It is one more lesson to understand that sometimes people think they are helping us but can appear to be cruel. Their words can cut to the bone. All the while they are trying to help in their own way. Just say “thank you” and keep on growing. Keep on thriving. Pull up the juices stored in your roots and bloom, bloom, bloom.

Best wishes,

Pat