I don’t know why it’s been nearly impossible to compose something from the recent three weeks of life. We’ve had a span of days gorgeous unto one another, each day more beautiful than the last. I meant to write about one of the garden’s glories last week, and time seemed to do its normal thing: collapsing upon itself and me. In June we seemed to sail into Monday, tunnel to Friday, emerge, and then begin again.
But this year’s glorious display deserves more than a passing second. Out of an old, farm-friendly rose bush, which looks dead for much of the year and, in fact, has one or two very dead stalks sticking out of its base, has sprouted no less than 131 light pink blooms or buds on its old faithful self. Somehow in each of the past 2 or 3 years, this mangled, dry bush has reached down deep, past drought, through winter’s cold, over our lack of attention and other forms of our neglect to do what she aspires to do in this season of early summer: she somehow really blooms where she really is planted.
Truth be told, however, I realized as I immersed my face into her flowers and aromas last week that even if this rose sprouted only one bloom, only one rose, she would not have been less beautiful, less spectacular. Granted, she might not be as eye-catching, or fully laced with a garment of pink profusion. But I can’t grow a rose out of my self, and I don’t even really know how to tend one. This bush, like the proverbial seed the farmer plants and ‘knows not how it grows,’ just follows the combination of natural order and uses what is provided around her. She produces beauty from all that she has.
So I hope to go forth from this short blooming season with greater appreciation for this old rose. She has reminded me not to be deceived by the look of those old sticks. They harbor within a power that, with just a small amount rain and a little good earth, brings forth a glorious display without regard for the final bloom count or my opinions of anything at all.