On a cold day in mid-November, my husband came in from outside, his cheeks flushed with excitement. With a smile, he said, “The roses are still blooming!”
Long after the other plants in our garden faded and settled in for a winter nap, the rosebush on the southeast side of our house continued to grow and stretch toward our bedroom window so that when we awoke and pulled up the shades, the palest pink, delicate petals rested serenely with faces open wide, patiently waiting for us to begin our morning.
This rosebush was planted by the house’s previous owner, so I only know that it is more than 9 years old. I don’t really remember it for the first few summers we lived here. Did it bloom much? I guess I didn’t notice.
When I finally noticed it, it was not for good reasons. Because of our neglect and ignorance about how to care for it, the bush bloomed very little but put forth huge, leggy stems. Any attempt by me to lift the drooping branches to direct them toward a trellis was a complete bust: even heavy garden gloves were no match for its angry thorns. While trying to tame that rosebush, I muttered with frustration under my breath, peppered with “Ow!” as the thorns sank into my fingertips and forearms.
It was on a warm summer day a couple years ago when I reached a boiling point. It was as if that rose had it in for me. I was merely minding my own business, dropping tiny seeds into the sunny patch next to it, when it reached for me until my ankles became tangled in the barbed stems; my shoulders bore long scratches from the vicious thorns.
Nearly in tears, I told my husband, “I cannot stand that rosebush! It barely blooms, and all it does is injure me! I want it gone!”
By the next day, he took the pruning shears and — probably in a desperate attempt to placate his hysterical wife — pruned the bush down to a stump. If it had looked leggy and awkward before, now it looked short and stubby, stripped bare of its identity.
I immediately regretted my anger. That poor plant was just trying to survive, trying to live its life, and I lost my temper and robbed it of its beauty. It reminded me of that horrified feeling of staring into the mirror after a disastrous haircut.
I thought we had killed it. But we didn’t.
This past summer, that rose bush bloomed and bloomed and bloomed. I have never seen a rose bush so entirely covered in soft pink loveliness. Instead of stretching awkwardly away from the house, this summer it grew straight and tall, elegantly hugging the brick exterior of our house. It was magnificent. The showy display of flowers heralded its remarkable rebirth.
So many people in my life remind me of this rosebush. I know people who are faced with unnameable grief, who seem to get gut-punched by fate and circumstances over and over. At the moment when they seem the most broken, they retreat into themselves, maybe pulling toward them a select few who feed and support and understand them, such as family or a faith community. They stay quiet for a season — or many. Then, even though they never completely shed their pain and heartache, the hard shell of grief and isolation slowly thins and cracks, until finally there are large openings to let the light in.
From those broken jagged edges comes an almost supernatural resurgence of compassion and purpose.
We marvel at those that seem to shine with an inner light, because we know they have many reasons to stay in the dark. Then we realize that it is because of the dark — a painful divorce, the cruel injustice of losing a child, or enduring prolonged, painful illness, that these individuals gain a new understanding of the fleeting nature of life. It turns out that this broken world has frail beauty that is always available to us; sometimes we have to search for it, when pain and grief hide it from view.
Deep into the cold season, when the rest of my garden was shades of brown and yellow, my rosebush continued to shine from within, putting forth an impossible number of buds and blooms. If the roses stood out in the summer, they stood out even more against the drab gray of approaching winter. Its arms served up an unexpected bouquet of pink and promise when the rest of the garden was winding down for a long sleep.
Stay awake, Rosie. Don’t waste a single minute. Leave your lavish evening gown on long after the party has ended.
