Roses are blooming in my front yard— dozens of them.
I have never had a rosebush, much less a whole yard full. My experience with roses stops at a vase. And while they are lovely, when we first moved in, I decided I was not a rose person.
I know that’s ridiculous, but sometimes I put parameters on myself. As if making definitive declarations about what I am and what I’m not explains away accepting less.
So, if I’m not a rose person, who is? You might ask.
I gave that some thought and decided rose people smell good, often like roses. They are extravagant, respected, self-care people. Old and young, rose people are free, spontaneous dancers who are frequently joyful. They make space to smell the roses.
I have discovered I’m a bit in love with rose people. And yet presented with the opportunity to become a rose person, I immediately declared myself ineligible.
The long answer is somewhere in the books I’ve read or the words I’ve written lately. The short answer is I’ve dimmed my light to allow others to feel better about themselves.
That’s a lot to swallow. And there’s more.
I can not control how people treat me. I can not love them, excuse them, or buy them into loving me back, respecting me back, but I can control how I respond to them in the future.
Roses should be a gift. One that I accept with open arms and joy, but those closest to us can pinch parts of the heart rarely exposed.
Pinch hard and for so long that we eventually believe we are “the problem,” “too much,” or “too mint on the pillow.” We dim our light in the name of keeping the peace, allowing the secrets, and lying even to ourselves.
I have roses in my yard. It’s not precisely my yard. We are renting this house, but I am living with roses. When I take a walk or check the mail, the roses are there.
Deep Burgundy, white with pink edges and yellow.
I have this quote in my journal— Why the fuck not me?
That sounds like something a rose person would say.
It has been three months since we moved in. The roses and I are getting to know each other. I’ve even started clipping some blooms and putting them around the house.
The life of a rose is not as glamorous as I once thought. It’s not all about smelling good and looking pretty. They struggle for space, fertilizer, and more sun. More light.
Me too. As with most silly declarations, I am wrong again.
I am absolutely a rose person. I just forgot.
That’s all from the laundry room. Rise and Shine.