Of Roses and Mother’s Day

At The Fig

My mom grew roses.  For years, she snipped beauty and shared quietly.  There was always a stash of vases waited to be filled and slipped to a neighbor or friend, or hospital room, or nursing home. 

During those years, I viewed myself as a daisy-chain kind of girl.  Young and free.  I could never see myself growing something as fussy and formal as roses.  But then, a couple of decades later, some storms swept through.  A hurricane did quite a number on our heavily wooded lot.  A beloved uncle died suddenly.  With an unexpected patch of sunlight in the middle of our woods and fresh grief, I started a rose garden.  I tended and found solace.  I snipped and inhaled beauty.

 My oldest son with ‘his’ Chicago Peace rose.  This first baby just turned 21!

By the time my third baby came, the rose garden began to be neglected.  Trees had rebounded and there was not enough sun.  Kids were running around and there was not enough time.  So I let the rose garden go.  I have missed roses ever since. 

And now, oh now, these beauties are waiting to go in the ground at The Fig.  As I made the decision to plant and tend a few roses at the barn, this thought hit me, and hit me hard.   I will now be snipping roses for my mom.  I almost stopped breathing.  The thought is just so full.  So very, very full.  Time and full-circles, love and give-back, life and loss-pile. 

What does one do with this weight?  Breathe.  Tend.  Snip beauty.

Happy Mother’s Day,

june