pink rose

It’s raining today--such a simple statement, but a remarkable one considering the time of year and my place of residence. It’s been raining for two days, a soft, gentle rain, so unlike the usual flash flood varieties we randomly receive. Accompanied by overcast skies and cooler temperatures, this rain has provided the perfect backdrop for crafting some small expressions of gratitude—small muslin tea light holders embellished with vintage ribbon roses, housing a favored fragrance, “first rain.”

I’ve always had a fondness for pale pink roses, most especially those that appear almost translucent, creamy white imbued with the faintest trace of pink. Two years ago, I decided to purchase a pink rose bush for my flowerbed, cautiously confident after years of thoughtful consideration. I had surveyed other landscapes, talked to gardening professionals and felt I had identified the perfect specimen and location for planting. Unfortunately, my confidence quickly faltered after breaking two sprinkler lines during the planting process and watching spring rapidly descend into a record number of days exceeding 100 degrees. No amount of hand watering or sun protection could prevent the fledgling rose from succumbing to the hot arid winds that ruled the season.

Surprisingly, that fall during a brief trip to our family farm, I was greeted by a lovely sight upon my arrival—there, by the kitchen door, in a tangled web of gnarled, knotty stems grew a profusion of small pink roses, the offspring of a rose bush I had planted many years ago. Rarely attended, receiving but a smattering of rain, it had survived the year’s brutal drought conditions.

I suppose our ability to flourish is not always dependent upon our heredities, the attentions we receive, or the conditions afforded us, but at times, from a deeply rooted sustenance we cannot determine.