A Rose, Hope and Love

I dug my hands into the big bag of potting soil and inhaled the scent of it. 

With both hands cupped and filled to overflowing, I piled my bucket up with the fragrant soil and walked over to my little climbing rose in its redwood planter.  They say the rose is the symbol of love, the divine feminine, the eternal mystery.  But, you have to keep the vine healthy first before there can be a bud or a blossom.  I have no buds on this little vine.  She is struggling to find her place in life.  I imagine in my mind's eye a vine loaded and heavy with blossoms, petals floating to the ground on the morning breeze.  She looks gloomy though, unhopeful, a little discouraged. 

I water her, I feed her, I look for things that may harm her:  Little green caterpillars that eat her tender leaves and little mites that sap her strength.  Still, in spite of my ministrations, she is struggling to hold her own.  I keep hoping, and I am still learning how to grow a rose. 

She's meant to be a climber, to send tendrils to the wires I've strung and beyond to the fence where she can spread her vining branches.  There is opportunity for her; she senses it is there at the tips of her tender growth tips.  

I spread the soil into the planter and tamp it down, patting it firmly. It feels good. I've added a special ingredient, too, that combines pest resistance and nourishment.  I water it in and let her know how much I want her to grow and flourish.  She hangs her leaves and looks wan and listless, stressed.  She nods and waves her pale leaves halfheartedly, but I feel encouraged for her.

My hope for this little rose has taken on a more symbolic tone.  In terms of reality and practicality, I know she will find the right time to bloom, will do well.  In terms of my vision for her, I see in my mind's eye a green vigorous vine thriving, successful, fulfilled.  My vision has to do with love and belief, my hope that an imagined reality can guide the expression of her potential. I see what can be, not what is. 

Isn't that what we do though?  Move in a world full of ugliness and tedium with a vision of some beauty and joy in mind - try to match something in our world to that vision and celebrate when even a small match is made? 

I could have given up on her, cut her back, criticized her failure as a vine, her difficulity coping with the stress of living, but that says more about me than it does her.  I'd rather hope for her beauty while I love her all the while, look forward to her strengthening vines and sturdy growth and then her beautiful flowering glory. 

If I hope, I can love.  If I love, I can hope.  The two things are indivisible and without them, the blossom never can come to fulfillment, and the mystery can never be expressed.  My vigilance is now allied with her own vigor and resilience, and the potential for beauty is undeniable.  The manifestation of her gifts and glories is yet to unfold.  I am eager to see it but willing to be patient and give her lots of time now. 

I wash my hands under the flow of cool water from the hose and stand back to see the little rose growing in its box.  I think she has already taken strength from the freshened soil and water.  She already looks more hopeful. 

The sun dashed a few diamonds amongst her leaves; droplets of water left by the watering hose began to dry in the midday warmth.  The moment lingered as I thought about what I had decided to do:  Allow for time to express the fulfillment of potential in a rose.  There's no rushing that sort of thing, you know.  Patience, now, patience.