I arrived at the trailhead, sunrise well underway. It’s a cloudy morning, but the sort that hints at a sunny afternoon to come, more than it suggests rain. I start down the trail thinking about roses. Everything is green and beautiful and the air smells sweetly of fragrant wildflowers and mown grass. Wild roses are blooming along the trail.
The scent of the roses is particularly delightful and (for me) evocative. I have so many memories that are triggered by the scents of roses. When my Dear Friend died I added a wee “memory garden” to a corner of the yard, and added roses there (not that I didn’t have quite a few already, but these were chosen specifically with her in mind). I smile as I walk; the roses in my memory garden are blooming (well, two out of three). It’s their first year blooming. They’re quite lovely and smell wonderful. I shared pictures to my Dear Friend’s bestie. I know how painful missing such a friend can be.
I have fond memories of talking about our gardens together, my Dear Friend and I. I have such memories of my late Granny, too, and my Mother. Many of my memories of times shared with my Dad are also gardening related. It seems proper to honor them in my garden. Memorial Day is tomorrow, and it also seems proper to be thinking of long gone friends, family, and loved ones, this morning. The sky overhead seems somber without being gloomy. I’m not grieving, just remembering.
Funny how meaningful roses (and my garden) have become for me. Most of my roses tell a love story through the careful selections, each name hinting at the profound love I share with my Traveling Partner. Tokens of my affection, reminders of how complicated love can sometimes be. I chuckle to myself; my partner cares little for flowers, but loves me so deeply that my roses matter to him, if only because they matter to me.
Some of my roses have their own stories to tell, having traveled in pots with me for some 25 years before being planted into the ground. Others captivated me so thoroughly that in spite of failures, I’ve continued to replace them. Still others, I yearn to plant in my garden even knowing they may not be suited to the space I’ve got left. lol Funny to be so passionate about roses. I wasn’t always, and there’s a story there too, perhaps for another day.
I get to my halfway point with my thoughts. The scent of roses reaches me from some unseen rose on the meadow somewhere. I have the trail to myself this morning, in spite of the holiday weekend, mild weather, and relative lateness of the hour. I listen to the breeze rustling the meadow grass. I am sitting in a low spot a hillside behind me. I feel “invisible” and safe. The busy squirrels, robins, and jays don’t mind my quiet presence. I watch them contentedly as I write, reflect and meditate.
I let minutes pass, grateful for the solitary time. I manage to miss my Traveling Partner, in spite of enjoying this solitary moment. He is more dear to me than I have words for. My garden is getting a bit weedy because I’ve chosen to enjoy my partner’s company rather than “do my chores” more than a few times over the past couple of weeks. I’m not complaining about that, it’s a worthy choice and the moments in a human lifetime are finite, each unrepeatable and unique. The time we spend together is undescribably precious.
… I smile, thinking about the number of my roses (and roses I’ve had in the past since 2010) that I’ve chosen with my beloved in mind. It’s many. It is, actually, almost every new rose I’ve chosen since we became friends, even before we were lovers, and eventually married. Of the 13 roses currently in my garden, 7 celebrate him (and us). Of the remaining roses in my garden, three are long-time favorites that are meaningful to me for other reasons, and three are the new ones I planted in the “memory garden”.
I hear voices and the crunch of other steps on the trail. I sigh quietly to myself, sitting quite still for a moment, smiling when I notice that the squirrel nearby has done the same thing. We sit quite still, waiting to see what may come around the bed. Strangers call a friendly greeting as they approach and wave as they pass. I wave back and smile. We’re each having our own experience, but understand each other. We are enjoying this trail, this lovely Spring morning, and the scent of meadow flowers.
It’s a rather ordinary morning. My head is filled with thoughts of roses and the memories they evoke. I sit with my thoughts, and try to work out ways to discourage the deer from eating my roses. It’s quite a puzzle. I sigh to myself and plan to stop by the garden store on my way home, and get to my feet. The clock is ticking. It’s time to begin again.
Evening Light 