I teased out the interloping saplings from the glossy canes of the Zephirine rose in the hedge, the sapling shoots already stubborn and strong resisted my pruners. Frustrated, I wheedled my shears in closer and ignoring the pain in my hands lopped off the intruder. I eased off my landscaping gloves and massaged my right hand, sitting on the garden bench, I willed my hand to stop cramping and sighed. Just the faintest breeze was blowing and my gentle rose bush let her long canes drop around my shoulders, “Why so sad today?” her voice like light sparkling chimes in the wind. I leaned back on the garden bench, warmed by the sun, the paint shimmering. “Regret,” I murmured as my hand smoothed the paint, now a little rough after the hard winter.
The breeze stirred again and the soft leaves stroked my cheek, the scent of roses swirling. I tried to frame what I was thinking, but my thoughts were tangled, like the wild morning glory vines sneaking through the garden. “I wish I could have been who I am now for Ryan the first years of Justin’s death.” I have so few memories of those first three years, Ryan was young, only 22. I was the mom, had already buried my parents and my older brother, I should have acknowledged the depth of his pain. My own well of pain with slimy, moss slicked sides was so deep, so dark. Another cane slipped onto my shoulder as we sat.
“What do you think of when you look at us in the winter?” the soft chimes asked, “‘Do you see only our barren canes, our leafless selves tired and worn, do we disappoint you?” “No, not all all!” I exclaimed, turning to look at the graceful rose. “I think how strong you are, how beautifully you carry the weight of snow, how generous you were with blooms through the season, you make me smile.” The soft chimes pushed further, “Do you remember when we were small?” “Of course I do, you were so tiny.” The leaves moved again against my cheek, “Look at us now, we soar twenty feet above the ground touching the sun, our roots have grown deep and strong.”
A catbird mewed behind us, fuzzy bumblebees continued to roll themselves in pollen like little bears. I sighed from a different place, letting go, letting go of regret and guilt. How wise of the rose to liken those early years of grief to winter, barren and lifeless, but with life hidden in the roots. We each died in our own way with Justin in that pond, we each have to find our own way to new life.
I turned my face to the sun and made ready to leave the bench, the rose unwilling to let go. The soft chimes again, “forgive yourself, say it out loud.” “The neighbors already think I am daft for talking to you, can’t I just feel it, do I have to say it out loud?” I queried. Silence. I breathed in, and I breathed out, “I forgive you, be at peace.”
I nestled back into the embrace of the rose, feeling the flutter of leaves on my cheek, the silken petals under my fingers. And I sat in peace.
I would love to see your garden. I imagine it to be just beautiful!
Thank you Deirdre. I have allowed parts of it to go so wild this summer. Come the Fall I shall tidy up and put her all to rights again. But we will have to have a pot of tea one day!
My lilac bush did not bloom in the spring of 2014. Seemed appropriate as even part of my gardens were in shock and mourning Amy. When it returned this year, I admit I noticed and was relieved. As I approach another Devastation Day anniversary next week, your eloquent words resonate with me. Love, Dee
Dear Dee,
I think our gardens do mourn, the plants sensitive to what has happened. Please know I am holding you close these hellish days leading to the anniversary.
Oh Terri. How utterly gorgeous. I, too, have a Zepherine rose growing in my garden, one of only two types of roses that I’ll allow in my limited space since they don’t need spraying. The color and fragrance are both so rich and enchanting. And now I have a “friend” association too. The healing power of gardens is beyond question.
Thank you Martha! I am so excited to have a friend association too! I only know of one other person who has a Zepherine. They are my very good friends out in the garden, and yes, gardens are so very healing. There is always something that lifts my spirits when I wander out to my favorite corner.
I had never heard of Zepherine roses. I gave up growing roses years ago – all I was doing was feeding the Japanese roses. Having some pictures of my day lilies on my phone and on my blog is helping me through a difficult period (now, and events to come). The healing properties of nature are amaing. I wish you peace.
Dear Alana,
Oh those Japanese beetles, they are relentless. I love day lilies, they are so faithful, they bloom every year with such beauty. I am glad that you have them, but I am sorry for your difficult time now and for what is ahead of you. Whatever those trials may be, I hope that you find some respite in the beauty of nature, even if it is for only a few moments. Thank you for your note, wishing you peace also.
I think that even when forgiveness requires speaking one’s regret out loud to one’s child – and sometimes it does – that we can never underestimate the power of those words – wherein we acknowledge the pain we have inadvertently caused.
As children, sometimes we just need our pain acknowledged. We so want to extend grace and love and to be perfectly reconciled to our parents.
And when that is already done: yes. Then that is the time we must forgive ourselves.
Dear Susan,
Thank you for your beautiful and insightful words. Both my parents have been dead for so long, that in many ways I have forgotten what it is like to be someone’s child. Thank you for those words of reconciliation. Thank you for taking the time to write and share, you have given much to think about in a very good way. Wishing you a peace filled day.
You so aptly convey the solace that being in your garden, surrounded by nature brings you in this essay.
Dear Estelle,
Thank you for taking the time to read and for your kind words. Solace, yes, the perfect word. Wishing you a peace filled day.