I expect to have roses in the summer. And they are beautiful for sure, but the late autumn roses…the ones that come out of nowhere, welcoming me into the crisp mornings, when all others have let go, succumbed to the force of the fall, these, well these are something spectacular.
We’re not all green when we’re asked to grow. I was fortunate to see my mother bloom. Long after, I suppose, her peers and townspeople expected. Some might think I brought her to shows, to galleries, to book-signings because I was kind. While I always want to be kind, I wanted her next to me because she was blooming in full sight. She was a long-stemmed rose in my booth. Attracting all who had grown weary of the expected vine. Her delight in this crisp and open new world, was infectious. And I knew, we knew, we were lucky to bouquet around her.
Maybe one never gets over an autumn bloom. I’m hoping that’s the case. I can’t imagine it any other way. How can you look at it and not feel spectacular? I have to imagine, we are given the responsibility — to bear witness. What a privilege it is to keep sharing the story, her story.
In recent years, we have all heard the saying, “if you see something, say something.” Why we reserve that for the bad things, I’ll never know. This should be something we live by, for all the good things around us — the spectacular blooms we are privileged to walk within and beside.
It’s a daily choice we’re given, to trample, or bouquet. May we ever choose to bouquet.
