Alchemy Rose

A few years ago, I investigated the long-stemmed roses in front of our new rental house. I'd never been much of a gardener, and I believed that if the plant didn't produce food, it wasn't worth my effort. There were six bushes. Aphids and powdery mildew covered the buds and leaves, yet the stems looked strong. 

It was a dark time in my life; I'd been experiencing debilitating depression and anxiety-driven blackouts. I needed something to distract my mind from the pain and fear I felt. I found a rusty pair of shears and scoured them clean with steel wool. 

I decided I couldn't make things much worse. 

I had no idea how to care for roses. I began by cutting away the diseased and mildew-covered parts. I washed buds with water, knocking and shaking all the aphids to the ground. I cleaned my shears and did it again the next day, and then the next.

My beautiful roses exploded. I harvested the blooms and filled our house: roses in the kitchen, roses in the entranceway, a bouquet on the dining room table, vases in the bedroom. I carefully cut the blooms, clearing the way for new baby buds and coaxing the bushes to grow in attractive shapes. 

The roses didn't need any special knowledge to bloom. Their roots were deep, and the oldest stems were wooded and robust. They just needed someone to care. I visited my plants daily, checking the leaves, trying to understand.

When I couldn't get out of bed for me, I would get out for my roses. I needed to check on them. The summer came with forest fires, toxic air, and the most severe water restrictions I've ever experienced. I saved dishwater and fed the roses by hand. Even through the wilting heat, the blooms continued.

And then a week or so went by where I had no time to prune. Rose blooms bobbed on stems up to six feet tall, wild and gangly, waving in front of the windows like cheeky toddlers. My human children needed me and the days slid by without giving me a chance to work in the garden.

Finally, I made it out one early morning. I walked down the little path that spans the width of our house, and a vice gripped my heart. Where there had been roses, wild, brazen, and thorny, laden with heavy crimson crowns, there were now only stumps.

Clusters of torn leaves and woody stems, hacked to about a foot off the ground were all that remained.

Shock blacked the edges of my vision, and then came a wave of horror. Next, I felt stomach-turning guilt. This was my fault; the roses had grown too wild. My landlord must have seen the untended roses; he must have wanted things to look neater. Maybe he thought he was helping. A sense of rage and helplessness washed through me. He was in the right; it WAS his yard... but I'd loved them. 

I wept that day. I ran into the guest room, locked the door and closed the curtains. I knew they were just flowers, but we'd grown together. I'd healed them, and they'd coaxed me out into the sun. 

I sobbed harder than I'd cried in recent memory. The hacking of those stems shattered my heart. And yet--strangely--the experience felt good. Whenever my tears slowed, I would dredge up another painful thought and cry some more. Soon I wept not just for the roses but also for myself. I cried until there was nothing left to cry for; until there was nothing left but the raw truth I'd known all along:

That the stems were strong, the roots were deep, and the blooms would come again in spring.

And they did.