A rambling post, for spring…

A few years ago, the boys and I were driving through the neighborhood, when we passed a pile of trash.  In the pile of trash was a faded plastic bucket, and in the bucket was a rosebush, a dead rosebush.

At the time, we were very very broke.   I didn’t have the money to buy nice things for my (new) house, and that included plants for the garden.

On a whim, I snatched the dead rosebush!

I’ve always dreamed of roses, old fashioned roses on a trellis. REAL roses, sweet roses, the kind that really smell.  It couldn’t hurt to try, right?  (and full disclosure, I’m a trash picker for life, in general.  I still have plenty of furniture that come from the curb too)

Now, I’m also a terrible gardener, but I asked my gardener-friends for advice, and as they suggested, I cut the dead thing waaaaay back, and buried the roots deeply, and mulched and fertilized them with composty things like coffee grounds.  And lo!   The bush grew back, green.

I was so excited!

But there were never any roses.  Not a one. Not a bud.  So I gave up, forgot about the bush, neglected it, and it put out thorns and leaves, and ended up in a very overgrown patch of grass by the side of the house. Ah, well.



Then,  this week, I decided to cut back the overgrowth, because it was tangling in our HVAC unit. Privet and poison ivy and what I call “weed trees” had overtaken the spot.

And of course, when I cut the weeds back, I found….


Just one little branch, one stem of blossoms. The rest of the stems are are all still thorns and leaves, but there is one branch that wants to bloom.

And that?  It’s more than enough.

They are sweet ones, rambly ones. They are REAL roses. They bring tears to my eyes.

It feels like a lesson, this story of a rosebush.  There is something in it. About rescuing dead things. About finding beauty in the trash. About not giving up. Or… about giving up, but then being willing to rediscover the thing you gave up on.

Or maybe it’s just about roses.  How hardy they are.

That was a difficult month, when I found the rosebush in the trash, a really hard month. The kind of month that forces you to look for goodness wherever you can find it.   I can’t quite explain it here.  It isn’t something for public consumption. I wasn’t proud of myself that month.

Guess what?  This month is a totally different month.

This month is a good month.

This month is now.

Happy spring, everyone!


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