Roses/magic/personal confession

The Roses Asked Me Curious Things

And I responded

Roses talk. They talked to me this morning while I was walking among them. Every time I bent over a rose to take in her aroma and beautiful color, I heard a sweet little voice. And a question.

The pale pink rose asked me,

‘Who do you admire?’

The rose garden was empty at the time, so I was able to talk freely. Without any surprise or embarrassment (I knew flowers could talk ever since I read ‘Little Ida’s Flowers’ by Andersen), I whispered back in her pale pink ear,

‘I admire all Bulgarian authors who have achieved something. I don’t know how they did it, but they must possess extraordinary qualities. I admire all people who fight serious illnesses with courage. I admire all people who stand up against a poisonous regime, knowing that they will pay the ultimate price. I admire my children when they go and do a thing for the first time on their own. I know how scared they must feel, but they go and do it anyway.’

I felt the rose’s petals caressing my cheek. She said,

‘You can do these things, too!’

The dark pink rose asked me,

‘What are you grateful for?’

I smiled at her and whispered back in her dark-pink ear,

‘I’m grateful for having a charming smile. I’m grateful for having my children and the man I love with me. I am grateful that my parents are still alive and in relatively good health. I’m grateful for getting to know God. I’m grateful for having a place to live, and food on my table.’

The dark pink rose whispered back,

‘This is such a cliche.’

I smiled,

‘Okay then. I’m happy I found Medium.’

‘Now that’s something else!’ she smiled, and one of her petals waved good-bye.

The red rose asked me,

‘What are you passionate about?’

I sigh. That is a difficult question, yet the rose with the alluring scent is unaware of it. Just ten years earlier I could give her a list of things that made my heart go wild. Now…is there anything left?

Yet she stared at me with her passionate eyes and demanded an answer.

‘I’m passionate about God,’ I whispered finally. ‘I think the only thing I’ve been doing with passion for a long time now is praying.’

‘And what does God say to you?’ the rose inquired.

‘That everything’s going to be alright.’

‘Then why aren’t you passionate about other things?’

‘Because I’m constantly depressed.’

‘What does that mean?’

The red rose didn’t know what depression meant. I tried to explain,

‘Depression is when you see your husband’s gorgeous body, and you know you love him, and nothing moves inside of you. There’s no desire for physical contact. It’s when your kids hug you with all the love that could exist on earth, and your hands can’t move to hug them back. It’s when there are a thousand plots for great novels in your head, and you stare at the black page for ages, and not a single word comes out.’

‘You know what,’ the rose said after a thoughtful pause, ‘Why don’t you try to force yourself into doing these things? You know, fake it until you make it?’

‘You think it will work?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

I don’t think this creature knows what she’s talking about, but I might try.

The orange rose asked me,

‘What makes you proud?’

I caressed her soft petals. Orange is my favorite color. It’s my natural anti-depressant. It felt good coming here after the pompous self-confidence of the red rose. I said,

‘My children make me proud. My pride has grown with every little accomplishment they’ve had since they were born. It’s a life full of boasting.’

‘How about yourself?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you do anything that has made you proud?’

I fell silent. I thought. My teaching achievements hadn’t made me proud. Nor my writing achievements. Actually, I pondered, it’s just the times I’ve helped my best friend overcome any of her horrible fears I have felt the warm satisfaction of a real accomplishment.

Maybe there were other times I had helped people and that had made me feel good, but I had forgotten it. Society doesn’t insist on remembering things we do for others. It insists on hanging diplomas and certificates on the walls.

‘Yes, ‘ I whispered. ‘Once, my son had cut his leg really bad. I didn’t panic. I made a tourniquet and carried him to the hospital. The doctors said I did great. Yes, I think this made me proud.’

‘Pay attention to such things, ‘the rose gave me an orange smile, ‘Keep them in your memory.’

The yellow rose asked me,

‘Who are your friends?’

This rose looked somehow sad. It was as if she needed a friend herself. I hugged her and kissed her petals. She shrank back in embarrassment.

‘I’m not worthy of your attention,’ the rose said.

‘Why?’ I was puzzled.

‘People don’t like yellow roses. They don’t stop by me very often.’

‘Then you’re lonely?’

‘No, I have my bees and butterflies. They are my friends. And your friends? Who are they?’

‘Well…’ I brushed a strand of hair aside, ‘My best friend lives in Bulgaria. She’s been with me for more than twenty years now. She’s my soulmate. She is me, I am her. We’re the same thing. I’m truly blessed to have her in my life.’

‘Do you have other friends?’

‘Yes, I have another good Bulgarian friend, also very close to me. She lives in Thessaloniki with me now. I’ve known her for ten years. I hope our relationship remains good.’

‘That’s all?’

‘No, I have many others. But they’re just for hanging out. No high expectations, no promises.’

‘How about your husband?’

‘I don’t know. We talk a lot, we discuss everything, but we quarrel a lot. We rarely seem to agree on a topic. We have quite a tumultuous relationship. I wonder if it’s because of the kids. Sometimes, when it’s only the two of us, I feel as if he’s a friend. Otherwise, he’s a lover and a father who loves to get on my nerves.’

‘Do you miss him when he’s not around?’

‘Yes. Terribly.’

The rose smiled.

‘So, he’s a friend. My bees always get on my nerves with their constant buzzing, but when they fly away, I miss them. I miss them needing me. Your husband needs you. You need him. Teamwork is one of the best types of friendship.’

Maybe the rose is right.

The white rose asked me,

‘Where do you find your peace?’

This flower looked so calm. I felt like closing my eyes and letting her snowy labyrinth engulf me in its unsolvable mysteries.

‘My peace…Oh, I want it so much. I need it. I wish I could enjoy it for at least a day. I wish I could go somewhere, in a forest cabin, or a house on the beach, and there were no sounds around but birds chirruping or waves splashing, and I wish it was only me, my thoughts, and God. Soon, there wouldn’t be my thoughts, just me and God, and finally, there wouldn’t be me, only God. I wish I could dissolve into the enteral love. That’s peace.’

‘You define your need for rest so poetically, ‘the rose said gently.

‘It’s not simply a need for rest.’

‘It’s exactly that. Don’t worry, you’ll get it soon. The kids will finish school, and you’ll go to your parents for a month. You’ll get rested.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

This rose was really calm.

And a good ending to my fairy-tale adventure.

What do the different natural colors of roses symbolize?

The pale pink rose means admiration and grace. You can give it to the woman you like at the beginning of your romance, or you can give it as a present to a young person who has reached a milestone.

The dark pink rose means gratitude. You can give it to a person who has done you a favor.

The red rose means passion. You can give it to the woman you’re madly in love with, and you two are deep into your relationship.

The orange rose means pride and joy. You can give it to someone successful in something.

The yellow rose means friendship. You can give it to your friend, anytime.

The white rose means peace and purity. You can give it on religious occasions: a wedding, a baptism, a funeral.

The purple rose (we don’t have one in our garden and I wonder what kind of question she would have asked me), means mysticism. If you give it to someone, you can show them that you are intrigued by them.

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