The Rose and the Thorn

Today I picked the last rose from each of my rose bushes, which are preparing for winter. I might be lucky to get a few more buds before the end of the season, but in all likelihood, I picked the last flowers. 

It felt like robbing Peter to pay Paul. Sacrificing the beauty outside to have pretty blooms on my desk.

While arranging them in the rose-tinted glass vase, I pricked my finger on a thorn. 

Later, while washing the dinner dishes, I could feel a throb and wondered if maybe the thorn was still stuck in my skin. I panicked a little. I kept washing the dishes. My hands were in gloves, and after that I forgot about it.

Earlier in the day, Wendy, a woman I had just met, told me that whenever she goes on family holidays she likes to ask the grandchildren after the holiday has ended, “Now tell me, what was the thorn and what was the rose?”

I liked that. Really liked that. She said something else to me that I also liked, but by the time I had walked back home and down the driveway I could only remember the rose. 

Approaching the front door, I thought about why I liked that saying. The rose and thorn come from the one plant, the one stem. And that stem is the full experience. The rose and thorn understand that the two exist together. Good things often come with difficulty. Difficult things may sit beside beauty. No rose without a thorn, as they say.

And now I have this reminder on my desk, next to the apples and avocados, instead of outside in my near-dormant garden.