Hello, rose. You are especially beautiful today. How do you manage to maintain this majestic appearance amidst so many weeds and chaos?

…

I often come to you when I'm feeling down. I don't know if you can hear me. But your petals, your stem, your thorns — they are like a parable that can be deciphered endlessly. Look at your bud. It's still closed, but you can feel it — a miracle is budding inside.

— Do you think I don't know what fear is? — the silence answers me. — Look at my thorns. They are my protection. But every day I risk opening up, so someone or something can touch my core.

— Yes, thorns... I've grown my own. From hurt, from betrayal. But they don't help, they only push people away. How do you dare to open up?

— I trust the sun. And the morning dew. And the wind. Sometimes the gardener comes and cuts me. But even then, I am happy for the one who holds me in their hands. Fear disappears when you realize: your beauty is not just for you. It is to be shared.

— It's hard to give yourself when there's an emptiness inside.

— Look at your root. Remember where you come from? From the earth that smells of rain. From the seed that didn't fear the darkness to break through to the light. You have grown. You stand. Is that not a reason for joy?

— I often compare myself to other roses. They have larger petals, brighter colors. And me...

— You have a unique hue. There are no two identical roses. And there is no "correct" rose. There is only yours. Look at your leaves. Even with the web, even with the heavy raindrop that weighs like a tear. You are. And that is a miracle.

— But what about the thorns? They hurt those who want to get close.

— Thorns are boundaries. Not everyone deserves your depth. But if someone is ready to endure the stings to reach the core — that is your person. Don't turn away. And those who are afraid can be given a glance or a light fragrance from a distance.

— And do you never want to be not a rose, but, say, a daisy? To be loved by everyone, picked and guessed at?

— To love everyone is the province of heaven. I have chosen the path of the queen. It is solitude. But there is a truth in it. I bloom not for everyone, but for those who know how to wait and see.

— Thank you. I feel better. I will water you.

— Don't hurry. Just sit beside me. And listen to the buzzing of bees. That is also a part of life. Sometimes you need not to speak, but just to be. Like me.

— I will come back tomorrow. I will tell you what happened.

— And I will open another bud. Until then.

What We Learned from This Conversation

The rose is not just a flower. It is a mirror in which everyone sees themselves. Her silence is more eloquent than any words. In the hustle and bustle, we forget to listen. To listen to the silence, to nature, to ourselves. A conversation with a rose teaches patience: you cannot force a bud to open with force. You cannot accelerate happiness. It comes when both the soil and the sun, and the drop of morning dew are ready. We often complain about thorns, but forget that they are part of our protection. But if you close yourself too much, no one will see the flower. Go to the garden. Plant roses. Talk to them. They won't answer with words, but you will hear more than in the noisy city.

Permanent link to this publication: