Kinship With Wild Rose

This morning I found myself wandering one of my favorite canyons. The morning dew invited me deeper into my senses as I walked, each breath filling my lungs with crisp, damp air, wrapping me gently into the interconnectedness of this place. 

I pause for a moment in awe. Sun dripping through towering Cottonwoods, Spruce, Fir, and Ponderosa, landing on my cheeks. For a moment I felt as if I was being kissed by God. 

My gaze shifts from the wise tall beings above me, to the plants beneath my feet, Figwort and Dandelion, Gooseberry, Mullein and Willow, Raspberry and Rose. I reached down to a small Wild Rose bush, noticing the vibrant and swollen red hips. One fell off into my hand so perfectly ripe. 

I continued walking, rolling it between my fingers, a tear fell, then another, and another. I remembered early this spring, when the wild rose buds were just emerging from the long winter days. Some were barely brimming with the brightest hints of pink, holding the possibility of an entire summer's blooms within their thorned canes. 

I rolled this rose hip between my fingers, and I remembered all the encounters I shared with rose this year. 

I remembered stopping on a hike back in June, completely  in awe of a very first bloom.

I remembered wandering on a mountain far from home, my pants getting caught in her wild thorns, asking me to slow down and sit awhile. There was nowhere else to be for 4 days other than this patch of utterly perfect wild rose bushes. 

I remembered lying there in June with my hand on my womb, feeling the very beginnings of a life taking form. I had gone to that mountain on a quest to meet my soul.

4 days and 4 nights alone. Very little sustenance. No one to call home. 

As I prepared I had no idea that I would also be meeting the soul of our baby, arriving early next year. I rolled this rosehip between my fingers, and it felt as if an entire year was inside. 

Because it was. 

The rosehip began to develop as the new canes emerged. Then the thorns, and the buds, and the blooms, Each stage feeding this final, exuberant expression of courage, and patience, and time.

Oh the time it took for these hips to emerge. 

And I thought about my own seasons this past year. The leaps of faith, planting my roots in an unfamiliar place. 

Becoming.

Someone I've never been before. 

And I noticed a sense of kinship with the roses, because wherever I was, it seemed so was she. 

And now we meet again as the wheel turns.

The cottonwoods are just beginning to change the tone of their leaves. 

We meet again as the Steller's jay flickers by, carrier of autumn.

We meet again.

Her hips are brimming, and so are mine.

Our bellies swollen with an entire spring and summer spent quietly cultivating life. 

And so I let the tears fall. 

Because I am completely enchanted by the fact that maybe this year, I understand Rose, and she understands me, more than any other year before. 

I keep walking through this canyon, which now seems to call my name in every rustling leaf, and every flicker of light. I walk with my sandals dangling from fingertips, bare feet meeting the cool, wet earth. Every step feels like a prayer. A devotion to this day.

This never been seen before day. 

And through this day, I feel that I am new. 

And recognized as new. 

And as I walk in awe of this place, I wonder if they stand in awe of me too. 

Perhaps I am remembered from around this time last year, when I walked this same canyon with shaking legs and a tender heart, eyes carrying the simultaneous gaze of wonder, and the fear of beginning anew.  

I remember that girl. I remember her courage. I feel it in myself now, again, as I embark on a journey of something completely new. 

So I think I'll let the seasons unravel me once more. 

I’ll let them burn me to life and drench me in rain.

I’ll let them strip me bare like the trees in late October and tangle my branches in the winter wind.

I’ll let them make me feel messy and beautiful all at the same time. Because that's what they are meant to do. 

The days are beginning to shorten as the sun dips lower and lower in the sky, flocks of geese sing their farewell songs to the mountains that turn a deeper shade of blue. 

The air of autumn feels as if it is devoted to something far more mysterious than summer. 

i’ll wake each day and promise to savor these moments. These moments of my very last summer as this version of myself.

And you know I’ll thank the roses for standing by me so valiantly, for teaching me in every stage of their own becoming. And I'll stand by them as the winter months wilt their leaves and strip them bare, wondering and waiting for when those new buds will arrive again. 

What a beautiful thing it is to feel so protected by her thorns as I too, wait for our little one to arrive.

What a wonderful, miraculous thing it is to have roses as relatives. to find kinship among the wild things and remember that I am wild too.

With love to your own changing seasons <3

Mary,

From Earth and Eden