The day I liberate myself. No apologies.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet… yada yada.
Well, guess what. A rose by any other name would pierce just as fiercely. How about that?
I’m over it. I’ve been fighting the thorns long enough. I’ve come in from the garden thorn-scratched and pierced for the last time.
I do not like rose flowers enough to tolerate their thorns. Period.
And I’m ok with that.
No more negotiations, accommodating, denying, defending, acquiescence, thicker gloves, longer pruning sheers, protective rubber boots, high maintenance, longer sleeves, ducking or dodging harsh branches.
I’m saying “no” to the extra scratches that welt up when I try to clip the sharp tips of thorns as I make an arrangement of sticks that draw blood, just to showcase their flower.
The rose flower is no longer worth it.
I’m not sure it ever was.
It will be a good and self-honoring day to pull those roses right out by the root and toss them right out. Spit. Spot. Good riddance. No more thorns. Over it.
I’m moving forward with joy and planting peonies. My favorite. Lush, gorgeous, healthy, low maintenance, high yield, gushy and gorgeous peonies. Strong and sturdy yet soft stalks with fanciful frond tops that open to their beautiful layers of soft petal blooms.
Peonies spread their love by coming back stronger, broader, more lush every year. Blooms yielding open only when garden insect friends find nourishment from them. A symbiotic give and take for healthy growth.
I love that.