The Hospice Rose

Here's something I've been thinking about. The other day at work, I was fishing around for excuses NOT to be working when I noticed Cindy, one of my coworkers salvaging a vase of roses that had been wilting in the supervisors office for days. She looked so motherly as she fussed over them that I asked her if she was the "Flower Mommy".

We then got into a conversation about what, if anything, could be added to the water to help the roses live longer now that their stems were recut and the vase refreshed with clean water. I offered up an asprin, and dubbed myself the "Flower Nurse".

When she was done, there was one rose left, so pathetic and wilted, it wasn't even allowed back in the vase with the others. Cindy was going to throw it away, but I said... Hey no! I'm the flower nurse. I'll put it in "hospice" on my desk.

The rest of my shift, that sweet rose lay on my desk. I found myself constantly wanting to hold it in my hand. I got really attached to "her", and started thinking about aging and death, and wondering if roses in their "youth" feared or "looked down" on roses past their prime and dropping petals. To me, this one rose had a sweetness that really spoke to me. I didn't think she was "less than" because she was wilted and droopy. She fed me all night. She fed me her scent and her softness.

And it occured to me how important it is to look at myself in the mirror, and breathe in my essence and my experience, to be tender with and cherish the wrinkles, the roundness, and the aging that has occured. I wished that I could find a way to loosen the grip of anxiety and fear and just relax with the petals as they fall. Will I do that? I don't know. I hope so.