A couple of weeks ago I saw that a single glowing yellow rose had bloomed enthusiastically at the very front of our front garden. This rose was so cute and sweet. There was nothing else flowering around it; all was either dead or in the final stages of decay at this time of year. The yellow rose blew about with no compromise of its joyous mood, even though the November wind would show no affection with its dreary coldness, beneath an opaque sky with no colour or soul.
Did the flower’s glorious petals quickly fade and disintegrate under the miserable, uncaring weather? Not at all. It stayed strong for a good week then died like a true being: as a whole, rather than piece by piece, like all things with the completeness of a soul do.
And what did this rose smell like? It was the sweetest rose I’ve ever smelled, because it defied the various conventions built around roses over centuries. For it didn’t smell romantic; it didn’t smell sensual or alluring; and it was no more voluptuous than it was delicate. Its essence was just innocent, free-spirited, adventurous, strong and inspiring – utterly liberated from any dull metaphor relating to human attraction or primitive emotions.
This was the only rose that truly touched my heart… yet it wasn’t its ‘beauty’ that inspired my affection.