Spring
I can not even describe to you how happy my roses make me. Every one of them is different, and I behold them (there is no other word) when I stand before them and I contemplate and take inwards their branching and their color and the textures of their leaves and they become individual to me. When they reach out with new growth I am happy, and when they suffer rust and aphids and worms and thoughtless breakage I am angry and hurt. Their shapes live inside me like the shapes of my friends. I greet them each with silent names, recognition of each plants individuality. Each plant is an individual, as much as I am an individual. Each of my roses has a destiny which has intertwined with mine as much as a person might I know them as well (and often times better) than I might know a co-worker or a lover. I consider their well-being at night before I sleep. I wonder how they will do in the world without me when I die. I anticipate their experience of spring with a clenching in my heart that takes me in the direction of tears. Spring the original referent for resurrection. The season of the continuance of life, and the continuity of life. Spring is not a metaphor for celebration, it is the original celebration we are festive in imitation of it. The blooming of the roses in spring is pure it is life exulting in itself.
I can not even describe to you how happy my roses make me. Every one of them is different, and I behold them (there is no other word) when I stand before them and I contemplate and take inwards their branching and their color and the textures of their leaves and they become individual to me. When they reach out with new growth I am happy, and when they suffer rust and aphids and worms and thoughtless breakage I am angry and hurt. Their shapes live inside me like the shapes of my friends. I greet them each with silent names, recognition of each plants individuality. Each plant is an individual, as much as I am an individual. Each of my roses has a destiny which has intertwined with mine as much as a person might I know them as well (and often times better) than I might know a co-worker or a lover. I consider their well-being at night before I sleep. I wonder how they will do in the world without me when I die. I anticipate their experience of spring with a clenching in my heart that takes me in the direction of tears. Spring the original referent for resurrection. The season of the continuance of life, and the continuity of life. Spring is not a metaphor for celebration, it is the original celebration we are festive in imitation of it. The blooming of the roses in spring is pure it is life exulting in itself.