It started last fall, my thing with roses. Completely unplanned, they'd show up everywhere. In the park with a book, I'd read that line, a poke in my heart, then... roses.
The sight of them. The smell of them.
I'd be walking in the center of town, the hills lit up with the sun's fading blue. I'd have a thought not entirely my own, then... roses.
Or when the lights dimmed in Naples, settled in to watch the ballet. The music swelled and I felt it a performance just for me. Then, in precisely that moment, a giant rose descended from above the stage.
A rose has crept up in so many scenarios since. After so many creative inklings, feelings that rush my heart, fears that abate at the sudden discovery of one. So much so, I've taken to studying them. In particular, the wild ones.
"...a true 'wild rose' is one that nature created, not one hybridized by man." It's the most precious, the one that grows and blooms anywhere. I'd say it's the perfect definition of gift: being made from the inside first.