Kiss from a Wayward Rose
My rose bush is 16 years old. It wasn’t meant to be a bush; it was meant to be a climber. Years ago, we brought it, along with a trellis arch for it to trail up; for years we attempted to coax it, but to no avail. This rose was determined to be a bush, just a big old stubby, bushy bush. It had decided early on: I am not going to be a climber. I am going to do my own thing. It was supposed to be a climber. It was labelled a climber rose, a beautiful iceberg white, that would look stunning in the garden. But as I sit here outside journaling and having my morning coffee all these years later and look at this bush, there are now parts of it sprouting off from the sides and attempting to climb into nowhere. We took that trellis away years ago. Now after all these years as I contemplate this bush’s story, I see what it was originally meant to be. Part of it, deep down inside is still a climber – what it was originally meant to be. Part of it is still wanting to become what it was des