Wednesday, June 10, 2009
LOSING, WILD ROSES, AND MULBERRIES
Today I faced my demons. I put my best out, and I lost. I spent years waiting for this mind to settle. Train rides, braised lamb, and dirt roads didn't save me. Today I looked denial in the eye and screamed out to be heard. I cried my eyes out at the resevoir. My crying stopped and the most incredible thing happened, failure and loss turned to the smell of Wild Pasture Rose. Growing from the wilds of muggy Manhattan's June was a huge shrub of roses. With nothing to lose and no fear left inside, I plucked one rose. Six, cool, pink petals encircled a chandelier of bright yellow spindles, each holding a golden pollen cluster. No thorns, just a toothpick thin light green stem and a mind altering, deep floral scent. The nose of this rose was a mouth full of berries warm from the bush, fresh cut young leaves, and the aching freedom found in failure. I did not take the flower from my face, each breath brought the rose's beauty closer to me, and each exhale was met with a step in the direction of the street beyond the park. I left the park wondering why? If failure doesn't kill us, but sets us free to move on, and if wild roses smell so good, why don't we fail more and make a greater effort to enjoy wild roses. Scent and liberation at hand, I walked beneath the elegant umbrella of a tree's limbs. The sidewalk below the arched limbs was speckled with dark splotches that fell from the branches of the tree whose trunk was rooted on the other side of the stone wall in the park. I lifted my chin to see that my head was surrounded by Persian Mulberries. The thousands of mulberries were an ombre of ripeness. I was born and raised in Manhattan, I never knew we had mulberries tumbling with readyness onto our sidewalks. I chose the darkest berries and ate them with the rose in hand. A flow of foot traffic passed me by without taking notice to what I was devouring from the city's boughs. They burst black sweet into the back of my mouth and left ink on my palms. I closed my eyes, and there was nothing but loss, rose, and mulberry, I felt like I had been reborn. I promised right then to never smell a wild rose or eat a mulberry off a tree without remembering to always put my best out, and when I have failed and am crying hard to have a small glass of mulberry juice with a large ice cube, two drops of rose water, and a petal on top.