My roses...

I got up today and stepped out to pick up the newspaper. It was a beautiful, crisp winter morning – the kind of morning when you can’t help but take a deep breath and immerse yourself in the scent of freshness. Next to the pillar of my front porch grows a rose bush that I had planted 12 years ago when we first moved in to this house. She had brought forth a half dozen roses of a red so stunning that it brought a smile to my face. I gently tug at a stem bringing down the rose close so that I can inhale her scent. It is subtle but all-pervading and I don’t want to let go. This is also the only rose plant I have with hardly any thorns. I love it because it is my one success story when it comes to flowering plants. I love it because it is a rose plant like no other.

I think back of myself as I entered my shiny new house all those years ago. I was excited. I was also pregnant and very skinny. Despite being tired nearly all the time (I never fare well in pregnancies) I took delight in choosing things for the house. I planted a drumstick tree in the backyard, a little mango sapling and curry leaf plants. There were days when I couldn’t do more than lie down after the incessant throwing up. All through it I felt it was the house that gave me strength. Within its walls I was safe and through its windows I would watch and see how my garden prospered.

When the baby came, she was a delight. She slept through the night from the moment we got her home and grew up with her brother in as much harmony as one could expect. They played by the rose plant running barefoot on the grass. I still have a picture of Mahi as a baby smiling next to a huge rose that seemed to be smiling too.

My rose plant is like another child to me. She is always there – in any season. I cut off her withered blooms inexpertly. I don’t feed her well but I do water her. I stroke her. I talk to her. In turn she gives me such joy with her mere presence. I have been told she is lanky and not bush-like. She climbs too high. She tries to peek in through the bedroom window. She looks awkward. But I don’t want to cut her too much. To me she is tall and stately and every single branch ends in a rose that is nothing less than perfect.

When you love someone or something, don’t try to change them or it. Leave them be to grow as they like. Watch them blossom. If they love you back, you will never feel the prick of thorns. If they don’t, then you move away but you never stop loving them for a moment. Let them grow without you. Stay away from the thorns. They will only draw your blood to grow stronger.

My roses are as red as blood itself but they are the red of unselfish beauty. I hope they bloom for me as long as I am able to see them.

Hear the rhythm

The ticking of the clock reminds me it is time to go to bed. I have to shower and snuggle under my quilt with a book. I then have to sleep and wake up at 6 to start another day. The ticking doesn’t stop however. It goes on and on – relentless and unforgiving. Time moves. It fills in me the anxiety to move as well. If I sit still, I feel guilty. Yet there are many moments when I am less than productive or I feel I have achieved nothing despite trying awfully hard. The ticking builds pressure. So much time is gone. You know not how much you have left. Do more. Be more. Fie on you if you stop.

I sit and type aimlessly and watch my words come together. Black on white. Tonight is a night where I feel calm despite the ticking that grows louder when all else is so silent. I have stopped measuring myself by the successes or failures that have been my life. I try and count only the moments where I believe I have made a difference. It could be to a family member or a complete stranger. It could be to a friend or someone who no longer is one. It could be to someone who calls up asking for help or advice or just a listening ear.

No one is indispensable. The ticking should teach us all that. So many moments since the beginning of time. Does anyone remember all those who were? Even if you were famous once, you will now be mostly forgotten. Time is inexorable. It is cyclic. What once was might be so again. There is no lasting significance to your so-called achievements, the money you make, the cars you drive, the boasts you manage to pepper your conversation with, the names you drop to be a celebrity by association. What is of some import is the imprint you leave on a heart. And you do that only through love. Not through force.

The clock ticks on as I type the thoughts that gather in my mind. I think back to my father who knew how to love with such heart that I will never forget him. The people he touched still talk of him, more than a dozen years after his passing. He was not a successful man or a rich one. The ticking of the clock did not urge him to make money. He tried instead to be a good man – a better man than most.

Time always moves on. What it leaves in its wake should be memories of a life that was lived with some passion, some joy, some sorrow and a whole lot of courage. It should not mark time for a relentless rat race. Too few realize that the ticking of the clock is not the beat to an endless march, it is the rhythm of the background score that runs through your life like a rich melody. I hear the rhythm when I am silent as I am now. Have you ever heard yours?