when a forgotten rose bush blooms into a heart
This morning, as I walked through my backyard, I was stopped in my tracks by a sight that tugged at my heartstrings—a neglected old rose bush, one my mother planted decades ago, had burst into bloom. But what truly stunned me was the shape: the blossoms had clustered into a perfect heart.
It made me think about how gardening has changed over the years. My mother believed in letting nature take its course, trusting the soil and seasons, while my daughter insists on apps, fertilizers, and pruning schedules. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost something in our rush for perfection—maybe a bit of magic, or the quiet patience that used to define our gardens and our lives.
Here in the Midwest, where winters bite and summers scorch, roses aren’t always easy. Neighbors debate whether it’s worth the trouble, especially when HOA rules frown on wild, untamed growth. Some say a tidy yard shows respect for the community; others, like me, see beauty in a little chaos, in plants that remember our family’s hands.
I snapped a photo, thinking of all the times I almost dug up that bush, frustrated by its thorns and tangled branches. Now, seeing it bloom in the shape of a heart, I wonder: is there more healing in letting things be, or in shaping them to fit our vision? Maybe, like our gardens, we’re all a little wild at heart—rooted in tradition, but reaching for something new.
#gardeningmemories #familytraditions #roses #Gardening
