Announcing: Let Your Hair Down

Wild Roses have so much to give us: their beauty, their persistence and their elegance. Honestly, I think they show us how to thrive against all odds.

These gorgeous flowers are not a part of the normal Rose Garden bushes. I tend to go hunting for them. This particular day’s hunt started out as a challenge. It was a gray morning. Low clouds and fog on the river. Fortunately, the garden is high enough on a hill to be just above the fog. As I parked, the low clouds started to release.

I live in Portland and I argue that we, Portlanders, need a second language with at least 100 words to describe raining. Is it drizzling? Is it more or less than a drizzle? For that just barely starting rain, I use the term spitting. The raindrops are only suggestions when it is spitting.

So, I stepped out of the car to be greeted by a gentle, spitting rain. This rain is a decision point. Am I dressed for a downpour? Nature is giving you a decision point. Are you really sure about this? To answer Nature on this particular day: No, I was not ready. I was not wearing waterproof shoes, nor did I have a rain jacket. But, I was parked. I was at the Garden. I’ll take the chance.

So, off I go into the spitting rain, begging Nature to keep it simple, please.

Nature kept vacillating between spitting and light rain, I was getting covered in rain, but my shoes were still fairly dry. The roses were having a great day, so I kept going.

The garden is large. Larger than a simple coat can survive as a dry coat. It is the shoes that are a decision maker, though. When my socks were beginning to soak, it was time to turn around. Time to wind it up. When my toes said it was time to leave, I listen.

I can’t just run out on blossom. So, I am being slower getting back to the car than my toes appreciate. But there are so many amazing blossoms, I can’t leave them. Every step is a stop for a bloom. Until I am literally dripping, inside and out.

Now, I am committed to leaving. I am on the path. I am passing the last trellis. And it happens.

The sun comes out. Blooming on the trellis are these gorgeous wild roses. Most aren’t even touched by the rain. The wonder of the light and these blooms did not dry out my socks. But, it made the final slog to the car more of a dance than a desperate dash.

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