If you’ve spent any time around Storybook Hill, you’ve probably noticed I have a bit of a thing for roses.
Specifically, the kind from David Austin Roses.
They’re expensive.
They’re dramatic.
They’re occasionally divas.
And I love them with the intensity usually reserved for family members and college football teams.
For the uninitiated, these aren’t your grocery store dozen-red-roses roses.
These are cabbage roses.
Storybook roses.
English garden roses.
The kind that look like someone asked a peony and a rose to collaborate on a passion project.
The blooms are ridiculous.
The fragrance is even more ridiculous.
Some smell like citrus.
Some smell fruity.
Some smell like old-fashioned rose perfume in the best possible way.
Walking through the garden in June feels a little like accidentally wandering into a Jane Austen novel.
The thing nobody tells you though is that David Austin roses require faith.
Year one:
“I paid how much for this stick?”
Year two:
“Well, that’s a few leaves I guess.”
Year three:
“OH. THERE you are.”
They reward patience in a way very few things do anymore.
In a world of overnight shipping and same-day delivery, roses are still out here operating on a completely different timeline.
They don’t care about your expectations.
They bloom when they’re ready.
Honestly, I think that’s part of why I love them so much.
Midlife has felt a lot like gardening.
A lot of planting.
A lot of waiting.
A lot of wondering if anything is happening beneath the surface.
And then one day you look around and realize things have been growing the entire time.
Not quickly.
Not dramatically.
But steadily.
Quietly.
Beautifully.
The roses remind me of that every summer.
Some things simply refuse to be rushed.
And maybe that’s not a flaw.
Maybe that’s the whole point.
