Fable of hope
It was the last outdoor singing group of the year. Almost Christmas, the south-easter blowing, celebration in the air. We formed roses into a garland on the grass at the centre of our circle. The day was hot and dry, and by evening the buds were wilted earthward.
As we left the park I was about to place the roses under some shrubbery when a woman stopped me. Pressing them back into my hands she said, ‘Take them home. Put a teaspoon of salt in some water, and ice. Take them.’
Curious, I did as she suggested that evening. Within a few minutes the first rose stem straightened, and within half an hour, all the buds were reaching skyward. A day later the buds opened into white blooms, affirming my own impulse toward re-birth at this time. If these ‘dead’ roses could be re-born, with support, so too surely can the earth and her creatures thrive again with our loving attention.