So often, “stop and smell the roses” sounds like a run-down cliché, sweet yet almost bereft of meaning at this point. I have been in a season of thankfulness recently though, a season in which all the theoretical roses in the world seem to have opened up for my close and delighted inspection. And I do have to stop and smell each and every one of them, I just can’t help it.
“Laura, you’re not making any sense,” someone mutters under their breath.
Here, let me give you a few examples of a few such roses:
The quiet sunshine resting on my flannel-shirted back as a friend and I clamber through the bushes behind my house to pick wild huckleberries.
Watching the orchids on my dresser bloom.
Spying on the doughty little covey of quail that comes through our back yard, their funny head feathers bobbing about the short grasses as they scratch and peck.
Giving my grandma a hug the morning after her wedding, a sheen of tears in her eyes as she tells me she’s so happy I got to be there to help her celebrate.
Falling asleep on a friend’s living room chair, much-needed repose stealing softly over me as we rest comfortably in each other’s presence.
A hike at MacKerricher Park turning from gray and bone-chilling to bright and beautiful, the ocean’s waves spread out below at the end of our exploring seeming to grow more liquid and light as they tease the shore birds scavenging for lunch in the sands.
Getting the sincerest of warm hugs every Sunday from the pastor’s wife, the kind of hug that wraps you tight inside and out.
Skyping dear friends from the coziness of my bed, wrapped in a blanket, steaming mug of tea in hand, sharing laughs and heartache.
Turning off the radio on my way home from work and just singing, letting out all the emotions jumbled up inside.
These are my roses, and I am reveling in their scent.