This face painted-on and stuck in place. One blue rose in a field where all the others are of a different hue. Red roses, pink, yellow, orange, apricot, burgundy and white, but not another one to be seen that is blue. They all stand in line, fading to become a random mixture of colours in the fuzzy distance. Amongst them a solitary blue face. It looks to the sun as much as the others do and the sun dwells in it. But no-one else and nothing else sees it. It is as if it isn’t.
Standing in rows, the roses have roots instead of boots, their movement is very slow and inconspicuous. Dancing when the wind blows, they sag when they are sad. When the sun shines they cannot contain their excitement. They wear a big smile on their face and follow its passage through the day.
There is so much effort put into these flowers. They are built in their entirety whilst hidden inside a bud, surrounded by leaves, and then unveiled to the world. They open and the hearts of the world open too. Open for all to see, but once opened there is no return to how things were. No more being closed and protected. By itself it must fulfill the complete course of life, with the only thing guaranteed being that dissolution will eventually come. Separation from the branch that has borne it and provided it with its happy sappy life blood. Separation and decay, as the host lives on and on.
The host must go on – it cannot stop its growing to look at what has passed. Instead maintaining a steady flow of life. From within the earth it draws its nutrients and they rise upwards towards the sun and the sky. Then taking them back down to its roots. Living in this one place, contained in its own little world of awareness. Like the awareness of the stones, the sky, the soil. The sun and the stars and the salty sea. The feeling of caves and trees and boulders and all parts of the whole of the local landscape. A little part of each and all. And all a part of each little bit.
There it stands-out on its own, the one blue rose. The others all refuse to believe that it is real. Just how can one be sure ? Perhaps it is a demented form of red, a lost relative of the yellow, an unusual variety of brown, a fallen representative of the purples and burgunds. We had heard rumour of its existence, but no-one had ever seen it.
But watch ! – as the wind blows and all the others sway. The blue rose sways as much as it feels it wants too. Perhaps a bit of dancing before the swimming season. Why not, we might exclaim – why not ! It may dance its most passionate dance, but none will see it, because it appears to be standing still. None will see it, for it is as if it is not there.
Not just dancing though, for there it is, singing and laughing and expressing all of the stories of life. Expressing them on the outside, expressing them on the inside. Like a physician drawing noxious airs and foul fluids and exposing them to the light of the day. Expressing it all until the body falls dead calm and everything that arises is met with clarity. With unflinching nerves and a steady temperament. Meeting every moment with a ready agreement. For it is as it is, and that is that, and all is okay.
Time spent amongst the roses will stand one in good stead. There are indeed times when it is not recommended to get near and close to them. With a developed skill it is possible to move with ease in their prickly realm. There in the moment that is calm, unchanging even as storms and tempests appear from behind the horizon and march across this scene. If the surrounding scenery is calm, then one can be sure that the next storm is not far off.
But what would the roses care about anything beyond their little patch of garden. The soil at their feet with the worms working away within. The compost lying around, the sun and rain, the bugs and critters following their daily schedule. Do they care for the magnolia ? – its branch broken and decaying. The weta living within its wound ? The forget-me-nots huddled together on the ground after the rain. Or the daphne alongside it, leaves fallen off after a windy day. Do the roses care more for these or any others in particular. They do care. They care for all of these and more. Anything that appears as manifest – they care for it. But sometimes they feel that there is but a little that they can do for them all. Little more than extend the best of their good feelings that way and for any other that needs it.
The blue rose simply awaits its day. On the earth all are looking but they are not able to see it. They are looking in the wrong place and looking for the wrong thing. But most of all they don’t know what they are looking for. The other roses are tortured in the hope that they will reveal themselves as having a blue rose on the inside. It is thought that if they are flogged and punished enough, they will have a blue offspring. Looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place.
Instead there is a realm of possibilities. Perhaps traveling there as if to the library. A great place to look for anything at all. All the things that we we can imagine and the things that we couldn’t imagine too. Or just didn’t bother considering as a possibility. Looking at that place, for it is sure to be there. There in the world of possibilities. Do remember though, that there are some things that never leave that place, that will only be found there.
The other roses all huddled in their bands and brigades of uniformity. They cannot find their way even as it leans on them and pushes. They cannot find it even as they are rooted in the middle of it. Not until they break from their ranks and jump in quite entirely.
Once in there finding blue roses everywhere. Finding that all roses are actually blue from the start. Finding that the blue roses are made of empty space mixed together with a bit of imagination, and that the red ones are too. So too the peach, amber, pink burgundy and champagne coloured roses. A bit of imagination, a few volts of concentration and the desire to see it thus, that wells from the centre of everything.
The moon rises full and shines on the white roses in the garden. On this day you will be silver – and a little bit blue too. They laugh shyly at such a weak trick. Looking to the world of possibilities, but waiting with a quiet heart. Eventually the blue rose will reveal itself, and all of the others will finally agree and see it too.