The Week of Roses

The roses have been blooming in the park for a while now, but I didn't pay much attention to them until this week. Unlike heather, azaleas, and peonies, roses aren't a showpiece at Fort Tryon -- there are just a few, interspersed bushes -- so it's sometimes tempting to just give them no more than a passing glance. But I had just read a piece about roses by Edith Zimmerman in which she describes being won over by the magical scent of the flowers, and I decided to stop. 

As usual, I was feeling anxious and depressed about many things, including: the implosion of the progressive candidates for mayor; the projected increase in demand for cars around the world and the implications of that trend for climate change and the destruction of communities everywhere; the failure of the Democratic party to enact meaningful legislation and the implications of that failure for even the semblance of democracy in our country; and most of all, my ongoing despair at the cancellation of Terrace House, the Japanese reality television show. This is only a partial list, of course. 

But as soon as I put my nose near the rose, all my concerns vanished. The smell was sweet, but not too sweet, and -- contrary to my fears, based on any product I've ever smelled that claimed to capture the scent of a rose -- there was nothing artificial or cloying about it. The smell was intense but somehow gentle and low-key. I felt tranquilized and hypnotized. All of my concerns were far away. The effect only lasted a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Or almost enough, because I repeated the process several times. It was very satisfying. It was even possible, I thought as I ran home, that the smell of a rose on a living bush is better than cut roses, which in my experience can be a little cloying. Giving everyone access to live roses was another reason to have more public parks and gardens in our country instead of billionaires. 

Back home, I remembered the roses as I finishing recording a new song. 

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'Wading through the memories of a year that time forgot...' etc. 

 

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[Michael Gallaway]

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