June 4th, 2021 Peace River, Alberta

June roses, wild & free, resilient, beautiful, with their delicate sweet fragrance, always take me back home, to the hills where I was raised and to memories of my father's strong, scarred, hard-working hands, presenting a freshly-picked bundle from the bushes in our pasture, where they faithfully bloomed every year, in time for my birthday.

Maybe that is where my yearning to live in wild rose country began. Regardless, every time I see one or catch their scent on a spring breeze, my heart overflows with the love they remind me of. Those hands, the skin so tough and calloused from creating a good life for us, accepted the sting of the thorns as part of the sacrifice in giving such a sweet gift, ripe from nature. Each time, as I wrapped my fingers around a bouquet, I was caught by surprise to feel their sharp jabs, forgetting from the previous year how much more tender my hands were than his and what he had experienced and endured to gather these especially for me and carry them home.

I would always leave them in the vase or glass as long as possible, even after they'd passed their prime, after each tiny bud opened to reveal it's deep rosy pink face among its fellow blossoms. The water evaporated and the leaves wilted, the bristled bark revealed itself. It was sad to see the faded petals, the velvety dark magenta drained away; dropped silently from their thorny stem.

So much of this memory parallels life. The sacrifices. The love. The joy. The fading.

It's been many years now since I lived anywhere near enough for my dad to have an opportunity to present me with wild roses for my birthday. It saddens me to think it may never happen again. That the last time he did, we had no idea it would be the last time. This is like so many other examples in our lives, when we lose loved ones, or loved ones lose the capacity or ability to be who they'd always been to or for us.

And the wild roses keep blooming. Faithfully. Resiliently. Year after year. Bringing with their blossoms & perfume those sweet memories of gentle caring hands, a father's hands, filled with a bouquet of love for me, his only daughter, his little girl at any age. And it's occurred to me, that although it's not exactly the same, I can reclaim this tradition for myself. Find a wild patch of roses and choose a small spiky bundle to brighten my space and fill our home with their subtle scent.. and my heart with that special love that will always exist between my Dad and I.

He’ll be 85 tomorrow. I included these thoughts in his birthday card, because I wanted him to know just how special his kind gesture made me feel and the lasting impression he left, with a tangible reminder every year when the wild roses bloom. So often we think of these things, these memories and feelings, when it’s too late to share with the person who did something that meant so much to us. Why wait? You may be surprised with their response, and could hear how something you said or did, even the sharing of your memory and gratitude, touched their heart.

Who’s the first person that comes to mind?

What would you like to tell them?

What are you waiting for?

Why not do it RIGHT NOW!?!!

or, to put it another way I saw it written once:

If you had an hour to live, who would you want to talk to, what would you want to say & WHY AREN’T YOU DIALING?!

And be sure to let us know what happens!

Oh! and Stop & Smell the Roses 🌹🌹🌹 literally & figuratively 🥰

xo Deena

P.S. Check out the pic on my about page to see one of my birthday bouquets!