By Joanna Flynn, April 18, 2017 — All around was bare. The trees reached toward the grey November sky with nothing to show on their branches. The ground was a patchwork of dry, crinkly leaves. the wind wrapped itself around the trunks of trees and wormed its way through the nettles; nothing went untouched by its icy breath. Wilted flower petals lay limp at the base of the bushes that once bore them. The dreary landscape was anything but encouraging. Even the needles of the evergreen seemed to droop, longing for release upon the hard ground.
But just as you’re about to turn away from this desolate scene, your eyes spy something. Something strange, something wonderful! In this lifeless picture, the artist leaves us with a chance of hope. There — among the thorns — she blooms. How dare she reveal her petals of brilliant red? How dare she allow her sweet fragrance to pervade this desolation? Does she not know that this is no longer her home?
She does not belong here. This broken, unresponsive setting is not meant for her. She is too fragile! Too vulnerable. She is too trusting — her innocence is too obvious. Yet still, she stands above the thorns, unprotected from the bitter wind. Her petals barely stir despite the thrust of air around her. The cold can try its hardest, but the November rose will not yield. She refuses to wither like those before her.
Summer brought her no joy. She remained in her bud while those around her burst forth in their glorious apparel. This world of bright colors and high hopes had all it needed. She appreciated it from her bud, but she did not bloom. She waited. She watched. She stood by as cold crept in; slowly using its icy fingers to cover the soft grass with frost, to snap the rope connecting branch and leaf, and to subtly drain the color and life from all around her.
Then, and only then, did she reveal herself. She stood out starkly from the muted colors surrounding her — allowing no one to pass her by. She did not speak, she had no need to; she simply allowed her being to speak for her. Her brightness, her color, her life! All of it poured out of her and into the fallow ground.
She belongs here. This broken, unresponsive setting was meant specifically for her. She is strong. She is secure. Her innocence is perfectly obvious, allowing all to see it and wonder. She stands above the thorns, making the bitter wind halt before her. The cold can try its hardest, but the November rose will not yield. She will not wither like those before her.
Just as light cannot shine if it is not surrounded by darkness, neither can we fully appreciate the value of life until it has passed away. Let us stand as strong and secure as the November rose! Let us reveal ourselves in the brilliance we hold inside. Let us pour out our life into the fallow ground around us, and stand above the thorns. Just as the November rose will not yield to the cold and bitter wind, let us defy the lifelessness of the world in which we bloom.