An Object Lesson

The Beautiful Bright Red Rose


There was once a flower, a bright red rose among many, who loved no one, not even herself- though she much preferred herself above others. She was far from the first to bloom that spring but neither was she the last. And this made her sad, for though she was beautiful, she was quite unremarkable among so many others. To her own eyes she saw nothing beautiful, not even herself. She was quite confused.
        Because of this the other flowers ignored her, whispering behind their petals how confused their sister was, how sad that she was not like they were; happy with the garden in which they all lived. But they loved their sister nonetheless, and wished she could be happy.
        The beautiful bright red rose heard their talk and took hurt by their words, and said to herself, I will fix them! And on the next morning began drawing the gardener’s attention. She worked very hard to lift herself straight, spreading as much of her petals as she could to catch the sun. But the dew on her petals soon dried, leaving her quite unremarkable among so many. On the first day he did not notice her at all; she was too dry, and the rest of the garden laughed at her. And she cried all the rest of that day.
        The next morning she tried again. She lifted her head up high, but waited until the gardener came to open her petals and all the dew that had collected since she awoke, glistened brightly. On the second day he did not notice her either; she was no different from the others, and again the other flowers laughed at her.
        When the sun set that evening she ceased her crying and waited for the rest of the garden to curl up in their petals and fall asleep. With the garden asleep at last, she opened her petals wide to catch as much dew as she could. The night was long and she shivered throughout, but by morning she was covered with dew.
        With the rising of the sun the rest of the garden awoke and began their preparations for the arrival of the gardener. They laughed among themselves, chatting and dreaming, and gossiping, as flowers will. At first she was not noticed, but as the gardener began his work, one flower called out to the rest.
        “Look at our sister! She must have stayed awake all night.” And the rest of the garden was very pleased, their sister was indeed very beautiful, and they were happy for her. And on the third day the gardener took notice.
        “Hello beautiful flower,” he said to her. “What a beautiful, bright red rose you are!”
        “Yes, I am,” she replied rather smugly, “how kind of you to finally notice.”
        “You are but one among many,” he quickly apologized, “and I must confess you all look pretty much alike.”
        “I do not!” she corrected him, “and if you would prune your garden more often, I could truly shine and the world would take notice of my beauty.”
        “That is true. I should have pruned days ago!”
        “The garden is too full, besides. I am crowded, jostled by my sisters, and by every breeze to blow past, to say nothing of rough winds!”
        “You are right,” said the gardener. “I will get my shears.”
        The beautiful, bright red rose smiled, but in her heart she was fearful. She had betrayed her sisters, they must surely be angry with her! But the entire garden grew very excited, and began chatting amongst them as to what they might soon become.
        “I hope I am plucked and cooked to become a drop of rose oil,” said one, “and my seed planted in rich soil!”
        “I hope to be pressed between the pages of a book of verse by a beautiful young girl!” said another, “and when she is old she could then open her book and still catch my scent, and remember the young man who gave me to her.”
        “Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” began another, “if we were all placed together in a vase and given to a young man’s true love? We could brighten her room for days, filling her room with our scent, perhaps she might write of our beauty in her diary, in wonderful detail, perhaps even sketch or paint us!”
        “How lovely!” they all agreed.
        “But aren’t you angry with me?” asked the beautiful, bright red rose.
        “Why should we be angry?” they asked.
        “The gardener will soon come and take you away. You will be cut and die.” And she began to cry for shame at what she had done.
        “Do not be silly, sister, and smile; for this is why we were born. Men, as gifts, give roses to lovely women, especially beautiful roses such as we. Sometimes we are made to scent their soft skin, a drop of perfume behind the ear. Be happy for us, sister. Our only sorrow is that you will not join us, but your time will come too. No rose is ever wasted.”
        “But I am beautiful!” cried the beautiful, bright red rose. “I wish to remain here in the garden!”
        “But even you will one day leave!” they replied with tenderness. “Perhaps sooner, now that the gardener has begun to prune.”
        “What have I done!” exclaimed the beautiful, bright red rose.
        “Be happy for us, sister!” they said once more as the gardener returned at last.
        The beautiful, bright red rose watched as the gardener worked his shears and carried off many of her sisters. She was now truly the grandest flower in the garden, but she was still not happy. Her remaining sisters too were disappointed, but at not being chosen by the gardener. Seeing their sister still unhappy they tried to console her. But nothing they said could brighten her spirits.
        In the days that passed the beautiful, bright red rose grew happy once more and took up her old ways, despising her sisters even more. On days that the sun shone bright, she protected her petals as best she may, spreading her dark green leaves to soak up light and warmth, and on rainy days she drew inward and drank deeply.
        She soon forgot the pruning, as did the others, for roses are not known for their great memory, and she began to feel good about herself and her place in the garden; content at last.
        There came a day, while enjoying the sun, that the garden observed a horse being led up the lane bearing the loveliest of ladies. She was indeed beautiful, but her eyes were filled with cruelty. Walking beside her was a young man so enamored of her that he could not see the light that shone from her eyes, or if he ever did, readily forgave her.
        She was angry with him, as she seemed always to be, and spoke sharply to him, saying she did not believe he loved her, that if he did, he would treat her more like the beautiful princess she was. These words had always hurt him, and he had, over time, grown inward. Yet hoping to earn a smile or at least a kind word, the young man reached over the low wall, and with a sharp knife quickly cut the largest rose in the garden.
        The beautiful, bright red rose screamed in horror. “What is happening!” she cried. “Why have I been cut? Where is the gardener?”
        Her sisters called out to her, “Be happy, sister! See? You are to be a gift to the beautiful lady! We are so happy for you! We will miss you!” but of course they didn’t, for she was soon forgotten.
        “Here,” the young man said to his lady, “a rose to match your beauty.”
        “Don’t be ridiculous!” the lady shot back with venom. “I am much more beautiful!” And with an angry toss, cast the flower to the other side of the lane, where it fell down into the swift waters of a small brook.
        The beautiful, bright red rose was carried far down stream, tussled and bruised upon the stones of the brook, finally coming to rest beneath the eaves of an alder tree where she died, spilling her seed, in time, upon the dark rich earth.

        When spring returned, the seeds awoke and sprang from their hulls, but the alder robbed them of light for most of the day, allowing them only the early morning and late afternoon sun. With no gardener to tend them, they grew wild and stunted on the bank of the little brook.



ELAshley
Written in one sitting
1 December 2001
2:30pm