Delicate Beauty

I don't really have that much to say lately. Well, that's not true. I've been talking and thinking through some stuff, but I feel like somehow it isn't formulated enough for me to write about on here. So, instead I bring you a pretty picture. I like the tiny delicacy of the rose bud contrasted with the solidity of the boulder. I also really like the colours in this. The yellow of the rose is so interesting, saturated yellow that fades into the faintest hint of colour at the tips of the petals.

I stop and smell the roses, but they're all frozen

I was listening to the radio the other day and the DJ was talking about how the roads are getting a bit nasty since winter is upon us and people should just take their time driving; they should "stop and smell the roses...although they are all frozen now". That made me laugh, but it also gave me pause to think. All too often when life gets crazy I fail to implement the simple practice of appreciating the good moments. It becomes far too easy for me to simply remain numb to anything good that happens. It is like smelling a frozen flower; there just isn't any point to the exercise. In November as the onslaught of papers and assignments gets more and more intense and the temperature continues to plummet and ice forms on the inside of my bedroom window it is easy to lose sight of the fact that my life is not actually an unmitigated disaster. In fact, if you dig beneath the stress and feeling of being completely out of control, my life is actually pretty great right now. Tonight was one of those nights that confirms that for me. I stopped to smell some frozen roses and found that they not only still hold a scent, they are downright gorgeous.

This picture is actually from Thanksgiving weekend back in October, but the frost had already hit the garden at my parents' house and one of my mom's rose bushes had been caught off guard by the cold snap. It was covered in buds and partial blooms that had simply been frozen in time. I think they are incredibly beautiful though. I guess it's like I said in yesterday's post: I love finding beauty in strange places, in the things that others call ugly.

Used and Abused

I have recently learned something about myself: I am careless with my heart. If you know me, you might disagree with this. I have friends who say that relationship-wise they think I will eventually be the happiest of all of us because I'll take my time, I'll be careful and I won't just throw myself into the first arms that are open to me. I have even been known to think this about myself. I am incredibly cautious. I think everything through. I know I am a deeply emotional person, so I tend to hold back and edit myself for a long time before I completely trust someone. The thing I've realized though is although I might never tell anyone (including myself) how invested I am in a relationship, the truth is I throw myself in all too fast. Guys, girls, potential lovers, new friends, it doesn't matter who it is. I fall hard and fast. And then it happens. I've entrusted my heart to this person and suddenly they look at me and say "What the hell are you doing? I never asked you for this." And then they drop it and leave it bruised and bleeding, covered in dust and the crud from the bottom of people's shoes. So I pick it up and clean it off and stitch the wounds closed. And for a time I am careful, oh so incredibly careful. Eventually though the stitches come out, and even though the wounds are still scabby and tender, I think to myself, "Hey, I'm all better now." And I promptly turn around and hand my heart to the next person. And the cycle starts all over again. I've been left with an incredibly beat up heart. And yet I find myself actively searching for someone I can give it to. Maybe I'm an idiot. Maybe I'm a masochist. But maybe, just maybe, I'm hoping that the next person I give it to will look at it, see the scars, take it and wrap it in beautifully soft cloth and keep it somewhere safe. Maybe they will be able to take better care of it than me.

So, here's the story of this blog. It is a bit more personal than I tend to get on here. I always try and be honest with you guys, but sometimes I hesitate to put anything too detailed on here. I wrote this at two in the morning, so it's definitely a bit...earnest. Everything always seems so intense in the middle of the night. Last week I typed this all up, selected a picture, went to post it...and stopped myself. Just so everyone knows: I am perfectly fine. I have some seriously wonderful friends and a family who loves me a lot. I am blessed with many relationships in my life where I am cared for in an incredible manner. However, I find that when one person hurts you it is easy to forget about all of those good relationships. It takes a lot of peope to compensate for that one abuse. I am constantly amazed that despite having been hurt I still search and hope for love in all its forms. I think that's a good thing though. I think it makes me human.

I took this picture over Thanksgiving weekend in my mom's garden. A bunch of rose buds had come out on one of her bushes just before frost started showing up and kind of petrified in this state. I thought they were gorgeous in all of their decaying glory.

In real life, unlike in Shakespeare...

In real life, unlike in Shakespeare, the sweetness of the rose depends upon the name it bears. Things are not only what they are. They are, in very important respects, what they seem to be. -- Hubert H. Humphrey

One of the classes I am taking this semester is called "The Self in the Novel". Intriguing, no? As I've been plowing my way through the first novel on the reading list (Great Expectations by Charles Dickens), one of the recurring themes I have encountered is the connection between a name and an identity. This quote showed up in my quotes of the day email (yes, I do subscribe to a quotes of the day email) today and just seemed to fit the novel so well. I certainly think that there is a link between the name and the self. Think about how different it is when someone calls you by a nickname versus your full name, or one nickname rather than another. I know that I associate certain nicknames with certain periods in my life and they really only sound right when used by specific people. I think that is telling. I might not act like a totally different person around these various groups of people, but there are certainly differences. Plus, each of my nicknames has come from a very different time in my life, when I was a very different person in many ways. Just an intriguing thing for you to contemplate. Or to promptly forget as soon as you stop reading this.

I figured that since the Shakespeare Mr. Humphrey is referring to is Juliet's famous rose speech (which I have previously posted with another rose picture here) that I ought to pair this rumination with a lovely, traditional kind of rose picture. I love the color of this particular bloom. Taken at the Buchart Gardens on Vancouver Island.