"A Rose at Jessies' Grove" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Whenever I see a rose—whether it be an actual bloom or an image—I feel something deep inside me stir. It is not just the appreciation of its beauty, though that is undeniable. It is something more, something tied to memory and meaning. A single rose can transport me through time, bridging moments of my past with the present, reminding me of love, laughter, and the fleeting nature of time.
One particular rose—a single white bloom—has stayed with me in a way that surprises me even now. I took the photograph during a wine-tasting afternoon at Jessie's Grove in Lodi, California. The sun was warm, the air fragrant with the mingling scents of oak trees and vineyards stretching endlessly in every direction. My friends and I sipped rich, velvety wines, laughing and enjoying the simplicity of that perfect day. Then, amidst the rustic charm of the vineyard, I saw it: a single white rose, luminous in the golden afternoon light. Something about it—the way its petals curled so gently, the contrast of its softness against the rough, weathered wood of the garden fence—captured my attention. I snapped a picture, preserving not just its image, but the entire moment, the feeling of contentment, the joy of companionship, and the knowledge that such days, though fleeting, are to be treasured.
Roses have always held a special place in my life, not just because of their beauty but because they were my mother’s and father's favorite flower. Our family garden was filled with them—blooms of Sterling Silver, Peace, Circus, and American Beauty. Each name sounded like a poem, and each rose carried its own presence, its own story. My parents tended to them with care, nurturing them, speaking softly as they trimmed away dead leaves and watered their roots. They knew each variety intimately, could describe their scent, their growth patterns, their unique characteristics. In our garden, roses weren’t just flowers; they were companions, constants through seasons of change.
Many poets and writers have drawn attention to the paradox of the rose—a delicate flower born from a bush of thorns. They use it to symbolize the balance of beauty and pain, joy and suffering. And while it is true that the thorns exist, I have never dwelled on them. I prefer to see the rose for what it is: a thing of wonder, something to be admired and appreciated. Life, too, is full of contrasts, but why focus on the difficulties when there is so much beauty to embrace?
That single white rose at Jessie's Grove reminded me of this. It reminded me of my mother’s garden, of sunlit afternoons and deep conversations, of the sweetness of wine and the laughter of friends. It reminded me that beauty—whether in nature, in memory, or in fleeting moments—deserves our full attention. And so, whenever I see a rose, I do not think of its thorns. I think of its petals, its scent, the way it catches the light. I think of love, of time, of the way life’s most precious moments bloom, even if only for a little while.
~Wylddane
One particular rose—a single white bloom—has stayed with me in a way that surprises me even now. I took the photograph during a wine-tasting afternoon at Jessie's Grove in Lodi, California. The sun was warm, the air fragrant with the mingling scents of oak trees and vineyards stretching endlessly in every direction. My friends and I sipped rich, velvety wines, laughing and enjoying the simplicity of that perfect day. Then, amidst the rustic charm of the vineyard, I saw it: a single white rose, luminous in the golden afternoon light. Something about it—the way its petals curled so gently, the contrast of its softness against the rough, weathered wood of the garden fence—captured my attention. I snapped a picture, preserving not just its image, but the entire moment, the feeling of contentment, the joy of companionship, and the knowledge that such days, though fleeting, are to be treasured.
Roses have always held a special place in my life, not just because of their beauty but because they were my mother’s and father's favorite flower. Our family garden was filled with them—blooms of Sterling Silver, Peace, Circus, and American Beauty. Each name sounded like a poem, and each rose carried its own presence, its own story. My parents tended to them with care, nurturing them, speaking softly as they trimmed away dead leaves and watered their roots. They knew each variety intimately, could describe their scent, their growth patterns, their unique characteristics. In our garden, roses weren’t just flowers; they were companions, constants through seasons of change.
Many poets and writers have drawn attention to the paradox of the rose—a delicate flower born from a bush of thorns. They use it to symbolize the balance of beauty and pain, joy and suffering. And while it is true that the thorns exist, I have never dwelled on them. I prefer to see the rose for what it is: a thing of wonder, something to be admired and appreciated. Life, too, is full of contrasts, but why focus on the difficulties when there is so much beauty to embrace?
That single white rose at Jessie's Grove reminded me of this. It reminded me of my mother’s garden, of sunlit afternoons and deep conversations, of the sweetness of wine and the laughter of friends. It reminded me that beauty—whether in nature, in memory, or in fleeting moments—deserves our full attention. And so, whenever I see a rose, I do not think of its thorns. I think of its petals, its scent, the way it catches the light. I think of love, of time, of the way life’s most precious moments bloom, even if only for a little while.
~Wylddane
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