"Wild Roses" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Lately I have been thinking about a favorite walking path that I had in Pacifica, CA. It went from the Pacifica Pier to Mori Point...and then along a gravel trail that led to Highway 1. In the spring there was a garden of wild roses that added inspiration to the walk.
The Wild Rose Garden
There was a village by the sea, where the winds carried the scent of salt and wild roses. At the edge of the village, there was an old, winding path that led to the ocean, a path that few took anymore, but one that had always been there. On either side of the path grew wild roses—tangled, unruly, and beautiful in their freedom. They seemed to have been there as long as anyone could remember, their thick vines curling over stone walls, their petals in every shade of pink and white, some vibrant, some faded.
For years, the villagers spoke of those roses, as if they were something more than just flowers. "They grow with the land," they would say. "They grow like the spirit should."
One summer, a man found himself passing through the village. He wasn’t from there—he was a traveler, worn by the road, carrying more weight than his pack could hold. His heart felt heavy, a kind of ache he hadn’t been able to shake for years. He had walked far, searching for something, though he wasn’t sure what. His life had been full of disappointment and loss, and in his soul, there was a quiet emptiness that nothing seemed to fill.
As he made his way through the village, he heard about the wild roses and decided to follow the path. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find, but something about it called to him. Maybe it was the promise of beauty, or maybe he was just desperate for a place to clear his head. Either way, he walked.
The path was narrow, and the roses stretched on either side, their petals and leaves brushing lightly against his arms, their fragrance so thick in the air it almost felt like a dream. He didn’t rush, not anymore. He let his boots crunch softly on the gravel, moving slower as the path began to reveal itself—dappled sunlight flickering through the trees, the distant sound of waves crashing against shore.
The further he walked, the more he noticed. The roses weren’t perfect. Some were tangled in knots of thorns, their petals bruised or torn from the wind. But even those, in their imperfect way, seemed to thrive. Their colors were rich and full of life, despite their flaws. Some grew in clumps, others standing alone, their long vines reaching toward the sky, pushing through whatever obstacles lay in their way. There was a wildness to them, a kind of freedom that he hadn’t realized he longed for.
He paused by one particular rose—its petals a deep red, edges frayed and uneven—and for the first time in a long while, he smiled. The flower reminded him of something important: even when life felt messy, when things didn’t go according to plan, there was still beauty in this world.
By the time he reached the end of the path, where the roses met the cliffs that dropped sharply to the ocean below, he felt a shift inside himself. The waves crashed against the rocks in a constant rhythm, while the roses, undisturbed, swayed gently in the breeze. He stood there, watching the water, feeling the wind pull at his hair, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t looking for answers. He wasn’t even trying to figure it all out.
The roses had reminded him that it was okay to be a little broken. They had reminded him that growth wasn’t always neat or easy. Sometimes, it was messy. Sometimes, it came with scars. But it was still growth.
He took a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, and in that moment, he knew: just like those wild roses, he could find his way again, even if it wasn’t perfect. Even if it wasn’t easy. The journey was enough.
With the scent of roses still lingering in the air, he turned and began to walk back down the path, his heart lighter. The wild roses had taught him something simple and true: no matter how tangled or weathered life became, there was always room to bloom again.
~Wylddane
The Wild Rose Garden
There was a village by the sea, where the winds carried the scent of salt and wild roses. At the edge of the village, there was an old, winding path that led to the ocean, a path that few took anymore, but one that had always been there. On either side of the path grew wild roses—tangled, unruly, and beautiful in their freedom. They seemed to have been there as long as anyone could remember, their thick vines curling over stone walls, their petals in every shade of pink and white, some vibrant, some faded.
For years, the villagers spoke of those roses, as if they were something more than just flowers. "They grow with the land," they would say. "They grow like the spirit should."
One summer, a man found himself passing through the village. He wasn’t from there—he was a traveler, worn by the road, carrying more weight than his pack could hold. His heart felt heavy, a kind of ache he hadn’t been able to shake for years. He had walked far, searching for something, though he wasn’t sure what. His life had been full of disappointment and loss, and in his soul, there was a quiet emptiness that nothing seemed to fill.
As he made his way through the village, he heard about the wild roses and decided to follow the path. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find, but something about it called to him. Maybe it was the promise of beauty, or maybe he was just desperate for a place to clear his head. Either way, he walked.
The path was narrow, and the roses stretched on either side, their petals and leaves brushing lightly against his arms, their fragrance so thick in the air it almost felt like a dream. He didn’t rush, not anymore. He let his boots crunch softly on the gravel, moving slower as the path began to reveal itself—dappled sunlight flickering through the trees, the distant sound of waves crashing against shore.
The further he walked, the more he noticed. The roses weren’t perfect. Some were tangled in knots of thorns, their petals bruised or torn from the wind. But even those, in their imperfect way, seemed to thrive. Their colors were rich and full of life, despite their flaws. Some grew in clumps, others standing alone, their long vines reaching toward the sky, pushing through whatever obstacles lay in their way. There was a wildness to them, a kind of freedom that he hadn’t realized he longed for.
He paused by one particular rose—its petals a deep red, edges frayed and uneven—and for the first time in a long while, he smiled. The flower reminded him of something important: even when life felt messy, when things didn’t go according to plan, there was still beauty in this world.
By the time he reached the end of the path, where the roses met the cliffs that dropped sharply to the ocean below, he felt a shift inside himself. The waves crashed against the rocks in a constant rhythm, while the roses, undisturbed, swayed gently in the breeze. He stood there, watching the water, feeling the wind pull at his hair, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t looking for answers. He wasn’t even trying to figure it all out.
The roses had reminded him that it was okay to be a little broken. They had reminded him that growth wasn’t always neat or easy. Sometimes, it was messy. Sometimes, it came with scars. But it was still growth.
He took a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, and in that moment, he knew: just like those wild roses, he could find his way again, even if it wasn’t perfect. Even if it wasn’t easy. The journey was enough.
With the scent of roses still lingering in the air, he turned and began to walk back down the path, his heart lighter. The wild roses had taught him something simple and true: no matter how tangled or weathered life became, there was always room to bloom again.
~Wylddane
RSS Feed