A Rose by any other name… would be much happier. Or so our daughter says. Our nearly-summer-solstice Gift Child dislikes her second name, Rose – given because their bloom is almost timed to her birth.
Yet, each birthday, I run out to gather the first-blown rose on the vine for her birthday bouquet. Now that she likes.
This year, today, she officially became an adult (in Canada, it’s nineteen), so it is symbolic that our rose is a ‘New Dawn.’
In 2012, however, instead of a very first rose on her birthday, the first full wave of roses is almost spent. The petals were dropping as I arranged the other flowers. We hope that that doesn’t mean a different kind of new dawn for her to expect. A very hot, dry one.
Our Rose’s bouquet includes her great-grandfather’s favourite columbines, which her grandmother grew because he loved them, and which I grow because she loved them.
In contains the leaf of a Hosta, bought because it shares the name of a good friend, ‘Janet.’ Just like I like to cultivate a weed called Herb Robert, my husband’s name, and enjoy having ‘Happy Thoughts’ (Pelargonium) and ‘Liberty’ (Hosta) growing around me. A garden can be so much more than a design. It can be rich with personal meaning.
I have hope that one day our Rose (not so little now; she towers above me) will embrace the beauty in her name. I still remember holding her up in my arms to look at the first rose of the year, when she spoke one of her first concrete words (after mama and dada). It was fa-wa – flower.