the promise of grace

Do you like the new blog layout? I'm as yet undecided — I like the fact that it will let me post bigger photographs, but I'm not sure if I like it enough to balance out the fact that each post now pops up in its own window. We shall see. The old layout was getting tired (and such tiny pictures!).

It's been a bit of a difficult week for me. I've always been prone to anxiety, and while I've learned to control it, or at least alleviate it, a bit over the years, it pops up sometimes. And I am not good at doing things I fear. I suppose not a lot of people are (and the ones who are, are sky-jumpers). Nonetheless — I had a driving test this week, and I was literally vibrating with fear and anxiety, off and on, for a few days. I didn't feel prepared. I hate the idea of failing. And, omg, I am over the cusp of 30; what moronic 30something can't drive?

In the spring and summer, I usually cast a quick eye over the front garden as I leave the house in the morning. Things change so fast, in the garden, at this time of year, and this way I can keep my eye on the new transplants and see what's blooming. Yesterday I did that, force of habit, and I noticed that 'The Fairy' roses have started to bud.

And it immediately calmed me down, and made me feel better — enough, at least, to stop vibrating. There is something about the knowledge that tomorrow, there will be roses, that makes me feel immeasurably content. Part of it is, I think, the idea that, a few months ago, I knew nothing about roses; I do, now. So I am not hopeless at everything. But more than that, it's the mere presence of grace, and the promise of more, tomorrow.


(Sorry about the not-great picture. I had to take this, on the fly and with the wrong lens, before the heavens opened up during the big thunderstorm this afternoon.)

They are tiny, and pink, and perfect in their way, as all roses are. Aesthetically, I prefer my beloved 'Amber Sun' roses — but you cannot argue with a rose hat blooms so prolifically, robustly and with such abandon, season after season. It is almost enough to question if it is high maintenance enough to call a rose.

(And yes. I passed.)