June 7: "When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention," My Friend, Petals and Thorns

Mary Oliver takes time to listen to and smell the roses . . . 

When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention

by:  Mary Oliver

"As long as we are able to

be extravagant we will be

hugely and damply

extravagant.  Then we will drop

foil by foil to the ground.  This

is our unalterable task, and we do it

joyfully."

And they went on.  "Listen,

the heart-shackles are not, as you think,

death, illness, pain,

unrequited hope, not loneliness but

lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety,

selfishness."

Their fragrance all the while rising

from their blind bodies, making me

spin with joy.

The job of roses:  to be damply, joyfully extravagant in the short time they bloom.  For Oliver, roses are also a reminder of everything that would be considered anti-roses:  lassitude (a state of mental or physical weariness), rue (bitter regret), vainglory (excessive vanity), fear, anxiety and selfishness.  I know I just repeated almost half of the poem in my last couple sentences, but Oliver's message bears repeating.

You send roses to people you love.  You send roses in memory of people who've died.  Roses are put in bridal bouquets and prom corsages.  Bette Midler starred in and sang the theme song to The Rose.  Rose was JFK's mother, and Rose let Jack drown in the movie Titanic.  Then there's Rose who used to tell stories about St. Olaf, and the Rose Bowl Parade every January 1st.  Ethel Merman sang "Everything's Coming Up Roses," and Melania Trump gutted the White House Rose Garden created by Jackie Kennedy.  My sister who died last year was named Rose, and she was the sweetest, most loving person I've known.

Roses have lots of cultural meanings and uses--from the religious (rose is the color for Gaudete and Laetare Sundays) to the medicinal (ingesting rose hip is used to treat osteoarthritis).  And, of course, there are poetic roses (to quote Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions):

Roses are red 

 And ready for plucking, 

You're sixteen, 

And ready for high school. 

In Oliver's poem, there's a huge difference between what the roses say versus what emotion their scent evokes.  Rose words are filled with darkness, pride, and envy.  Rose scents are occasions for joy.  The dichotomy is sort of striking, but also in keeping with the actual flower, which has supple, red petals and biting thorns.  

I had a long conversation with a close friend today.  This friend has been struggling a great deal in the last month or so.  It's not my place to tell my friend's story, and I won't.  But I will say it involves someone my friend loves very much who is currently suffering from severe mental illness.  My friend is in rough shape, shuttling between despair and anger and frustration and devotion.  

Faithful disciples of this blog know that I have a lot of experience dealing with mental illness in people I love.  I understand what my friend is going through, have experienced many of the same feelings over the years.  I wanted to give my friend some hope or solace today, but I know too much of the reality of mental health.  

I told my friend, "The most important thing to do right now is to remember to take care of yourself."  

I know that sounds like pretty selfish advice, but the wrecking ball that is mental illness can destroy everything in its path.  My friend needs to practice selfcare, or else my friend will end up in pieces.  I've been there.  I know.

Roses can make your day spin with joy, or they can leave you bleeding and in pain.  Love can do the same, and my friend is learning this lesson right now.  I'm not saying everyone should shut off their hearts to avoid sorrow and pain.  I'm saying that if you love, you have to be prepared for petals and thorns.

Saint Marty has the scars to prove it.