The various brambles and briars on the farm are the very epitome of resilience – and quiet anger. They seem to invite one to brush up, even if unintentionally, against a tendril so those long, sharp thorns can get a bite of flesh. They’re so adept at scratching me that I sometimes wonder if they’re actually moving when I’m not looking – getting closer, smirking, and then grabbing.
But when I begin to think that I should go out and cut back those thorny devils – just chop them up vengefully – I see what they protect. And I’m reminded that those eager thorns are merely the only way the wild roses have to protect their delicate and wondrous blooms. This particular rose bush has deep scarlet blooms, like flowers that sprang from the blood it drew from unsuspecting (or unlucky) passersby.
Within each tightly-furled bud, I see the promise of the beautiful rose – and I know that the prickly bushes will remain.
Perhaps the risk of pain is simply the price that must be paid for the chance to experience such beauty.