Plant some. That is what George Orwell, famed author of that prescient "1984" futuristic book did in his own backyard. Those roses like his book still live. At the time he wrote his book, the year 1984 was a distant future horizon. When some of us lived through 1984 the book had a resurgence. It felt a little closer to our truth. We began to see that eye looking over our shoulders even then. Don't look now, but exactly forty years later, his futuristic ideas have eerily come home to haunt us jumping from the page to cameras everywhere we live and walk and meet our friends . . . even in our homes. The pool where I swim has not escaped the "evil eye". We have been both numb and naive to the dangers that Orwell knew lurked around corners. To counteract his fear and worry, he planted roses.
For some period of time, Orwell, whose actual name was Eric Arthur Blair, lived and wrote in a tiny cottage in England. The backyard was his "happy place" where roses bought for a song from the local Woolworth Department store served to create a secret world. This visible world of color and sensuous smells filled him to his inner core. He cherished his hours there. He did not write about them but about the complete contrast of beauty and bitter truths. He had a foot in both worlds. So do we.
The week following the recent election was described by so many as a "hard week". It was true for at least 50 percent of Americans who voted in a fair and free election. That we did so, once again, speaks volumes. I think we know today that in spite of the results we needed to acknowledge to ourselves and to the world that our Democracy lived on through the 2024 election. Now, we shall see if "1984" was fact or fiction. Orwell's imaginings were warnings. Had he lived to see this story unfold, he would recognize his characters with their own agendas. He left us much to consider as his dystopia comes into view. He also gave us hope in planting a living thing that lasts.
Each of us has that power. You may wonder why or how it matters? Simply put, there has and always will be beauty juxtaposed with bitterness in life. We can contribute to one or the other. We cannot do both easily because bitterness will not prevail in the face of beauty.
For sometime while living in the Southend of Boston, coming straight from a large Cape Cod garden that I had turned over every Spring and enjoyed every Summer for two decades, I felt something was missing. The "Friends of the Southeast Corridor" tended beautiful gardens along the walking path that I traversed often. I volunteered to tend the roses. They were prolific and needed much pruning. I donned my gardening gloves and joyfully broke out my shears. Once a week, I made my way out toward the busy nearby subway station where I smelled a mixture of street odors and sweet flowers. The red towering bush stood well above me. I could not trim the top, so I tackled the straggling outward reaching thorny branches. It gave me great joy to be back amongst the natural beauty, this time against the backdrop of a struggling neighborhood beyond, where I worked on Sundays mornings. The children there knew little of the "niceties of life". They could see the differences between their lives and mine. I knew it. I felt helpless against their adversities. Nothing I could say would change that; Music was my way in with some.
One day, as I arrived at the rose garden, putting down my basket of gardener's tools, I noticed the tiny sign: "Roses tended by Charlene". My heart swelled with pride and joy. As I reached for my gloves I saw something shiny catching the brilliant sunshine of the perfect Fall day. As I got closer, I saw a used hypodermic needle laying in the grass. I stood straight up, glanced around at the whole of life passing by on the corridor heading for the subway. The roses, I thought, make all the difference to some dreary and difficult existences, and brighten the eyes of small ones in strollers who may someday need to remember beauty in the face of bitterness. Life is not a bed of roses, but a bed of roses helps raise hopes.
My maternal grandmother's name was/is Iris. I have the ancestors of her iris rhizomes planted in front of our house...each year I receive a blue bearded, ineffable reminder of Iris.
This is an ineffable connection to her house at 715 Holgate avenue, Defiance, Ohio...and to her first daughter, my mother. Also, that house raised Aunt Doris, who remained single most of her life. She walked the walk of Christianity to the letter. She observed the loneliness of myself and my siblings, so she took us to the county fair and Cedar Point each year. She read her Bible daily and, if she saw someone living a life which she considered unchristian, she would quietly send them a letter of concern.…
Just what I needed for my 0530 morning reading as I embark on my day.