“Sweet Smelling Savor”

Renee Pratt

Once upon a time there was a garden. It was a beautiful garden, located deep in a green woods in the country. Stone walls covered in trailing ivy enclosed the beautiful grounds. Walkways weaved through beds and rows of well-tended, delicate flowers, but the most beautiful section was the rose garden. From far and wide, the people spoke about the tender roses of Shalone.

“You’ll never see a rose quite so pretty,” They said, “Ever so delicate. I’ve tried to get my gardener to cultivate ones like them, but they never are quite so nice.”

The Keeper of Shalone was a quiet, simple man. He owned the little cottage nestled within the stone walls and grew old, tenderly nurturing plants in the moments he wasn’t carefully carving intricate furniture.

On market days, the village people ran their hands over the polished wood of his chests and chairs, amazed at the quality of his work. Some bought the furniture, while others only admired. Everyone asked about his flowers, especially his roses. “Are they doing well this year, sir?” “Have they got enough sun?”

The Keeper always politely responded, but never expounded on the beauty of his flowers. He never sought the praise of man or desired it. He planted and nurtured the flowers for his own enjoyment. They were his children.

One bright sunny day, the Keeper stepped out on the granite stoop at his front door. He looked to the west, towards his rose garden. He’d noticed the night before that some of the beautiful roses were starting to wilt. His heart ached at the thought of his looming responsibility. It was the part of his job he hated the most. But they were losing their life; wilting, dying. As their Keeper, it was his responsibility to preserve their life.

~

Several months before, the roses were just beginning to bloom. Rosie was a tender, light pink bud, still youthful and fresh. Her leaves hadn’t yet started to furl open and release the beautiful perfume welling within. Rosie loved to watch her Keeper come forth every morning and night, slowly strolling down the garden paths, stopping to feel the stem of this plant, touch the petals of this flower, drinking in the smells of roses and lilacs and wildflowers combined.

She marveled at his love for each one. None of them were ever rejected, neglected, forgotten. He carefully guided the strong ones, he worked and toiled with the weak ones. He always knew at which stage his flowers grew where they were at, if they were struggling for water or sunshine. He worked many hours at his wood, but his life he gave for his lovely garden. The outsiders talked about the delicate beauty of his roses, but the Keeper preferred no flower over another. To him they were all precious.

Today was a brilliant summer day. The sun was high in the sky and the soil moist from last night’s rain. Rosie could hear the sounds of the Keeper in his workshop. She pondered at the quiet, gentle man who gave them life.

He was like a shepherd. He carefully guarded his flowers and moved over them with a tender spirit. It seemed he easily could have spent all his time among the flowers of his gardens . Instead, he carved and built beautiful pieces of furniture, bringing exquisite things to others outside the gates of his home. He set to his carpentry with a grit and determination as though he were on a mission. She’d heard many stories about lives being touched by his gentle service.

There was just one thing Rosie couldn‘t comprehend. No matter how carefully he tended his beautiful flowers, they always started to decay and wither. For someone so gentle and perfect, she wondered why he didn’t stop them from fading. Something deeply puzzled Rosie too. Whenever the Keeper noticed a flower fading or life giving out, he took out a knife and snipped them from their stems.

What did he do with them? She wondered. Why was there this cycle of life and death, winter and spring? What was the purpose of growing things that would only die?

Rosie didn’t understand. She knew her time would come when she would fall from her thorny stem. She wondered what would happen to her. Would she amount to anything beyond the season of gracing the Keeper’s garden?

Rosie heard of others - friends of the Keeper, who ministered to people across many miles. Beautiful flowers in which his love had been planted. Her life felt dull and meaningless. What purpose was she serving here?

Time went on and Rosie excitedly anticipated the day her petals would unfold and reveal her hidden beauty, encased now in her bud. As the weeks had gone by, she’d grown antsy, feeling the petals loosen and bend just a little. It wouldn’t be long now, before her bud opened and she would grace the presence of the Keeper’s garden. She couldn’t wait. Then, she would have a greater purpose - a significant presence. Then she would be known and loved and cherished. She would be one of Shalone’s roses.

At last the treasured day arrived. Rosie awoke with the sunshine. Something seemed different about the day. Could it be real? She hardly dared to hope that today could be the longed-for moment when she bloomed.

The hours wore on and morning turned to afternoon. She’d felt strange all day, unreal, unlike herself. It seemed she was on the edge of a new season in her life, yet nothing happened. Impatience welled within her. She felt beauty had taunted her, tempted her, flaunted itself. Was her wish still being delayed? Denied?

Afternoon turned to evening and night drew on. Rosie had sighed, as tears mingled with the dew of the night. It seemed the Keeper had nurtured everyone else to their bloom, but her. Had he forgotten? Where was he? She remembered the others often talking about his timing always being perfect. It didn’t seem to her that he’d ever made a mistake, but this time, something must have gone wrong. How could she trust him? For this moment she had prayed and hoped, and now… Rosie hung in the transition of phases. It was awkward, hard, uncomfortable. She cried herself to sleep that night.

The next morning was beautiful. Rosie woke with the morning. Everything seemed so different. The world seemed fresh and new and beautiful. Then she gasped. Could it be? Was this real? Her dream…come true? Somehow in the darkest of the night, on the threshold of her tears, Rosie bloomed. Her petals had unfurled - opened, flourishing with the golden dawn of morning. A few dewdrops clung to her petals, shining in the morning light streaming between silver-lined clouds dotting the blue sky.

Rosie was overwhelmed. Life was beautiful. Could all this beauty - be hers? To own, to love, to experience, to exist within?

To be continued...