There’s a particular rose bush that sweeps over an archway in our garden. Most of the year, it’s just a mass of green. But at some point, a profusion of tightly held buds shows up almost overnight
One day there’s just leaves—you could go out with a magnifying glass, and no bud would be there. The very next day, you can’t see anything but the buds; they’re everywhere, the branches are laden.
It’s just a matter of time.
During the last weeks of June, when the buds are preparing to bloom, I might head out there every afternoon, looking for the tell- tale signs of pale white petal.
But it’s like waiting for popcorn to pop on the stove. All you can do is heat the oil, stand clear—and after waiting what seems like an eternity, you take your attention away for one second, and suddenly popcorn is flying wildly around the kitchen, while you madly race to find a cover.
The roses are like that too. Blooming when we least expect it.
One day, after we’ve tired of searching the buds to see if they’ve opened, we’ll awaken to the sweetest most heady perfume wafting in through the open windows. ... the roses have bloomed, and it is a delirium of scent and color and beauty.
People are like this too.
One minute you’re tight in the bud. The next you’re exploded into beauty, fully expanded in yourself.
This happens repeatedly in your life, over and over again. Bud to bloom. Always, in the timing that is exactly rights for you.
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