A metaphor for life for me was always, never having enough time to stop & smell the roses. Most importantly I did not have a garden of roses. I have always loved roses, yet in Sydney, Australia, where I lived for most of my life, the heat & humidity did not suit roses in gardens. The roses I enjoyed exisited in cultivated abundance in expensive florist shops, or when visiting the mountains with the cooler climate, & lush green gardens full of flowers. The bouquets of roses gifted on birthdays, often had no fragrance, were tight buds, too perfect, uniform dying before they opened. I found my pleasure in perfumes with the fragrance of roses. For decades my signature fragrance was YSL Paris powerful heady frangance of pink Paris roses. A fragrance evoking romantic memories of my first trip to Paris in 1984. I visited the YSL Rive Gauche boutique & bought my first French silk scarves; which I still wear. Today the gentler rose base Chanel No.5 suits the mature woman I have become.
Life changes & decades have passed since I wore Paris by YSL. But our house in France has a garden full of roses. Madame from whom we bought our house loved her roses, I am sure her visit to welcome us to France were as much too visit her much loved roses. Touring the garden with Matt, Madame was pleased to learn Matt's mother was a gardener who grew roses, on their family farm in Australia. On her recent visit Marie pruned our roses to make sure they were ready for spring.
Now I have time to smell our roses, I often visit each plant when returning home, to pinch off the aphids, count the new buds, and inhale their beauty. I have learnt they all smell a little different. The red are deep & rich in fragrance, the pink soft & gentle, the palest golden pink smell of apricots, the pale yellow with fuchsia pink tips, have just a hint of fragrance. I love them in all the stages of bloom, as much when as they fade & the tips softly turning to pale paper brown. They remind me of a designer evening gown that could of been created by Dior. Last summer before a big black storm broke over the house, I rushed out to cut the roses, knowing they would be stripped of petals by the thrashing rain. For days after they gave such joy in a crystal vase on the salon fireplace mantelpiece, the refection in the huge mirror doubling the lovelness of their display.
So, an unexpected joy of my life in France are our roses, pink, red, white, yellow, peach, pale orange, single petaled, huge & showy, small, tall, climbing, & low. And now I have time to smell the roses.