One Rose

I live in the desert. After a long and dry summer, I sat in my front yard one day. There I set up an area with chairs and a bench to converse with neighbors and friends during the COVID-19 lockdown. I sat down, chest heavy, shoulders tight, and with tears that refused to come out. My diagnosis, treatment, and weight on my family overtook my body with force. I could barely breathe and process daily tasks and responsibilities. I did not want to move. My feet dug dip into the desert sand—hard ground. Sand covering my feet. There is nothing here. Water and life did not visit this area in a while. I looked and observed the dirt, and the sand, each particle one at a time. I spent time just looking, touching, and smelling. But there was no aroma around.

116 F heat almost every day for weeks. Nothing lives without water, and we water our landscape very minimally as we try to be environmentally conscious. So, our ground is dryer than most landscapes around, green and colorful.

All my flowers and plants were dry from the drought. My rose bushes looked like tumbleweeds, about to unroot and roll above the ground. There stood one red rose. I let it capture me and be in the moment, one. One with the rose, with this dry ground, with my diagnosis. This was when I let go and was present, not only as myself but connected to a larger entity, Earth. There I could breathe. There I was, a point. There I could move. There I was, nothing and everything.