Rose, Thorn, and Bud: Voltaire’s garden in a simple, reflexive game.
In some places, families play the ‘Rose, Thorn, and Bud’ game after kids come back from school. Parents and children gather around the kitchen table and take turns sharing the highlights (rose), disappointments (thorn), and anticipations (bud) of their day. There was no such tradition in my house. So, when a friend asked for my latest roses and thorns, it took me the entire dinner to come up with an answer — and I probably killed the fun.
Thorns on roses are not a separate structure that grows independently of the plant. So, the game not only asks for one good thing and one bad thing, but also seeks for one unique event that awoke two opposite feelings. Still, that remains a very Manichean vision of the plant; and I don’t believe in good and evil, certainly not in nature. We should not point fingers at the pointed prickles — literally! They protect the plant from getting harmed or picked, they help attach to surfaces, so it can grow, and they break the air flow around the stem, reducing the amount of water lost through transpiration.
Similarly, we tend to reduce the pigmented, perfumed, velvety blooms for what they make us feel: beautiful, enchanted, romantic, good. But nature always has a greater design, and the primary function of the perfectly arranged layers of petals is rather to attract pollinators and protect the reproductive structures of the plant. I don’t mean to be cynical, but I find it wry that people who lack layers of eloquence or empathy often borrow those of the roses for that same purpose of breeding and self-preservation. I suppose each of us employ the tools at their disposal to cope with their ‘desire to last’ and ‘destiny to die’.
“What is happiness if not the simple agreement between a being and the existence it leads? Which agreement would be more legitimate to unite a man to life, if not the double consciousness of his desire to last and his destiny to die?”
Albert Camus, “The Desert” (Nuptials, 1938).
The more observation I put into it, the more lucid I become about the absurd, and the closer I am to thoroughly understand Camus’ saying. Absurdity definitely takes a weight off my anxious ruminations. I might even think it is part of the reason such family dinner traditions bring unfiltered, childish joy. These simple games are light, floating parenthesis anchored in the heavy sentences of a routine. Growing older, more ponderous chapters are filling our books, yet going back a few pages and reading again about absurd moments of plain happiness lifts a load off our adult’s daily words.
If I am to play the game under my own rules, the question becomes: what’s been protecting me from danger (thorn), so I could save energy for growth (bud) while providing a safe place to be creative (bloom)? After some research, I identified the variety I have been cultivating: it is a single, fragrant, climbing wild rose with a light pink bloom and a yellow centre, and it is known for its vigorous growth and hardiness (See photograph above).
They call it Rosa Solitude. I did choose it for the name. I have been spending lots of time alone recently. I strained my leg which offered me an excuse to take a limping step back from social obligations, protecting me from the boredom of small talks and the anxiety to never belong. Getting hurt paradoxically helped me climb further up towards the understanding of my identity and save time for the activities that truly keep me moving. My thorns hooked on solitude, so my stem could rise. Don’t get me wrong, though: loners like me do feel alone at times. But just like one learns to enjoy the disappointments of life, I’ve started to embrace both solitude and loneliness. As Rainer Maria Rilke said:
“Love solitude, and endure the pain it brings with lovely sounds of lament. For those close to you seem far away, you write, and that shows the distance is growing around you. And if you seem far distant, your expanse of self is already among the stars and immense; rejoice in your growth, wherein you can take none with you”
Rainer Maria Rilke, fourth letter (Letters to a Young Poet, July 16th 1903).
I certainly haven’t reached the stars or bloomed yet. In that regard, I admire brilliant artists who seem so sure about the ground to root in. I’ve always struggled to decide on one creative field in which I would be safe to express the sublime simplicity I encounter without feeling that my efforts are not good enough. I keep switching from one art to another because I feel mediocre, bored, or appealed to something new. It’s like I’m a bush growing tangled branches in all directions, hiding former buds from the light. Hence, they never bloom.
I could probably use a gardener to give me some structure. The most famous of them all advised: ‘Let us cultivate our garden’. In the popular culture, it means to approach life with patience, devotion, and care, but Voltaire’s claim was actually ‘to keep a safe distance between ourselves and the world’, to cultivate our inner sanctum, and not to mess with the ones of others. So, I guess I’m on the right path, now that I can walk again, alone in my garden, wandering and wondering about the purposelessness of life and the chronic emptiness of my deeds.
There are over 30,000 varieties of roses. They are all hermaphrodites, thus capable of self-fertilization: they don’t need bees, butterflies, or hummingbirds to breed. But when diverse kinds are planted next to each other, their winged allies flying around may cause cross-pollination, resulting in new fragrances, shades, or pointy sets of thorns. Growing various flowers in our garden, and occasionally opening the gates to people might grant us a frivolous yet fertilizing parenthesis of absurdity. Sometimes, it may even help to pass a grain of pollen to a new chapter. To stop our solitary writing and leave a page break is as significant as the story that will follow. It is an opportunity to relax our hand, decide on a new seed, and diversify our sanctum — for life relies on the absurd and poetry relies on the unwritten.
Thrilled to read which chapter you are in, or what flowers are part of your garden!
