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Lessons of Life From a Desert Rose
Finding connection in Iran’s Central Desert
It takes three to four weeks for the thirty-two pink petals of the damask rose to open, and the closer it gets, the more its scent fills the air. The rose, however, has one day of splendor before the petals start to lighten and then loosen, to then be carried off by the desert wind. Its fragrance reaches its peak that same morning when dew drops still rest on its petals and before the sun rises to take some of that precious oil for itself.
This rose is called the Mohammadi Rose, and I would hold one such rose between my fingers. I would smell the warm, spicy, honeyed notes and then when I put a petal in my mouth, that velvety peppery taste would transport me away from Qamsar, a village in Iran’s central desert, back to my mother’s garden in Pennsylvania.
I read somewhere that taste stays with you more than sight and the same has been said of smell and touch. They cut through time and space.
I can attest to this as I was in the middle of a desert in Iran, and I was feeling my mother’s rounded fingertips resting on my mouth. My mother’s hands were a sculpturer’s hands accustomed to forming human shapes out of clay. The young me would turn the taste of that petal around on my tongue, surprised by the spicy, almost bitter taste, but then…
