Standing there, so small under this umbrella of roses, I knelt down to see how in the world this magnificent rosebush could be seemingly growing out of an old cobblestone entrance. The stalks were larger than I could wrap a hand around and as tough as a tree trunk. Not like any other rose bush I’ve ever seen. In fact, the wild curling arms and almost metallic razor thorns reminded me of watching Sleeping Beauty when I was a child, more specifically the end when her tower is covered in a thicket of just such thorns. This wild, stalk of roses more than anything reminded me of the magic of fairytales, in the beauty of something growing wild and thriving in what would appear to be impossible circumstances. The beauty of what can be if we just let things be free.
I made my way up to the window today, something I have dreamed to do for years here in Provence. But today I wasn’t dreaming, today I was wide awake and opened the beautiful French fairytale windows of roses to the world.