Stop and Smell the Roses
It’s mid-October, which means that the Huntington’s Rose Garden is on full display, which is honestly news to me as it is the first time I have ever managed to see the rose garden in bloom... well, at least in the few years that I’ve been a member at the Huntington.
So, I did what any excited flower-lover would do: I stopped, and I smelled those dang roses. Man, a cliché has never felt so appropriate.
I often find myself wondering about the origins of things. If you’ve read any of my previous blogs, you’ll notice a lot of pondering and perhaps some enlightening educational snippets (like this post about the oldest recovered boat), and just a side note, I have a Masters in Philosophy, so wondering about things is literally part of my identity. So, now that we’re up to speed on my ever-curious brain, thinking about who comes up with the names of the different varieties of roses is no different to me than the humble beginnings of the Pesse Canoe. According to the rules set out by the registration committee of the American Rose Society, the breeder of a rose gets to name it, but the committee also requires that a new rose must possess a different name than any other rose.
But “what's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!” I know that the Shakespeare quoted here has nothing to do with the smell of roses and everything to do with the fact that Juliet was entirely too young to be worried about devoting her life to Romeo (yes, reader, I know… if Romeo wasn’t a Montague and Juliet wasn’t a Capulet then there would be no ~DrAmA~).
I love Shakespeare as much as the next (okay, maybe a little bit more so because Billy S. is my jam bam thank you ma’am), but I can tell you that not all roses smell the same, and some roses have no scent at all. Why? Because although cross-breeding has its fair share of benefits, including larger blooms, longer thornless stems, and increased petal count, sometimes all that more can mean a whole lot less because roses lose their smell in the process.
Now, to be clear, I am not complaining. I am not a fan of floral scents. I don’t like the smell of roses, and the smell of lavender literally makes me wanna Vom Dot Com. BUT that does not mean I want other people to lose their joy. I am an equal Joy opportunist. You like the smell of roses? Amazing! You want to take a lavender-scented bath? Good for you! I’m not gonna yuck your yum. Just keep that yum away from me.
But I do think there’s a lesson here, so stay with me. When people become so hyper-focused on appearances, they can lose their understanding of substance and what makes something great. We live in a world that has become so fast and profit-driven that by constantly looking for the next thing to make us stronger or prettier or thinner or “thicc”-er or fix us in some way, we can lose sight of what makes us great in the first place: our unique characteristics and shared commonalities.
New hybrid strains of roses are beautiful, and they are still roses that have value, but they’re missing that shared, very-specific scent that separates roses from other flowers. I’m not here to say that cross-breeding roses is bad by any means (please remember, I hate the smell of roses lol, and although I like to ponder, I’m not here to start a war of the roses… hehehe wink wink), but at what point does something get so altered that it can no longer be classified as the thing it was initially? Longer stems, fewer thorns, more petals, no smell… is it even a rose anymore? Or is it just another flower? Was Romeo hot stuff? Or was he just another teen full of angst, entirely too young to be making decisions on life, love, and death?
Anyway, I think this is a long-winded way of saying that change and growth and evolution are a natural part of life, but in this very specific instance of roses, at what point do we call them something else? Because even though I dislike the scent (Outkast said it best... roses really smell like poo-oo-oo yeahhh), I enjoy slowing down enough to stop and smell the roses. And as long as there are still stinky roses to smell, you might also want to slow down and take a big whiff.
To Moses supposes his toses are roses and the stinky smells all stuck in our noses, Johny
(all photos were taken by me on my Canon eOs 90d)
Comments