Let me tell you a story about a medieval rose…
But first, you can listen to the audio version by clicking on the video below, or read beneath. (If you’re reading in your email and don’t see the video, please click here to watch/listen: )
Let’s begin.
Medieval Rose
Let me tell you a story of a medieval rose. You might think that’s an odd sort of story—a tale of a rose? A rose isn’t a person but a thing. How could it have a story?
But, and you may or may not agree, roses are often described as the most special bloom of them all. Worshipped for centuries, they came into their height of popularity in the Middle Ages. They were talismans, medicinal healers, gestures of affection, and their perfume evokes feelings of endless and unconditional love. And some, such as this particular rose, even possessed what many would call magical powers. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up for a moment.
Hello. I’m Mande Matthews, and I’d love for you to come on a journey with me. A quest, really. An adventure of sorts. A pilgrimage of love. Where we discover the ability to deeply love those around us by loving ourselves first.
So, sit back, relax, and take a few long, languid breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Let the day go. Melt away all of your worries and anxiety. Leave your to-dos and responsibilities behind. Just for a moment. Don’t worry. Everything will be there when you return, so there’s no need to think about it now. This is your time. There’s nothing else to be done, but imagine.
Close your eyes, and let’s begin our quest for the Medieval Rose. As you rest, visualize traveling back…back…back to a romantic era. Picture a time in the 1400s against a Western European landscape. A beautiful castle rests high on a grassy hilltop. The Keep towers into fluffy clouds and a baby blue sky. Do you see it? There, on the horizon? Beneath this castle spreads a lush garden with the most curious rose planted in the center of this walled and flourishing palace oasis.
This queen among flowers is rooted in the center of a splendid flower court of marigolds, lilies, daisies, and violets. Her blossoms are as odd as she is—crimson bottoms blending into tangerine oranges, then sunshine yellows that burst into soft, sunset pinks. Her glossy green leaves cradle hundred-petal blooms. Her deep emerald stems are entirely and utterly thornless. She’s everblooming, no matter the weather or season. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Sunshine. Snowstorm. It doesn’t matter. She stays in all her glory, perfectly blooming, never fading. Her scent blankets the entirety of the hill, palace included, wrapping everyone in such an intoxicating fragrance that it’s like being taken up in your doting grandmother’s embrace.
But the most peculiar thing about this rose? She radiates pure love. Magic, one might say. Even the other flowers and the grass and ivy feel it. Everyone who comes near feels it. And they thrive in her presence.
But more on her magic in just a little while.
The queen of all roses sits in that garden, peacefully, the wind gently swaying her stems and leaves. Over eight feet tall, she stretches so high up she can see over the stone garden walls and down into the valley’s village below. But the valley is not as loving and beautiful and comforting as the palace garden up high.
For, down in that valley, the village teems with the less fortunate. Far down cobble, then dirt, then a muddy lane that winds past families, villagers, merchants and beggars alike, there on the end of the street, barely a street at all, just a muddy path, in a thatched roofed house with a failing garden out back, lives a young girl and her kin.
The girl has rosy cheeks as soft and beautiful as the pink tips of the Queen of Rose’s petals. And, as you may have already guessed, her name is Rose.
Her sparkling eyes speak of so much potential.
Yet she cries, sadly, there on her knees in a patch of dirt behind her home. Beside her, turned on its side, lay an empty bucket, and next to that, shriveled leeks, wilted broad beans, stunted parsnips, struggling rosemary and sweet bay, and more dying things.
Rose wipes her tears with the arm of her tattered tunic. “I’m sorry,” she says to each plant, propping stems upright with her fingers, only for them to fall limp once she removes her support. It is Rose’s job to tend the garden. But no matter how hard she tries, she fails, leaving her with thirsty plants that will never ripen for harvest and feed her hungry family.
Rose and her siblings are parentless, having died long ago from fever, but her brother and sisters work hard to keep them surviving. Her brother hunts, mostly vermin, but enough to set their table even if the meals are tough and bony at best. Christiana sews well enough to trade for milk and cheese and even cabbage and leeks. Her eldest sister, Sarra, has a way with people, a charm, one might say. She’s always first in line for trenchers from the palace. Though the cast-offs are free to the poor, her sister manages a coveted first-in-line position, garnering her the tastiest leftovers. Meat-soaked bread occasionally contributes to their daily meal, a nutritious treat for the siblings. Rose’s contribution should be the bounty of her garden; alas, she cannot grow enough for even one kettle of pottage, let alone a lifetime of meals.
The garden is a meager plot, surrounded by forest land. The bracken and bramble within the woods are thick and invasive; there isn’t a berry, nut, or mushroom to be found. You can’t even reach the ground with such wild coverage, let alone forage it. Still, Rose is not doing her part. For that, she feels dreadful. It isn’t fair that she lets her brother and sisters carry the burden. The thought of disappointing them brings a rush of tears to her eyes and a tremor to her chest. She chokes back sobs. She bends lovingly. Reaching gently.
Rose caresses the brown, wrinkled bay leaf and sniffles. “I’ll try again. I promise. I’ll try harder. I don’t know what happens. I travel back and forth from the well so many times a day until I drop from exhaustion. Yet I don’t manage to bring you even one speck of water. And there hasn’t been a lick of rain all summer long.”
Rose picks up her bucket and dusts off her apron. She wobbles, unsteady on her feet, so tired she can barely stay upright. Her lips look parched. Dry and cracked on the bottom as if she hasn’t drunk a sip of water for a week. She heads out of her pitiful garden, through the creaky front gate, and up the winding road to the village well.
When she arrives, a boarded well greets her when just this morning, she’d pulled water from its depths. “No. No. Not possible.” She looks around for help, but no one pays her any mind. “It can’t be. What will I do? I cannot water the garden with air.”
Hopeless, she slumps down the wellhead’s bumpy side, sits on the ground, and cries.
“Now, none of that crying, you.” A man’s voice interrupts mid-sob. “This one’s gone dry, but there’s another ’bout eight furlongs up the street.”
Rose glances up at the man, a laborer by the look of his short-sleeve tunic and heavy-soled boots, not to mention the mallet, poles, and rope he cradles in one arm.
“Eight?” asks Rose, defeated. “That far?”
“You deaf? Yes, eight. That’s not so great a distance to travel in times of drought. Be grateful for any water at all, and best use it wisely.”
“But I’ve already traveled a league to get to this one. It’s so very far from home.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. You can’t squeeze milk from a dead cow, so get you gone, and you might chance returning home before dark. Besides, got my work to do, and you’re sitting in my way.” The laborer gestures for her to get up so he can go about his business cordoning off the barren well.
Rose licks her cracked lips and follows the direction of the man’s finger. She pushes up to her feet, legs trembling. How long has it been since she’d drunk any water herself? Days, she imagines. It’s just every time she fetched water, it seemed someone else needed it more than she. Before she knew it, her bucket was empty. She never thought of refusing them. She didn’t want to see anyone suffer. She wanted to help.
At first, giving made her heart happy. It felt like the right thing to do. So she gave. And gave. And gave. But a funny thing started to happen. The more she gave and the less she took for herself, the more overwhelmed, hopeless, and depressed she felt. But she kept right on giving. It was how she showed her love, wasn’t it? Until she was left with nothing but a parched mouth, a growling belly, a dying garden, and a tear on her rosy cheek.
Rose presses onward nonetheless, heading farther up the hill. When at last, Rose reaches the second well, when she dips the bucket down into its depths, when she takes just a tiny lick for herself from the ladle and looks up the hill to the palace, she sees, for the first time in her life, a most wondrous sight.
A multi-colored rose stretches up over the garden wall. The rose, it’s true, is stunning. So unusual in its color. So gigantic in its blooms. So graceful as its stems reach higher and higher. Rose can even imagine how sweet it must smell.
But it isn’t the beauty of the flower that strikes her. It’s a feeling. An immediate sense of peace, of calm, of comfort sweeps over her. A feeling like being caught up in the most loving hug, of being wrapped in the warmest blanket and held near a crackling fireside. Of knowing, just knowing, not a worry in the world exists outside of that warmth and contentment and love. That, Rose imagines, is what true love must feel like.
All this time, Rose thought she loved her brother and sisters. She felt she showed love and kindness to the villagers. She assumed giving them everything they ever asked of her was love. But now, here, in the sight of that magical rose, she realizes love is something entirely different. She can’t quite place how it is different. But different, it is.
She wants to run as fast as her skinny legs can carry her, through the streets and up the hillside, climb over that garden wall and sit there beneath that glorious creation so she can understand what love truly is. It’s what she, herself, longs to give.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” The sound of Warin’s voice breaks her concentration. Rose hesitantly tears her gaze away from the hilltop and turns toward her brother.
“Christiana’s ready to start the porridge. Sarra needs water for washing. And I need to rinse my squirrel before skewering it on the spit. We’ll eat past midnight if you don’t hurry up about it.”
“I’m sorry,” says Rose.
“I have to return these trousers and collect Christiana’s wage. Oh, do me a favor,” he says. “Do be a dear, and rinse the squirrel before I get back, so it’s ready. It’s sitting in front of the fire. You won’t miss it.”
“Of course, I’ll be quick.”
“You’re such a good girl, Rose.” Her brother leans down, for he is quite tall and Rose quite small, and affectionately plants a kiss on her brow. “See you tonight.”
Rose goes about her business, scrambling back down the road on weakening legs, water sloshing as she struggles to keep the precious resource inside. She swallows hard, her throat a desert. She hadn’t even thought to drink her fill from the well before she left.
She has to hurry, you see. Her brother and sisters need her.
But even engrossed in her chore, Rose does not forget about the Queen of Roses sitting up high in its palace garden. Thoughts of its beauty and comfort, and yes, love, sweet love, warms her chest.
On the way, the butcher’s wife, cradling a swaddled infant to her chest, calls out, “My sweeting, my darling, Rose, can you spare some of that water there for my wee one? The well was blocked off when I managed to reach it, and as you know, the creek nearby is all dried up. And with my new babe, it’s so hard for me to get out and about.”
Rose stops and thinks about telling the butcher’s wife about the new well eight furlongs away from the old one, but her other son, the wee Jacob, totters to his mother’s side, thumb in mouth, tears in his eyes, and Rose cannot resist.
She sets her bucket down and waves the butcher’s wife forward. The butcher’s wife, of course, has a ladle and waterskin at the ready, and Rose kindly obliges.
Once on her way again, Rose hasn’t traveled a hundred feet before she hears a scream. The candlemaker stumbles out of his door directly in front of her, shaking his hand violently. When he spots Rose, he stops, red-faced, and pleads, “Oh, do be a dear one. Pour a little water on my finger. I’ve burned it, you see?”
He stretches out a crimson forefinger, already beginning to blister. Without a thought, without hesitating, Rose lifts the bucket and pours. The candlemaker sighs. “God bless you, youngling. You are such a precious soul.”
Rose smiles sweetly and hurries back on her way but starts to fret. Nearly four inches of water has already gone from her bucket. Never mind, she thinks. What’s done is done. If I get home without sharing any more, there will be enough.
But then Rose spots a dog. A wretched-looking thing. He lays panting on the ground. He whimpers and sniffs toward the bucket as Rose approaches. He wrestles himself upright, tail between his legs. The sides of his flanks sink inward, and there isn’t a spit of water to be found nearby. Rose’s heart drops to her knees.
“You poor boy,” says Rose. “Isn’t there anyone here to care for you?” She glances around, but the villagers go on about their business. Rose kneels and scoops up a handful of water with the cup of her hand, calling, “Here, boy. Come now. Drink up.”
The dog wags his tail, totters over, ears perked, and eagerly laps. One handful isn’t enough, so Rose gives him another. When he is satisfied, she pats him on the head and is once more on her way.
When she finally arrives home, both of her sisters rush toward her.
“At last!” says Sarra, crumpling her Sunday dress in her hand. “If I don’t get this washed, it won’t dry before morning, and I’ll have nothing to wear for the handout line at the palace. Tomorrow’s the first banquet in a fortnight. We won’t want to miss it. I can’t beg in a filthy tunic. Who would give me the best spot in line?” It is true. Rose suspects Sarra’s presentableness and charming smile have everything to do with her ability to collect handouts.
Rose hands the bucket over, and Sarra pours half of what remains into her washing tub. She kisses Rose on the cheek and smiles. “You’re such a dear,” says Sarra and hustles away to do her laundry.
“Come, Rose,” says Christiana. “I’ve got leeks and cabbage ready in the pot but need water to bring it to a boil.” Christiana hurries her sister to the fireside. Rose dutifully pours water into the kettle. Once filled, Rose looks back into her bucket. Barely any left.
Her brother’s skinned squirrel lays on the stool before the fire, and Rose carefully rinses it, using as little of her precious water as possible.
By the time she pours a glass for her brother and two for her sisters for the daily meal, there isn’t even one drop remaining. Not for her. Not for her garden.
Once again, Rose is left with nothing at all.
After dinner, the siblings climb into their shared hay-stuffed mattress by the fireside, weary from the day, and go to sleep. All except Rose. She shivers at the edge of the bed, her back exposed to the night air as the bedclothes are not generous enough to cover all four siblings. When the fire dies, and darkness lurks—for the family is too poor for such extravagances as candles—Rose sneaks from the bed and tiptoes out into her garden. Even in the moonlight, the suffering of her withering plants is all too clear. She slides to the ground and sits in the dirt among them. She folds her bony legs to her chest and wraps her arms around her knobby knees, hugging them tightly. She closes her eyes and asks the cloudless night, “Whatever shall I do?”
Suddenly, like a sparkling star in the evening sky, the image of the Queen of Roses on the palace garden hilltop pops into her head, and Rose knows what she must do.
Before daybreak, Rose creeps out of the house before her siblings wake, but she isn’t carrying her bucket this time. Instead, she heads straight for the palace garden. It isn’t an easy climb.
With one goal in mind, she slipped just enough cheese in her pocket and collected just enough water for her waterskin at the well to sustain the hike. As she was up before the bustling villagers, she’d managed to make it to the hilltop without any requests.
Now she lays panting, leaning up against the six-foot-high garden wall, sipping the dregs of her water and nibbling the last bite of cheese.
The sun rises high, announcing midday. Rose can imagine that over that wall, she’ll be greeted by the Queen of Roses if she can fathom how to get inside.
After finishing her snack, she circles the wall, reasoning that she’ll find a gate or arch, except she finds no such entry. Neither does she find a tree to climb or rocks to prop herself upon. Next, she tries wedging her fingers between the stones to hoist herself over, but she comes tumbling right down to the ground. The sun races across the sky, and before she realizes it, hours have passed. Rose is just about to give up, thinking her quest a folly when she hears a voice.
“She’ll see you now,” it chirps.
Rose glances this way and that, but there is nary a person to be found.
“Hello,” says the voice, tiny and lyrical. “Can you hear me down there?”
“Yes,” says Rose, “But where are you?”
“Look up,” says the voice.
When Rose lifts her head to the top of the wall, a nightingale stares back at her. He chirps a merry tune and fluffs his sandy-colored wings. “I am to announce to you,” he says. “She’ll see you now.”
Rose furrows her brow. “Oh, dear, I do dislike asking, so please don’t take offense. I don’t mean to be rude. But who is ‘she’?”
“The Queen, of course,” says the little bird. He whistles and flies from his perch. “Follow me.”
The Queen? Of Roses? Could it be? Thinks Rose as she runs to keep up with the nightingale, following him around the corner where he once again alights atop the garden wall. He puffs and ruffles then opens his v-shaped, sun-colored beak and sings the most beguiling tune. Rose doesn’t know what to do. There isn’t a gate or an entrance anywhere to be seen. Just a solid stone wall, some ivy, and grass.
But when the nightingale finishes, sparkles appear from nowhere, as if arriving on the bird’s breath. They fill the air. They thicken, brightening until they grow vibrant. Rose shields her eyes from the glare. As the twinkling lights settle to the ground and disappear, they reveal an archway. Beyond the archway spreads a garden that takes Rose’s breath straight out of her chest with a gasp. “Oh, my!”
A fairyland awaits Rose. A paradise from storybooks and fables. It seems so unreal. Talking birds. Queen of Roses. Then again, something about it seems more real than her ordinary existence in the valley village below.
Behind the walls, and below the stone tower keep, are rows and rows of impossibly bright, blooming flowers of all kinds. Rose steps through the arch. She swivels her head from one side to the other, taking in the splendor. As she steps onto the grassy ground, as she moves forward as if floating in a dream, butterflies, birds, bees, and dragonflies join her, dancing about her head, flitting from flower to flower, to her shoulders and hair, as if guiding her down the pathway. A soft yet potent floral scent drifts to her, wraps around her like an arm shepherding her. Inexplicably, the flowers bend as she passes, as if their blooms are heads, then they turn to watch her proceed. A fountain babbles close by, adding to the birdsong, buzzes, and song of the soft breeze.
About halfway down, clematis and ivy walls rustle and part, revealing the Queen of Roses sitting in the center of her courtyard.
Rose’s jaw, she is sure, is wagging as if it’s come unhinged. A menagerie of winged creatures flit to the Queen’s sides. Her stems reaching at least ten feet wide, she towers among her subjects. Those giant, hundred-petal blooms simultaneously bend, as if they are faces looking directly at Rose.
An invisible beam penetrates Rose’s chest. It’s as if a bower cradles her, rocked by her mother’s loving hand. Or being held in angel wings. Or knowing that all that exists, ever and forever, is this feeling of complete and total surrender to joy. There’s nothing to want. There’s nothing to fear. Just love. Sweet. Potent. All-encompassing love. It’s the same feeling Rose sensed in the village when she first beheld the rose, but a thousandfold more powerful. Rose could stand in the Queen’s presence, content for eternity.
“Welcome,” says a voice, and Rose knows, without a doubt, it is the Queen who speaks. Her tone is as heavenly as her scent. Full, gentle, loving with a roundness that slips around Rose, helping her to stand taller.
Though Rose is unwilling to move, too comforted, as if moving would disturb the divinity of the moment, she finds the grace to curtsey.
“I know what you seek,” says the Queen.
“You do?” asks Rose.
“It’s what you all seek. Love. True love. Unconditional and eternal.”
Tears fill the corners of Rose’s eyes. Not sad tears, but relieved tears. Tears that speak of her gratefulness that the Queen knows and cares about her troubles.
“And you shall have it. Take a clipping from my vine, here.” A cane graced with a perfect blossom bends down in front of Rose. The leaves quiver with an invitation.
But Rose steps back. “Oh, no! I wouldn’t dare cut your stem and take it from you!”
“It won’t hurt me,” says the Queen. She waves her canes and reveals hundreds upon hundreds of those breathtaking blooms. “I have much to give. You will not short me. It warms me to give when there is plenty. It’s the feeling you feel—that warmth, that comfort, that unconditional love—that’s from my abundance when I share it with you. Understand?”
Rose shakes her head. “I can’t! I dare not!” Even though her brain refuses, her fingers ache to reach out and caress the petal.
“I’ve water and nutrients to grow unbounded. I am thriving. The blooms are my bounty, so that is what I give.” The stem bends closer, bringing the blossom into Rose’s reach. “Go on,” says the Queen, “it is what you seek.”
Rose swallows to moisten her dusty throat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” says the Queen.
Rose gently clips the stem with her pocket knife. She expects the Queen to tremble or flinch, but instead, the Queen releases more of her exhilarating scent, bathing the girl in joy.
“Now,” instructs the Queen, “listen carefully and do as I instruct. If you don’t carry through, then all will be for naught, and your quest will fail.”
“Oh my,” says Rose, “I will do whatever you command!”
“It will not be easy,” says the Queen. “And if you fail, the clipping will die, and with it, the love you seek.”
Rose’s heart quavers. This burden she must conquer. “I will not fail you.”
“Good,” says the Queen. “Here’s what you must do. First, fill your waterskin from the fountain there. You’ll have another chance at the well in the village, but your waterskin doesn’t hold much.”
Rose nods and immediately obeys.
“The water is only enough for you to return home and keep the clipping moist until you can plant it in your garden. You must sip from your waterskin to keep up your strength. For if you lose your vitality, you will not have the energy to return home and plant the clipping, and you will fail. But, and this is most important: You cannot share the water with anyone who asks. You cannot give it away. It’s only enough for you to have the strength to carry this part of me and to keep it alive until you can plant it and use the remaining water to water it, so the cutting takes root. Understand?”
Rose thinks of all the people in the village with whom she always shares. She thinks of her brother and sisters, how she failed to fetch water for them today, and how they will have none without her. She realizes this task, indeed, will not be easy. But she nods, repeating without surety, “I will not fail you.”
As the sun makes its descent, turning the sky into cherry pinks and tangerine oranges, Rose heads home with the cutting cradled to her chest, stem inside her waterskin like a vase. She occasionally sips from the waterskin, as the Queen instructed, whenever she feels tired or weak.
The butcher’s wife calls out, “Rose! Sweeting! Do be a darling girl and let wee Jacob sip from your waterskin. He’s so very thirsty, and I’ve not yet gone to the well.”
Rose glances down at her clipping, still upright, petals moist. Will Jacob go without if she refuses? Will the butcher’s wife be angry? Rose struggles for words but finally says, “I am so sorry. I cannot. I must get home and only have enough for the trip.”
Rose hunches and waits for the butcher’s wife to rail at her for being selfish. But a verbal thrashing does not come.
The butcher’s wife replies, “Well enough. I do feel like stretching my legs, and there’s a beautiful sunset. A walk might do my hips some good.” She waves Rose on her way, and with a sigh of relief, Rose walks on.
Not long after, the candlemaker greets her on the street. “Good day, dearest Rose,” he says. “Healing right up, thanks be to you. See?” He shows her a bandaged finger, and Rose smiles sweetly. But just before she takes her leave, he asks, “I’d be mighty obliged for a sip from your waterskin. The sun’s baked down on us all day, and I’m a bit thirsty.”
“I would,” says Rose, “but I’ve got to get this clipping home moist, or it will die.”
The candlemaker examines the clipping Rose cradles. “That is a mighty peculiar bloom indeed,” he says. But irritation creeps into his tone. “I suppose a little thirst never killed anyone, so I’ll be on my way. Good day, Rose.”
After Rose refused, the candlemaker didn’t call her dear or say “bless you” as usual. Rose’s gut clenches. Am I doing the right thing? But I must be. It’s what the Queen instructed, and I cannot fail.
Then Rose braces herself for the dog. Refusing the butcher’s wife and the candlemaker was one thing, but a helpless dog? Maybe he won’t be here. Perhaps he won’t see me, she thinks. But sure enough, the dog trots up, panting. Tail wagging. Tongue hanging. He sniffs at her waterskin, eyes glossy and round.
“I cannot give you any water today, boy. You must understand.”
The dog whimpers.
“No, no,” she says. “There must be something for you to drink elsewhere. Go on, go and find it.”
But the dog whines again. His sad eyes switch between hers. Rose nearly breaks, wanting to give in and empty her waterskin for the dog. But the words of the Queen hold fast in her memory. It cannot all be for naught. I cannot let it.
So Rose moves on, and the thirsty dog follows all the while. Her heart double-taps as she hears his paws patter behind her the whole way home. It’s all she can do to dash through the door to her house, leaving the poor animal outside.
When she enters, huffing, puffing, clutching the rose clipping to her chest, her sisters and brother hurry to her.
“Rose! Where have you been?” exclaims Warin.
“I know,” says Rose, holding back tears. “I’ve let you down. I didn’t fetch the water. You’ve gone without all day, but you see, I couldn’t. I had to do this task. It’s important. So important that I couldn’t give it up—”
“What’s that?” asked Sarra, pointing to the clipping.
“A clipping from the palace garden. I have to plant it now and only have enough left to water it, or it will die just like my garden. There’s never enough water for it. Or me. And I’m always so thirsty. And the dog, the poor boy. He’s nothing to drink at all, and I can’t help him. There’s no water for washing, or porridge, or rinsing, or drinking! I know I’ve disappointed you all. You’re angry, I know. You’ve every right….” Tears break loose. Rose sobs. “But I cannot fail.” Her shoulders shudder. She wails, her back against the door, clutching her clipping. “I must plant the clipping first.”
“It’s a most unusual bloom,” says Sarra softly.
Warin’s arm wraps around Rose’s shoulder, and he tugs her against him. “There now, sister. Don’t cry. I’ve already fetched the water for the day. When we got up and found the bucket still sitting by the door, I did it for you.”
“You did?” asks Rose, surprised.
“We were worried sick,” says Christiana. “We didn’t know where you had gone. But we’re so grateful you’re home safe now. That’s all that matters.”
“But…” says Rose, sniffling back her sobs. “You’re not angry?”
“Whatever for?”
“I didn’t do my part,” says Rose. “I left you without.” She sniffs.
“Now that I see how overwhelmed you’ve been, I know it’s not fair for you to do all the fetching for all of our chores. Tomorrow, we will fetch water together. After all, four buckets are better than one.”
“Really?” asks Rose. “You’d do that?”
“Yes, really,” says Warin.
“But what about your chores? You won’t have time to do them,” asks Rose.
“We will,” says Warin. “If we work together, we’ll find a way.”
“That’s right,” says Sarra.
“We’re here for you,” says Christiana.
Her sisters join Warin, snuggling in on all sides of Rose, and hug her.
“Now, what was that about a dog having nothing to drink?” Warin peels himself from the sibling hug and opens the door. The dog, as if on cue, trots through. Warin fetches him a bowl, and the dog laps it down, wagging his tail all the while.
“Now. Shall we plant this clipping of yours?” Christiana asks Rose.
Her brother and sisters follow Rose into her shriveled garden. Rose hunts for the central spot. “I know it might not seem like much now,” says Rose.
“You’re right. Aside from being pretty, it doesn’t look like much,” says Sarra.
“Only one stem and a bloom,” agrees Warin.
“Are you sure it was worth the climb?” asks Christianna. “It’s not a leek or a cabbage. Nothing to eat at all. How will it help?”
“You’ll see,” says Rose.
But, truth be told, Rose isn’t sure how it will help. She only knows she needs the kind of love she felt from the Queen of Roses. It was that kind of love she wants to give to others.
Her siblings assist as Rose digs the hole, plants the cane, and pours the remaining water on the ground. As the water soaks into the soil, a lovely scent explodes in the air.
All eyes light with surprise. They glance at one another and grin.
Fireflies light up around the newly planted rose bush and night birds sing. But most prevalent is the feeling of love. Is it coming from the planting or her family, or both? Rose doesn’t know, but from the bright smiles and sparkling eyes of her siblings, she knows they feel it as well.
“It was worth the climb,” confirms Warin.
“Indeed,” says Sarra.
“A hundred climbs over,” says Christiana.
***
The very next morning, Rose wakes early, snuggled between her sisters and brother. She sits upright, fearing one of her siblings must surely be left without any coverings and be cold from the night, but it isn’t so. They are nuzzled so tightly that there is enough blanket for them all.
Rose fetches water with her siblings that morning, and with four buckets, she only makes one trip. When they fill their buckets at the well, Rose makes sure to take her time and her fill before leaving so she has the strength to care for her clipping and garden.
When she returns to water her newly planted rose and garden, she discovers a miracle has occurred. The clipping grew overnight into an eight-foot bush teeming with blossoms. All around the bush, her meager garden perks up, no longer shriveled but budding new greens.
Every day, Rose, true to her word, tends to herself first, making sure she has plenty of water to make the daily trip to the well and keep up her strength. Second, she makes sure she has plenty to water her growing garden. Over time, as the rose bush flourishes, the garden extends, growing outwards, incorporating some of that wildland that sat behind them. It’s no longer filled with bramble and bracken but berries and nuts. Mushrooms grow plentifully at the bases of towering trees. They must have been there all along, but until now, Rose had not seen them.
What’s even more peculiar is that, one day, a bubbling spring appears, seemingly from nowhere; though, like the berries, nuts, and mushrooms, it must have been there all along.
With a water source right in her backyard, Rose’s garden thrives. There’s plenty for daily meals, and before long, Rose and her siblings are fleshy and healthy. Without needing to walk to the village well, Rose decides to take a bucket of water to both the butcher’s wife and candlemaker.
“What’s this?” asks the butcher’s wife.
“We have a spring in our garden now. So I brought this for you so you won’t have to walk to the well with your infant in tow,” says Rose. “And since I no longer have to make the journey, I’ve time to bring you a bucketful every day.”
Tears fill the butcher’s wife’s eyes. “Oh, sweeting! Darling Rose! Thank you so much. This means the world to my wee ones and me.” The butcher’s wife scoops Rose up, holding her in the warmest of hugs. When Rose turns to go on her way, the butcher’s wife scrambles inside and back, handing Rose a package.
“What’s this?” asks Rose, opening the bundle.
“Pork butts and pickled pig’s feet. For your generosity.”
“Oh, no,” says Rose. “I didn’t bring you the water to be paid.”
“It’s not payment,” says the butcher’s wife. “Just thanks.”
“I will take it on one account,” says Rose. “That you already have enough for yourself.”
The butcher’s wife smiles. “You are a thoughtful young girl, Rose. But yes, we have plenty. You will not short us.”
“And so I gratefully accept,” says Rose.
When Rose brings the bucket to the candlemaker, she receives much the same. The candlemaker says, “Oh, dearest Rose! You are such a blessing. Let me give you these candles in return.”
And so it goes on with many of their neighbors. They come for the spring water and leave gifts in return. So much so that Warin no longer needs to hunt for their meals, and instead of boney squirrel meat, they dine on pork and stew. Sarra no longer needs to beg for scraps at the palace. Though Christiana still sews, she has time to make new Sunday outfits for her brother and sisters. Candles light their home deep into the night, where the siblings often sit and tell bedtime stories to one another. Even the dog, who they call Hardy, has his fill. No longer scrawny, he’s a permanent addition to the family.
So, it could be said that Rose, her siblings, and the village are filled with love. The love that you give when you, yourself, overflow. And in this fairytale, they all do live lovingly ever after.
I hope you enjoyed your journey with me. May your dreams be filled with love. True love. Unconditional and eternal. The love of the Medieval Rose. Goodnight.
PERSONAL REFLECTIONS FOR THIS STORY:
Let me understand that my value is not measured by the good that I do but by the very essence of my being. I exist, therefore I am valuable. My worth is not a tally of deeds or a sum of efforts; it is an intrinsic truth, unaltered by action or inaction. I need not prove my worth through constant struggle or endless service; my existence itself is a testament to my value.
My capacity to give to others is in direct relation to my capacity to give to myself.
CRYSTALS FOR LOVE:
Morganite: Stone of divine love, spiritual self-discovery, and self-love. Kind-heartedness and compassion. Enhancing acceptance and wisdom. Profound emotional healing.
Rose Quartz: Stone of a mother’s nurturing love. Draws in true and unconditional love. Heals the heart center. Deepens kindness, compassion, tenderness, and love toward self and others.
Selenite: The stone of liquid light, seeing clearly, opening to the divine, clearing stuck and negative energies. The divine guidance.
Sea Shells: The spirit of water. The energy of the moon. Intuition and emotional healing. (Ethically sourced only as unethical practices create trauma vibrations in shells as well as other crystals and gemstones).
CREDITS:
Story and Narration: Mande Matthews
Editing: C.K. Brooke
Video Filming, Animation, Editing – Mande Matthews
Audio Music and Sounds licensed from Deposit Photos and Capcut
Preferred Crystal Shop: KnKMinerals.Etsy.com (ethically sourced and authenticated)
Featured Art:
The castle of Bourbon l’Archambout. Etching. Wellcome Library, London. https://rb.gy/50pwoo Public Domain
Psyche Entering Cupid’s Garden – John William Waterhouse Public Domain
Soul of a Rose – John William Waterhouse Public Domain
Rosa Gallica – Johannes Simon Holtzbecher – Google Art Project Public Domain
Study of a Rose – Wikimedia.org Public Domain
I Think of You Always and Aphrodite and all graphics works – Mande Matthews
