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The Rose
by Theodore Yves Behr

Marisa sat in the soil, in the same way that birds don't, and looked around her. Everywhere there was just soil and muck. Marisa was very depressed by all this. It seemed that every time she started to get ahead, someone would rain down on her or dump all over her. She always seemed to be in the dark, with the warmth of the sun above just out of reach.

But bit by bit she dug her roots in. She knew where she needed to be and that regardless she would make it. So every day she worked and pushed and grew just that little bit more. There were many days when it just seemed the heavens would pour relentlessly on her. There were days when she felt trodden on and other days when it seemed she had no sense of direction. It felt like the weight of the entire world was being held above her.

But through it all she never lost faith. She knew she had a good support system. She could feel the warmth and knew there was light at the end of this long dark tunnel she was digging herself out of.

And then, one day, she finally broke ground. Marisa made her way through it all. She looked around and discovered that it still wasn't the end of the road, but all that toil and struggle had paid off. There were still times of darkness and times of light. Times when she felt drowned in it all. But Marisa didn't care. She knew that she was blessed and, in her happiness, flowered into a kindness which everyone admires.

Marisa blessed her surroundings and came forth with many blossoms of her own. Some took to flower while others needed pruning, but on the whole there was always a new bud to replace the old. She helped every one of them to take root. And although she couldn't always be there to watch, she knew that she had given them the best she could. She watched them grow, just as she had done, and felt pride in her accomplishments.

Marisa still has days where it seems everyone wants something. For each one she has something and even if it is not always enough, she knows that they too will find their way in the end. For every flower must blossom in it's own way rather than each one trying to become the rose.


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