We moved out of our house three months after the tragedy. By a strange twist of fate, the husband of the woman who purchased my home had taken his life five years earlier. It was an eerie connection to have with the person buying my house, weeks after my husband died.

One of the first things she did was rip out the beautiful rose garden that surrounded the house. Heirloom roses, arches overflowing with the blooms I had cultivated for years, and topiaries that bordered the length of the back of the house.

I suffered a gasp-worthy shock when I stopped by the house to pick up a box that had arrived for me, six months after we moved out, seeing all the empty spaces where roses had once thrived.

She apologized saying, at her age, the upkeep of all the bushes was just too much for her.

I understood, having spent countless hours tending to the gorgeous botanical specimens. Particularly the topiaries, snowy white Iceberg Roses, which if left too long, would grow like wild fire and quickly become lopsided and top heavy. Little shoots reaching and stretching upwards, out of the confines of their intended sphere shape. Up over the walls, willing themselves to grow as quickly as possible, to see what lay on the other side.

I wonder, isn’t that what we are looking for? The freedom to grow outside of our imposed boundaries, to explore the edges and reach up over the fence to the place where the warmth of the sun shines all day, instead of remaining forever clipped in the shade, the way I did with my roses.

I always felt guilty, trimming away all the buds that had yet to blossom. So much potential lay in waste on the ground.

Now I am like the topiaries, reaching over the fence, taking new shape. Allowing myself to be misshapen, a little more free form and organic than in my other life. Perhaps trying to make up for all the discarded potential of the rose buds.

Seeing the house, minus the roses, felt as if my own roots had been ripped from the soil that lay under the house I once so lovingly tended and nurtured into a family home. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. It felt like a message to let go and plant my roots elsewhere. I haven’t been back since.

May your healing allow you to creatively take shape in your life and grow roots in a place that nurtures your soul.

-db

Who is Dianna Bonny?

Hi, my name is Dianna Bonny. It’s my mission to candidly share my journey with you. For me, it’s all about the healing: to create a radiant healing energy for others who have befallen a similar fate. Together, we can forge beautiful lives of belonging and connection. Thanks for joining me today! I look forward to hearing from you.