I have spent the last several days investigating how to get rose clippings to take root. I've got a big long branch in water by my window, and now I have all the supplies I will need; root starter, a few glass bottles, some very good soil and perlite. I have read a fair amount, and talked to my best friend's mother (who grows beautiful roses) and am going to try a few different methods. Somehow, all the planning and preparations have been cathartic and important. I feel as if I am readying myself for a sacred ordinance, and like Aaron of old, am washing and cleansing in preparation for the thing to come. Because, somehow this is my Grandma. I want to take this thing she loved and help perpetuate it. Simple, but symbolic for me. I don't know why, but this project is my grief and my joy. My grief for her passing, and my Grandfather's sorrow, and my joy for her passing, her eternal life, and the promise of being reunited with her. What a great thing it has been to feel that she is happy.
Tomorrow is the day. I will prepare several sections of roses and eagerly watch their progress. Anticipation is high because I can't remember what colo(u)r the roses are. Should be a pleasant surprise. Thanks, Grandma.