A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose

Each fairy breath of summer, as it blows with loveliness,

 inspires the blushing rose.  ~Author Unknown

Oh! Do tell my dear,  I know you know. It inflames you.

Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!"
-  George Eliot  

"Our individuality is all, all, that we have. 

There are those who barter it for security, 

those who repress it for what they believe is the betterment of the whole society, 

but blessed in the twinkle of the morning star is the one who nurtures it and rides it in, in grace and love and wit, from peculiar station to peculiar station along life's bittersweet route." 

— Tom Robbins

Lament For a Son by Nicholas Wolterstorff

A writing from Lament For a Son by Nicholas Wolterstorff

Something is over. In the deepest levels of my existence something is finished, done. 

My life is divided into before and after. Especially in places where he and I were together this sense of something being over washes over me. It happens not so much at home, but other places. A moment in our lives together of special warmth and intimacy and vividness, a moment when I specially prized him, a moment of hope and expectancy and openness to the future: I remember the moment. 
But instead of lines of memory leading up to his life in the present, they all enter a place of cold inky blackness and never come out. The book slams shut. The story stops, it doesn't finish. The future closes, the hopes get crushed. And now instead of those shiny moments being things we can share together in delighted memory, I, the survivor, have to bear them alone. 
So it is with all memories of him. 
They all lead into that blackness. 
It's all over, over, over. 
All I can do is remember him.
I can't experience him. The person to whom these memories are attached is no longer here, no longer standing up. He's only in my memory now, not in my life. Nothing new can happen between us. Everything is sealed tight, shut in the past. I'm still here. I have to go on. 
I have to start over. But this new start is so different from the first. Then I wasn't carrying this load, this thing that's over.
Sometimes I think that happiness is over for me. I look at photos of the past and immediately comes the thought; that's when we were still happy. 
But I can still laugh, so I guess that isn't quite it. Perhaps what's over is happiness as the fundamental tone of my existence. 
 Now sorrow is that. Sorrow is no longer the islands but the sea.

*********************************************************************************
In Memory of my son Jade River
October 10, 1996 - March 8,2008
And
In Memory of  heroic Ross Barfuss,  who at age 16 selflessly risked and lost his life to rescue a boy he didn’t know. 

Ross is the photo on the left, River is on the right

At the Intersection of Hue and Garnish

On Beyond Zebra

A stick, a stone,

 It’s the end of the road,

It’s the rest of a stump,

A lonesome road