BY TRISTA EDWARDS
Sappho called roses the lightening of beauty. Rumi wrote that the rose’s rarest essence lives in its thorns. Picasso once lamented you can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.
It is clear that there is some element of danger to this floral darling.
Anyone who has been following me on Instagram, or just been in my general vicinity, knows that I have been going through a "rose phase."
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I’ve been carrying rose quartz with me everywhere. I rove the library for books on the subject of roses. I buy myself a new bouquet every week in a new variety and shade. I bathe in dried rose petals. I daub rose oil on my face at night before going to bed. I concoct rose teas to stay warm on rainy days. I write poems about roses. I want floral everything. I want pink everything.
Manicures. Dresses. Cocktails. Lipstick. Art. Ice Cream. Crystals. Perfume.
I recently pinned several photos of pink-haired women and took it to the salon and told my stylist, "Make me look like THAT."
My hair is now a combination of the aptly named hues Cupid, Blush, and Rose Gold.
You get it. I’m riding the high of a new obsession.
And it is new. Frankly, to me, it is also a bit strange.
Somewhere in my youth I actively decided I despised roses. I was also one of those girls who was anti-pink. Roses were old. They were traditional. They were expected. The scent, unattractive. Pink was girly. Also expected.
Not that being "girly" is bad, it was just that even then I didn’t like gender stereotypes hoisted on me—that I had to or should like pink just because I was a girl.
I favored the darkness. I had a punk rock phase in high school. If you had asked me then, roses were not punk. Pink was not that right shade of moody I was going for.
Now in my early thirties, I’m finally having my pink and rose renaissance. I have entered a new phase of my own femininity. I started a small candle business in which the rose is a key element in the candle's aesthetic and symbolic magic. It definitely seems that something in me is not only enamored with the rose but craving it.
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In this violent, hyper-masculine, toxic, empathy deprived Trump Era, I yearn for the rose and all its feminine symbolism.
I look to people whose souls exude tender beauty but who also draw blood if seized.
To me, these are the roses that matter most.
Indulge in the beauty of roses...
Roses in a Glass. Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller.
Still Life of Roses. Modeste Carlier.
A 'Rose' Made of Galaxies. NASA.
Vanitas - Still Life with Bouquet and Skulls. Adriaen van Utrecht.
Still Life, Roses. Frida Kalho.
Still Life with Roses.Julien Stappers.
Trista Edwards is a senior writer and contributing editor at Luna Luna Magazine. She is also the curator and editor of the anthology, Till The Tide: An Anthology of Mermaid Poetry (Sundress Publications, 2015). You can read her poems at 32 Poems, Quail Bell Magazine, Moonchild Magazine, The Adroit Journal, The Boiler, Queen Mob's Tea House, Bad Pony, Occulum, and more. She creates magickal candles at her company, Marvel + Moon.