Birth of a Rose

The rose does not know it is a rose.

At first, it's just a set of faded and uncertain lines that slowly take shape.

If the dark spots are the first to appear, the rose may think it is a mysterious and profound being. Sometimes, however, it can think of being dark, heavy, and invisible to most.

What are these dark spots for? Are they really necessary?

When she begins to notice the first colors, he realizes he is a flower, red is always remarkable, very romantic, but also passionate and painful.

More shades of red and orange are added and the petals take their shape.

She notices it right away. "Am I not a rose? Then I want to be beautiful!”

Because the rose has got her own idea of what it means to be a rose and she thinks that roses are made in a certain way, have certain colors and certain shapes.

But she is struggling to take shape. More shades of red and orange have yet to land on her petals. And then those dark spots that don't go away, on the contrary, they seem to accentuate.

The petals are not as she had imagined them, they are irregular, perhaps even disproportionate, but a vague balance between light and shadow begins to take shape and her rose shape becomes unmistakable.

The rose is not satisfied, she would like more colors, a safer stroke, smoother paper, more expensive pencils, and certainly a more expert painter.

And the darkest parts of her existence are always there, less visible, but always present. The parts exposed to light are more vivid and attractive.

When she resigns herself to understanding that light and shadow work together, she has only two choices.

She can hide forever to go unnoticed, or she can be proud of her being her, knowing that anyone who appreciates her bright spots will have to accept her darker ones as well.

**

Thank you for reading, I hope you like the story and the drawing.

Since the poor rose was insecure, I didn't dare draw the thorns!

I've always loved drawing, but in recent years, during the pandemic, I've started again.

The point is that I wasn't interested in the result, I did it to distract myself and to pass the time.

Once I overcame the first difficulties, I started drawing again like I used to, that is, finding a middle ground between learning the technique and letting go of my imagination.

Proceeding little by little has taught me to train patience, a quality I've always been lacking in.

It's strange how carving out an hour now and then and isolating myself from everything and everyone to draw has become a habit.

Once upon a time, just the idea of having to pull out the colors and mess up the table gave up.

Now these hours are very precious, the drawings don't always go as I think, or as I had planned them, but I don't worry about it.

I'm ready to throw everything away if I don't like it or stop work midway and start over.

Yet most of the time I go all the way, even if the whole thing is imperfect.

Understanding that things grow slowly is something you know in theory, but it's not an easy concept to apply in real life. At least not for me.

Trying to take things a little at a time slows us down at first, but allows us to improve our skills.

In the calm, I found the self-confidence. The same that allows me to show you this drawing.

However, not everyone likes roses, if you want to know what your life would be like if you were a cactus, read here: