The first small flowers on the 'Rambling Rector' rose are through. nine yesterday, eighteen today. Tomorrow still countable, but within a week it will be impossible to number them. The fence will be covered with a profusion of creamy-apricot flowers. And the scent, especially in the evenings, with be heaven itself.
The downside is that it will not last. This is not a 'repeat flower' rose; one show is all. But for the two or three weeks of its flowering, it is glorious. For its flowers, its perfume, and for what it adds to the ensemble of the garden at this time of year.
But for now, it is the headlong rush into the impossibility of keeping up with it, counting the flowers as they open, which engages me. The profusion, the unstinting giving of the plant amazes me. There would be more flowers still, but I have pruned it back, afraid its weight would cause it to fall, damage itself, damage the fence.
The impossibility of keeping up with it- for this week I shall shall be reminded of the work of the Spirit; I am forever behind, trailing in the slipstream, asking how I can deal with this much grace. And unlike this rose, the work of the Spirit keeps flowering, world without end .
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