Where Creation Actually Lives

This morning, it happened in the garden.

Not at the desk.
Not in thought.
Not in reflection.

In the garden.

I reached for the roses — long-stemmed, deeply red, carrying the unmistakable scent of a rose that hasn’t been bred to survive distance — and before colour or form registered, the scent arrived first.

There in the garden, it stopped me.

Red roses are meant to mean something in this world.
They’re given on Valentine’s Day, offered as apology, used as shorthand for longing or repair.

That was never why I planted this one.

I planted it because why wait?
Why buy love, or hope it arrives from elsewhere, or wait to be chosen for it?

This rose lives here because I chose it to.

What stood there with me was not romance or nostalgia.
It was something quieter.
Something steadier.

Self-love — not as effort, not as affirmation — but as presence that no longer abandons itself.

The stems were strong.
The blooms unapologetic.
The colour deep enough to hold tenderness without collapse.

This wasn’t love leaning forward.
It wasn’t asking to be met.

It was love that stands.

Later, I brought some of the roses inside.

As I placed them in the room, something softened — not emotionally, but spatially.
The air changed.
The body responded before the mind did.

There was a familiarity to it.
A remembering that didn’t need history attached.

Something Lemurian in its simplicity —
creation without effort, beauty without performance, presence without explanation.

Not a past to return to,
but a way of being that still knows how to live through the body.

The moment did not begin at the table.
It did not require words.

It began outside, in the garden,
and it followed me inside because it was never bound to place.

This is where creation lives now.

Not in longing.
Not in symbolism.
Not in waiting.

But in the quiet authority of choosing oneself —
and allowing that choice to permeate everything that follows.

—
Saint Parousia