The Rose Bushes are Speaking - Are You Listening?
I expected the vintner to be watching the vines.
After all, they were the prize, weren’t they? The gnarled branches twisted in perfect rows, holding the weight of the future in clusters of green. I thought he’d be checking the leaves, the soil, maybe plucking a grape and rolling it between his fingers like some kind of ancient wisdom keeper.
Instead, he was looking at the roses.
I followed his gaze to the bright red blooms at the end of each row, their petals unfurling in the late afternoon light.
“The vines are strong,” he said, almost absently. “But the roses are delicate. If something is off—the soil, the water, a disease creeping in—the roses will show it first. They’re our early warning system. They tell us when to pay attention before the vines ever show signs of distress.”
I stood there, hand resting against a sun-warmed post, letting that settle in.
He doesn’t watch the vines. He watches the roses.
And just like that, a thought hit me sideways. What are my rose bushes?
What is the thing in my life that tells me when I’m starting to drift before the real damage sets in?
I already know.
My morning walk.
When I step outside first thing, before emails, before obligations, before the world comes rushing in—I feel like I belong to myself. The air is crisp, the gravel crunches under my feet, the rhythm of my steps matching the quiet hum of my thoughts. I notice things. The way the mist clings to the fields. The slow stretch of the sky waking up. The space I create just by putting one foot in front of the other.
But when I start skipping it, or rushing through it, or turning it into just another productivity hack—filling the silence with voice messages, scrolling through emails, half-walking, half-doing—I know.
The roses are wilting.
And if I ignore them for too long? The vines will suffer.
I take a deep breath, standing in the vineyard, feeling the exhaustion of the day dissolve into something else entirely. A quiet knowing.
And here’s the truth: I’ve ignored my own early warning signs before.
I’ve told myself it wasn’t a big deal. That skipping my walk for a few days wouldn’t matter. That I could push through, power on, keep going. And at first, it’s fine—until it’s not. Until the small imbalance snowballs into something bigger. Missed phone calls. Deadlines creeping up. The kind of pressure that tightens around my chest, leaving me stretched too thin.
And then? I pulled the plug. I came on retreat—not as a leader, but as someone who needed to listen to her own wisdom. Who needed space to reset. Who needed to stop pretending the roses weren’t already wilting.
I look around the vineyard now, the vines steady and strong, the roses swaying in the breeze, and I realize—small signs don’t require drastic measures. They just need attention. The vintner doesn’t wait until the vines are withering to make a change. He sees the roses, shifts the soil, adjusts the water, and saves the harvest before it’s ever at risk.
The same is true for us. Small shifts, noticed in time, keep everything in balance.
What are your rose bushes?
What’s the small, almost imperceptible shift that tells you something isn’t quite right? Maybe it’s the way you stop playing music while you cook. The half-read book gathering dust on your nightstand. The untouched yoga mat in the corner. The text you keep meaning to send but never do.
Whatever it is—pay attention.
The roses are speaking. Are you listening?
