I’m not that into roses.

It rained hard last night, the water ripping streaks down the glass that separated the weather from my bed. The skies were clear this morning and I headed down to the beach, which was unusually empty given that spring break has descended on this little town. I clinched my fists against the chill that still hung in the shadows of the bluffs rising from the sand and gave a silent ‘thank you’ that I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.

I wasn’t in the best of moods.

I ran south, mulling over changing scenarios and conversations that haven’t happened, until my internal clock told me it was time to turn around and head home. An image flashed through my mind of Dr. Wayne W. Dyer delivering a red rose, along with a Rumi poem, to a woman in the audience at one of the events we did together. And I thought to myself that I couldn’t remember the last time I got a rose, if ever. Stupid roses. I’m not that into them anyway.

Like I said, not the best of moods.

And then down to my right a few steps later, embedded in the hard sand left behind by last night’s high tide, was a red rose. Her petals were crushed and torn and she was barely peeking up from the sand, but she was there, locked in one of those moments you can’t quite believe is happening. I stopped and thought about pulling the rose up from the sand and bringing her home, but I left her there.

Someone else out there might not be that into roses, either.