The Bush The Briar Wanted To Be

Prelude

When you think of a bush, what do you see?

For most, we imagine those little, round balls of green we used to scribble on our art projects as children. In our heads they were bright and small and lush and lovely and we always imagined rows of them lining the house of our dreams.

But I want you to think harder. I want you to remember that those shrubs aren't the only bushes out there.

The first to come to mind may be the rose. She is a bush. She is lovely, beautiful, elegant. But what is a rose without thorns? Just another flower. Without the risk of getting pricked the rose loses her magic. She becomes another flower. Pretty, yes. But easy. Attainable. Common.

The rose can survive much and still bloom vibrant. A blackberry bush consumes all as it moves through life. Producing sweet fruit on its way. Some of the best plants, it seems, are covered in thorns. Protecting their worth and defending their honor.

But surely, no matter the potential, a fruitless thicket isn't acknowledged with joy or excitement, no. A rose out of season, a berry in the fall, the thorned walls of your fairytales. There is little happiness for a bare briar. Much of the time there is only fear. Anger. Anguish. Disgust. For who would embrace such needled arms? Who could look past the immediate dangers to realized what could be?

At its core, some part of the briar longs to be soft. A simple bush with harmless branches. An ample bush. Green and round and lovely. Boring. But loved. Fear not, dear briar. You are not alone.

Although much of the company briars share is between themselves, they surround each other. Gather into a forest of their own where few others may survive. Suffocating. May you find that you, too, have found such forests. And that you, too, have found other briars of whom share you struggles. It's comforting to say the least.