ROSES ARE RED
A rose is a rose is a rogue.
TOM ROBBINS
Jitterbug Perfume
Years ago, when I started Touching people, the Red rose started to perfume my life. Up to that point, I had never, ever been a fan of Red roses; they seemed like such overcommercialized, heavily Hallmarked representations for “love.” But when the Universe started chucking Red roses at me, like rice thrown at a bride, I paid attention.
I soon discovered that the Red rose was the insignia for Babalon, as well as for Magdalene, Aphrodite, and other “love goddesses” from our deep, dark The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, Barbara G. Walker explains, “The Rose, which ancient Rome knew as the flower of Venus, was the badge of the sacred prostitute. Things spoken ‘under the rose’ (sub rosa) were part of Venus’ sexual mysteries, not to be revealed to the uninitiated.”1 In alchemy, the rose suggests a marriage between spirit and matter. In some mystical traditions, the rose signifies the heart and the unfolding petals represent the process of self-revelation. The rose is also a common symbol for the soul, not to mention an anagram for eros.
After I did a little research, it made more sense why Red rose petals were scattered across my path. Nevertheless, I was apprehensive when I started to receive the inner nudge to get the “head” of a Red rose tattooed on the back of my neck (the neck is where the fifth chakra is located, which affects self-expression). So I did what I normally do when I receive somewhat outlandish intuitions. I waited.
There are hundreds of winks I could share, but here’s a snapshot of one particular day: At breakfast with my friend Tara, right when I opened my mouth to ask her what she thought about this inky intuition, her cell phone rang and she started shouting into the receiver, “Rose?! Rose?!” — the name of the woman calling that very moment. I closed my mouth. A few hours later, while walking my dog in the park, two strangers approached me: one woman introduced herself as “Rose,” and the other woman had a rose tattooed onto her shoulder. After I complimented the woman on her tattoo, she gave me the number of her tattoo artist in San Francisco, who had learned the art by tattooing roses up and down her own legs. When I left the park and walked past my favorite ice cream parlor, they were handing out free samples of a new flavor — yep, rose.
I’ve asked for this type of ridiculous treatment. I know I’m slow to trust and chock full of (sometimes healthy) doubt. So when it comes to divine winks, I tell the Universe to Bring It until I cry “mercy.” After months of wily winks and one week before I was set to start writing this very book, I finally cried “mercy.”
I brought three girlfriends to the tattoo parlor, smudged the place with sage, set up a mini Red altar, lit rose-scented candles, and then read out loud the meaning of the Red rose and my intention for tattooing it on the back of my neck:
“To communicate my soul’s truth as authentically as possible.”
Moved by the ritual, my tattooist briefly took off her shirt to show us an enormous image of Kali tattooed across her entire back. “Wow,” I smiled in reverent surprise. “Kali has our backs even here.”
(Pause.)
Girlfriend, be extra-strength careful in setting your intentions. The Universe takes our intentions seriously, especially when they’re ritualized and wholehearted, aligned with our soul (not just our ego), and backed by Kali …