Somewhere My Love

Looking out my dining room window, winter has taken over.


Two benches sit idle near our blown-shut path leading to a frozen-over Lake Michigan. Knee deep in wind-packed snow, a foot and a half on top, the benches offer no refuge.


Rounded-white effigies occupy the black, wrought iron chairs on our patio. No respite, again, for winter has settled in.


Winter can make for lonesome days in January that have sometimes made me quip, “Doctor Zhivago visits here often,” when summer visitors ask me, “How’s winter in Leland?”


Today’s solitude makes me think of that scene in Doctor Zhivago where he and his femme fatale arrive by horse-drawn sleigh at a dacha – encased outside and in by a glaze of ice and snow.


Somewhere My Love,” Lara’s theme from the film sings in my ear.


Thankfully, Valentine’s Day falls in mid February and the rose is the flower of choice. Roses have a cultivated mystique, ancient symbols of love and beauty, remembrance and passion. Each rose has a magnificence that transcends its physical uniqueness, deep fragrance, and short life as a cut flower. The color of a rose has significance, too.


Red stirs romance and passion.

Pink… grace, elegance and refinement.

White holds out for happiness.

Blue… try mystery and intrigue.

Purple longs for love at first sight.

Orange shouts out enthusiasm.

Yellow conveys joy and friendship in today’s western world, although it has historically meant joy, wisdom and power in Eastern cultures, and has long symbolized jealousy and dying love in Europe.


Come next week, pose daily with a rose when you knock on your door.


Don’t wait for Dr. Zhivago to come singing “Somewhere my love.”


Johnston M. Mitchell lives in Leland, Michigan with his wife and their two children. He works as a freelance writer while operating a fine art gallery – the Brenda J. Clark Gallery – in Suttons Bay, Michigan. View his blog, R.A.P.P.S. at




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One thought on “Somewhere My Love”

  1. I can’t remember if I sent or received a bouquet of yellow roses. I thought it meant friendship. My mother explained it meant diminished love. I’m sure I didn’t know that. I’m sure he didn’t either. It was unconsciously accurate–I do recall that. And I’ve never seen a blue rose. That would be a mystery …

    I do love reading your epistles. And I hope you and your bride have many happy petals … so white roses to go with the white snow and Dr. Zhivago.

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