The Rose That Refused to Behave and Why I Let Her Stay

There’s a particular rose in my garden that the many love to hate

“Her perfume is heavenly—almost wild—honeysuckle meets old rose.

She doesn’t behave. She belongs.”

— Forage and Gather

There’s a particular rose in my garden that many love to hate.

She’s not refined. She doesn’t bloom politely. She sprawls. She tangles. She dares to grow wherever the birds have dropped her. Her name is the multiflora rose, and she’s been called invasive, aggressive, even “the kudzu of the rose world.” But I call her something else.

I call her beloved.

She wasn’t planted by pedigree or catalog. She arrived, years ago, from wind or wing or wild luck. And she stayed. Each spring, she throws herself into bloom with such fervor that the whole garden holds its breath. Her perfume is heavenly—almost wild—honeysuckle meets old rose. It lingers like childhood secrets, like something remembered before language.

She is, to be sure, unruly. But she is not unwanted.

The multiflora rose is often vilified—and not without reason. Many conservationists and traditional horticulturists cite its aggressive spread, its ability to crowd out native plants and pastures, and its role as a carrier of rose rosette disease, a viral condition spread by the microscopic Phyllocoptes fructiphilus mite. But here’s the thing: when a plant is tended with intention—pruned mindfully, allowed to root in a diverse, thriving ecosystem, and surrounded by companions that create balance—it no longer behaves like its feral cousins running wild through untended fields. What you’re doing is not simply letting it go—it’s tending. And that makes all the difference.

The difference between neglected and cultivated wildness

There’s a wide chasm between a plant let loose and a plant loved. I don’t let my multiflora rose go rampant. I tend her. I prune her after bloom. I plant her companions close, not to compete, but to soften and support. Wild onion and catmint tangle at her feet. A wild black cherry , Aronia and Serviceberry are her chatty neighbors. Golden yarrow lifts her chin toward the bees. Calendula dots the edges like sunlight made flesh.

This isn’t chaos. It’s co-creation.

To call her invasive in this space would be missing the point entirely. She thrives because the soil is alive. Because she belongs here, as part of a system that welcomes the give-and-take of roots and blossoms, of thorns and fragrance.

In the spring she’s covered with honeybees, and in autumn, she doesn’t disappear—she gives again. Tiny scarlet hips—glossy, mineral-rich, food for birds and medicine for me. I’ve steeped them into teas, tucked them into cider vinegar, and watched the cardinals feast as frost comes near.

When my grandson found her

Just last week, Wolfie was tossing his ball through the garden—one of those glorious, messy mornings when nothing goes according to plan and everything is perfect anyway. His ball rolled under the arching arms of the multiflora rose, and without hesitation, he followed.

I found him beneath her, tucked inside her thorns like a secret, alongside his friend, a weathered stone crow that he loves to sit against. The branches had formed a kind of canopy, soft green and white overhead, the scent of summer pressed thick in the air.

He had his eyes closed, his face tilted up, and he whispered:

“Mimi. Pretty.”

And he was right. It was.

I crawled under the arch with him, scratched and smiling. The world smelled like roses and childhood, like legacy and rebellion all at once. That moment—him sitting in awe, me beside him—felt like the garden offering us a kind of knowing. That beauty doesn’t always come from control.

Sometimes, it blooms because we stop trying to make it behave.

Companion planting is one of the most loving things you can do for any rose—multiflora or otherwise. Roses thrive in community, not isolation. It used to be that we planted them in tidy rows or showpiece beds, surrounded by mulch and little else—monocultures designed for display, not relationship. But younger gardeners are remembering what older gardening traditions have always practiced: that a rose doesn’t need perfection, she needs connection. In the cottage gardens of England, the village plots of France, the green hillsides of Scotland, or even growing wild along the edges of East Coast fields, you’ll find them—roses flourishing not in solitude, but in the company of mint and catmint, borage and yarrow, fruit trees and berry canes. Lots of wild things love roses and she loves them back. The idea that beauty thrives in diversity, not control, is blooming again.

When roses are planted among herbs, fruiting shrubs, and native perennials, they’re less likely to suffer from disease, pests, or stress. The right companions can repel aphids, attract pollinators, loosen the soil, and create a living mulch that keeps the roots cool and nourished. But more than that, diversity builds resilience. Just as people thrive in relationships that bring out different aspects of themselves, roses flourish when they’re part of a healthy, dynamic ecosystem. Companion planting isn’t just about practicality—it’s about partnership. It’s the difference between placing a rose on a pedestal and letting her belong to the living, breathing story of the garden itself.

This is slow gardening. Healing gardening. Companion planting is just one part—but it’s all part of a deeper practice: restoring right relationship between plant, place, and person. When we tend like this, the garden tends us back.

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Forage and Gather Readers: Your Extras Are Just Beyond the Gate

Beneath the paywall, you’ll find:

• A Companion Planting Guide for growing the dreaded Multiflora should you dare (and life) in a biodiverse ecosystem

• A Journaling Prompt to explore your own wild nature

• Herbal Notes from the Stillroom

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A message from my heart

Please remember, the herbs I write about are meant to inspire—not to diagnose, treat, or prescribe. Every body is different, and so is every medicine path. If you’re taking medications, pregnant, nursing, or managing a health condition, always consult a qualified health practitioner before adding new herbs to your life.

This is folk medicine. It’s personal, relational, and rooted in love. Trust your body. Tend your soil. Begin where you are.