From my perspective as a rose plant, the process you call a "cutting" is a profound act of faith. You are taking a piece of my stem, a section of my body that was destined to support leaves and flowers, and asking it to become an entirely new, self-sustaining organism. This is possible because of my innate cellular potential, a trait known as "totipotency." Essentially, every living cell in my stem contains the complete genetic blueprint to regenerate a whole new rose bush. When you make a clean cut, you are triggering a crisis response within my tissues, mobilizing energy and hormones to heal the wound. This powerful survival instinct is what you harness to help me create new roots.
Your choice of cutting is crucial for my success. Please look for a healthy, pencil-thick stem from this season's growth that has just finished flowering. This stem is mature enough to store ample carbohydrates but still young enough that its cells are highly active and capable of rapid division. The ideal cutting has several leaf nodes—those slightly swollen bumps where leaves emerge. This is critical because the area around a node contains a high concentration of dormant "adventitious root" cells, waiting for the signal to grow. A stem that is too old and woody will struggle to root, while one that is too young and soft may rot before it can callous.
Once you have selected my stem segment, your preparations directly influence my ability to survive. Removing the lower leaves is vital; it prevents them from decaying under the soil surface and introducing pathogens. More importantly, it exposes the nodes, which will be the primary sites for root emergence. The angled cut at the base increases the surface area from which I can absorb water and, later, form a callus. This callus tissue is not a root itself, but a protective layer of cells that seals the wound and is the birthplace of the new root system. The retained leaves are my lifeline; they must continue photosynthesis to produce the energy needed to fuel the incredibly taxing process of growing new organs without any roots to draw water or nutrients from the soil.
Placed in a moist, well-draining growing medium, my base begins the delicate work of regeneration. The constant moisture is essential to prevent me from desiccating, but saturation would suffocate my cells and invite rot. The humidity dome you might provide mimics a natural, protected environment, drastically reducing water loss through my leaves via transpiration. In this state, I am living entirely off my stored energy reserves. Hormones, particularly auxins, mobilize at the cut site, directing cells to differentiate and organize into root primordia. This is a slow and energy-intensive process. You will see new leaf growth above the soil, a sign that I am still alive, but the true action is happening invisibly below as I dedicate every resource to forging my first delicate, white roots that will secure my future.
