The ties that bind us are truly the ties that hold us to ourselves and the past, present and future. As a growing entity we are like roots. Constantly reaching against the hardness of the world, into the depth of our lives and the complexities of its composition.
The roots are strong, some are thin and tenacious. It lies a wonder in mind to ponder the direction we work against our roots. If I she says it's black then I would say it's white. My Mom and Dad have been my roots. Roots that I have fought, pulled up and snapped off in times of my life that I find still graft when I finally set down long enough to ground. The roots aren't close together for me, but are spread far with space and time between them. The eras of trials always have resulted in spaces for my roots. When those roots are farther apart they grow stronger, working harder to nurture my soul and family. Working harder and being larger to take in the necessary pieces of joy and sadness that energize my growth. The thinner roots have bundles of other thin roots growing around them. Making for thin but bundled strength to make up for on strong root. Sometimes the thin roots break in growth if they are standing alone.
Did we know the roots that we were given would be grafted into our own family tree? Do my children grow against my roots as I had grown against my own parent's roots? Can we weather a storm, hurricane or typhoon in our tender years, our aged years? Will it be one storm that snaps us or the result of a lifetime of storms that bring us crashing to our knees?
Grafting roots has been a challenge for my life as of late. Picking up the pieces of roots that were snapped off in the trials and storms. Tenderly and gently rebinding them, brushing them off and clearing away the damage. There have been roots I have tried to regrow by forcefully shoving them into the soil of my life. I, in my fervor further damaged them by my sheer force and will power. The tenacity of the root returns despite my brutality of determination to keep the good parts. Thankful for that!
There are roots that decay. Roots that for some reason did not nurture my growth. To those, I have allowed them to wither and die. To be reabsorbed into the composition of my life and to provide nurturing experiences of sage and wisdom.
I am sincerely grateful for my roots. Blackened and strong from time. Fortifying in the barren and winter and dry hot summers. It may be all I leave behind.
