This is part of the Friday Five Minutes, instigated by LisaJo, aka the gypsy mama. What she calls a flash mob of writers, heart and soul, winged and free, writing for five minutes, connecting back to her blog, connecting with each other. It is fun - no pretences, no over-thinking, no detailed editing. Lovely. I look forward to this each week. I took time off, posting Thirty-One, A Novel, through October, but glad to be back.
This week the topic is:
Did you see some of the photos from hurricane Sandy, of trees pulled up by the roots? Whole trees, big trees, their roots exposed and wild looking, like dread-locks, twisted and intertwined and tangled. Above ground. Not where they are supposed to be. Roots are meant to be snug and safe and tucked into the deep dark earth, soaking up nutrients and water, subterranean, giving the tree its life and its stability.
Roots. Some people seem to have them. They stay, planted, firm, right where they are, year after year. The same neighborhood, the same church, the same grocery store, the same car repair guy.
Some of us do not have roots. We wander. We move. We wonder what will come next. We find new sources of inspiration, new views, new perspectives.
Have you seen photos of a tree, fallen, with a new shoot springing up from its trunk? Just enough roots left in the ground to spark new growth. Roots, digging in, seeking life, rooting. Funny, I hadn't thought of roots, rooting. Pigs root, or our dog roots when she is making a nest of her blanket. Of course, roots root. Seeking, searching, looking, wandering, reaching out for what will give stability and nurture. Like our dog, when she settles into her nested pile of blanket, safe, secure.
When the storms come, we hang on, leaning into the roots.
Well, time is up. Went a little over, actually.