Roots.
In the mathematical universe, so much of numbers theory revolves around the identification of the root.
In many different areas, diagnostic issues focus on the root cause of the problem, the issue.
In the computer world, we have the root directory.
In music, the fundamental note of a chord is the root.
In the chord that reverberates outward, emanating from this energy that is me, bouncing off the floors and trees and walls and maybe through your skin your ears, your mind, your heart… what is the root? What is the fundamental note of my chord?
I love to pluck the gossamer ball of a mature dandelion, bring it to my lips and blow. Watch the seeds scatter beautifully in the wind. Nevermind that I now will have more dandelions. I live in the country and have a field to play in. Besides, I am obsessive about enough things already. A few weeds in my yard do not bother me. Many of these blown seeds will take root. Some of you may know that the root of a dandelion is not terribly deep, but it certainly has a firm hold on its little plot of soil. For most of my life, I have been the parachuted seed, blowing in the wind, landing only to be blown again. I have lacked roots, whether deep or firm-grasping.
My family is scattered in both heart and home, and our “traditions” are dominated by the “we’ll get together sometime, oh, how’re the children” conversations once every month or two. My dreams and goals have been scattered and smothered. My convictions….There. I have convictions. Unshakeable, immovable beliefs. These, then, must be my roots. I may wander, but I stay within the boundary defined by my convictions. When the boundary is breached, it is because I tend to test certain convictions, to test this sense of self.
I can handle convictions as roots. For many, it is this way, I am sure. However, I love it when I have the opportunity to be around people with a vast and complex root system. Their network of roots includes their convictions, their family, their friends, and so much more. I get the sense, being around these people, that an entire community may be destroyed if part of the network failed. And, at times, these networks do fail. Roots need nourishment. Older now, I can look back and see that my grandparents tried to feed the root system that their parents had maintained. They attempted to nourish it through love and instruction, prayer and dinners together, family customs, patience, and time. Their prodigy, though: dandelions. The field they worked: an arid pavement. As I glance at the family outposts scattered far and wide, I notice that the ones who are thriving to any degree are doing so in the cracks in the pavement. It is tough work, being planted. Tougher work to bloom.
I look at my children. The wind blows. We reside in our own crack in the pavement, though. And we are busting rocks. Transience has its place, and I am recognizing the outlets for this energy, this nomadic spirit. For all we learn in everything we do, we learn more from our children - if we allow ourselves. Perhaps there exists no better school than that school where the parent learns from the child. Naturally, much of this learning is a covert exercise in self-awareness and selflessness. The wind can blow, but these roots are strong and getting stronger. I can be planted here….We are no dandelions. We are no mere perennial beauties, either. We are evergreen, evermore.My children, my convictions, my handful of dreams. These are my roots. These comprise the fundamental root of my chord. And it is a minor seventh chord, both melancholy and joyful. Brief sadness at the passage of time, splashes of brilliance and laughter at the sharing of time. It is a melodic chord, beautiful. And it deserves to be heard, if only by me.
