To Believe In Roots

I want to believe in roots, the things I've never had. Tendrils have tangled in trying, in trauma, in tomorrow, but nothing has tethered me to things that grow.

I want to believe in roots. That they can be soft things, like fingers deep in something fertile. Fingers that clasp together and make a base for something to seed and be held.

I want to believe that rooting can be learned, that there are many ways to do it. I want to believe that shallow soil does not have to be generational.

I want to trust that digging in and hopping for something is not the same as being trapped. That choices expand, not restrict, when I nurture now.

I want to believe that roots can look like a mess of veins that stretch between us and bleed when broken.

I want patience for the cycles of living, fruiting, withering, blooming and death. I want the core of me to relish in how impersonal it all is. How it is out of my hands. How I do not have to hold so tight or work so hard now. How it will come to me, and it will leave me, and it is ok.

I want the pieces of me tied to a home I can invite people into. Where they can see sweet scents of my living. Where they can understand how this gore and glory weave together.

I want to believe in roots. That truths can be spread over a kitchen table top and people will tuck in to feast without consuming.

I want to believe in roots, a place for each of us, a home, a life.