This spring, Mother Nature is playing her games. One day, it is one hundred degrees in Texas and the next day, snow is forecast. And yet, there are days in North Carolina that the weather is absolutely perfect. Wherever you live, at some point the flowers will start to bloom, and in the South, the Azaleas will break out in their full glory. I’m told this cycle has a lot to do with the plants’ and bulbs’ roots. I suspect a lot of things about us have to do with our roots.
In the botanical world, the root is the silent engine of survival. While we marvel at the pink of the Azalea or the delicate reach of a new leaf, the real work happens in the dark, damp silence beneath the soil. When the Texas heat tries to wither a stem or an unseasonal North Carolina frost bites at the bud, it is the root system that holds the line. It stores the energy, anchors the weight, and remembers the water even when the surface is parched.
We are not so different from the flora we admire. Human beings possess “roots” that are just as invisible and just as vital.
Our roots are the stories told at kitchen tables and on front porches, the values whispered to us as children, and the hard-won lessons of those who walked before. They are the cultural heritage that gives us a sense of place and the personal history that gives us a sense of self. Like the Azalea, we often focus on our “blossoms”—our career achievements, our social presence, our outward successes. But when the “weather” of life turns erratic—when we face the sudden heat of a crisis or the unexpected winter of a loss—our blossoms don’t provide shelter. In those moments, we are forced to rely on what lies unseen.
Perhaps the most beautiful thing about roots, both in the garden and in the soul, is that they are constantly growing. We aren’t just born with them; we tend to them. We deepen them every time we choose integrity over ease, every time we reconnect with our families, and every time we sit in the “perfect weather” of a quiet afternoon and remember who we are.
So, as the seasons shift and the colors break out across the landscape, it’s worth looking past the petals. Give thanks for the dirt, the depth, and the quiet, stubborn strength of the things that hold us down so that we may eventually reach up.
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