I. Trees are some of my favorite things in the world. I like the
slow-motion waving of their big branches, and the excited quivering of their
little leaves. I like the shade they spread across the grass and the rustling,
creaking laughter they make when the wind tickles them. I like the birds and
squirrels and cicadas that hide in them and call out from their hidden perches
in the green foliage. I like the metaphor of the seasons they illustrate so
perfectly, and how they are always beautiful, whether in new bud and bloom or
naked against a bleeding winter sky. I even think there’s a certain subtle
loveliness in the shades of their brown branches in November. And I love the
secret they hide underneath, in the ground.
The roots of trees are just as wonderful as the branches:
just as strong and wide and spreading. But usually they get forgotten until a
storm comes up and blows the trees down, dragging the roots clear out of the earth.
Only then do we notice, and “oooh” and “ahhhh” over the impressive grip they
must have had on the ground
.
But I like to think about the roots all the time. When I walk
under the tree, I remember that I’m walking over the roots. And I imagine the
branches of the tree clinging to the sky as fiercely as their underground
cousins clutch the dirt.
II. Barely two weeks ago, Eric and I moved into our dear
little apartment, which we have affectionately deemed “The Patchwork House” due
to its cobbled-together interior (take, for example, our living room with the
mismatched furniture including a dark computer desk, a light oak end table, and
a reddish-brown TV stand).
The day we got our keys, we were there, even though our stuff
hadn’t been delivered yet. After a day of cleaning, we ate a pizza on the floor,
picnic style, and toasted our new home with Coca Cola in plastic Wisconsin
Badgers cups. Since our bed was still packed up
in a van, we had to go back to the hotel for one more night, though I would
have been quite content on the floor in a sleeping bag. I didn’t want to leave
our little house, because it already felt like it was
ours.
See, up until that moment, Eric and I hadn’t
really had the chance to feel that sense of belonging. After our wedding, we
honeymooned in Maine, then bounced back and forth between our parents houses
while we waited for Eric’s security clearance to go through. When we arrived in
New York, we lived in a hotel for a month. None of this was really that awful,
of course. We had everything we could want and more, as far as physical needs
go… but my soul was starved for that sense of belonging. I was craving it,
whether it came in the form of new friendships, a fulfilling job, or in a
secondhand table set with wedding-present dishes that we still hadn’t gotten to
use yet.
III. Fast-forward to the next night. The Patchwork House is
a maze of half-unpacked boxes, but our bed is made. The blinds are drawn
against the night, but I peek through, out at the dark street. The ceaseless
songs of crickets fall against my ears, and I can see the stars if I press my
nose against the screen and peer upward. The trees sprouting out of the
newly-mowed lawns wiggle their branches at me, a welcoming wave to the new
neighbor. With a glance over my shoulder to make sure Eric is still brushing
his teeth and not around to think I have gone crazy (though he would probably
just laugh and kiss my forehead) I flutter my fingers back at the friendly
trees.
In a flash, then, I think of their roots: those muddy,
invisible branches that stretch deep into the ground and make that place home.
A smile cracks the corners of my face: an easy, happy smile, and I curl my toes
against the carpet, imagining that I am sending out roots of my own.
