Five Minute Friday – RootsPosted: November 2, 2012
It’s Friday. It’s Five Minute Friday, and I’m back! On Fridays a bunch of us link up to Lisa-Jo and write for 5 mins on a given topic. No over-thinking, no editing. Then we visit each other and comment. Click on the button to find out more.
This weeks topic…
I’ve traveled and moved around, streets, cities, countries, continents, since I was a toddler. When we stayed others left, and when others stayed we left. Constant change.
We went back “home” as my mom kept calling it when I was 6 years old. A place I didn’t remember, people I didn’t recognize. “This is your home” My mom would tell me “This is where you are from, this is where your roots are.” It left me confused. How was THIS home, and not the place where my bed was, not the place with my friends and my school, not the place where I would go and dance everyday. How could this be where I was from? How could this be my roots when I didn’t even remember them?
I never minded moving, I never thought twice about all the change in my life until that summer. That summer I encountered people, white-skinned like me, who had lived in their cozy little homes their whole lives. Who had friends they had known since they were babes in their mothers arms. Churches that were stable, and adults who had watched them grow. They had shared memories with other play-mates from years previous. They knew their school and they knew their teachers. They knew where they were from, and they were convinced they knew what next year would look like.
That summer a longing began in me. The longing for roots, for stability. It started small, just a tiny nagging from time to time, but as I grew so did it. I never found those roots. I searched, and I tried to create, but it was to no avail. If the roots aren’t put in a place early enough, I don’t think they can ever go deep. My roots were and are in no place, and the longing is sometimes still there.
In recent years I have unveiled a new truth. I do have roots, they just are not where I expected them to be. My roots are in people. People whom I may not see for years at a time. People who may have entered my life in recent years. People who may themselves feel rootless. People who are scattered all across this globe. My roots are in the people that make home, home. My roots are in the people who have shaped me, and continue to shape me. With these people It matters not if I am in a luxury hotel, in their comfy homes, sat in a busy coffee shop, or knelt on the dusty ground of a slum. Because as long as they are there, I am at home, and I feel grounded by my roots in them.