Roots and Fruits

I have been composing a song in my soul for months, maybe years, now, and still do not have the words to sing it, but this is my attempt at a hum of the tune.

I find myself moving through the seasons--I worked tirelessly for a job I wanted to end because I greatly hungered for passions in a new field. Then I worked tirelessly to mold my body into a shape more pleasing to me after years of carrying and feeding people in my womb, stretching me into someone unrecognizable. Then I hit a wall, at 100mph, like I'm sure we all did, and everything stopped. And in the stopping, I faced new stretching, new molding, but this was not by my design. The stretching came from my roots. Deep below the earth, my spirit was grasping in the dark, squeezing itself through new discoveries, lost truths, and a reality I could not yet understand, but was trying to wrap my mouth around as quickly as possible, so that I may gobble it up and continue breathing the air above ground.

My roots were cultivated through consistent moments of darkness in which I faced some limiting beliefs that were being purged out of me. Each moment stretched my heart so thin I thought it might tear, when in reality, over time, I stood in awe of the gentle, yet invincible tissue my heart, my spirit, is made of. It was in these moments--dirty, choking underground--that I saw God. I saw God in myself, in my ancestors, in the geese that landed in the field behind my house. I saw God in my makeup artist who breathed with me when breath felt like thick pudding in my lungs. I saw God in my son whose emotions are so big, his body seems to dance with fire. I saw God in the grooves of my fingertips, and the ridges of my teeth. My eyes found light in places that once scared me, and I knew that I could not be threatened.

This year, the realization dawned on me that I was entering a spring season in my soul. I found pleasure in creating stories again, I no longer felt immobilized by the demons that plunged me into the soil, and I had a newfound energy to bloom and touch the sky.

I will tell you though, dear one, that in this season of spring and summer, when fruit has so easily grown and satiated my soul, that a new fear has followed me in the shade of my beautiful crown. I have finally found the words for it: I am afraid that without more winters, without deep, soul wrenching grief, I will never be whole, never touch the sky.

But if there is one tap root I can draw on in winter and spring, it is that I need never feel ashamed for where I am growing. This fear, I know, is partially springing from the relief and gratitude for my new season, for the sun. I do not yet embrace pain; I do not yet allow the dark to envelope me without struggle, and so I find myself running from every hint of shadow.

But beneath the aversion to discomfort which we all share, I know the nucleus of this fear is that I am actually dependent on my demons. I fear that I will never truly turn toward the sun and allow myself to be ripened, softened. The dark soil, while it can be terrifying, is also comforting, to feel wrapped tightly and guided every inch, every moment of the journey. In the sun, I have no bed, no buffer, and no end in sight. I must be able to see every part of me and stand my ground. I must allow myself to soften, to sweeten--every part of me. Am I truly ready to allow all of me to be loved?

The wisdom of the seasons is that I do retreat to my grief sometimes, and yes, it may be a crutch I lean on when I cannot face the sun, but it does not mean that I am failing. The tree needs fruit and roots. In my unending time of instruction and growth, I can sing praises for each season, even if they come before I invite them. And my worth is not based on the fruit I've collected or the soil I've pushed through. I am worthy regardless of what I've accumulated, regardless of the season. I am not what I carry, I am merely the tree.

For now, I will bask in the glow of my vitamin D lamp, allow my soul to quiet for a few minutes each day, and feel God in the soil as well as the sun.