Writer on the Wall

Along one of my long-run routes, I pass a tree that ignites my imagination every time I go by it.

It clings to the hillside out of which it grows, its roots on display like the exposed labrynthine tunnel world of a glass-encased ant farm. Taggers have painted graffiti on the hardpan cliff around it.

I wonder how it manages to hold on to its precarious position, how many more unseen roots inside the dirt beyond the sheer cliff face give it purchase and stability. From my angle on the road below, it looks almost one dimensional. But if it were, surely the tree would have lost its grip long ago, toppling from the weight of the branches’ growth above the ground.

Some of what gives us our foundation, our history, our stability is visible to those around us, just like the roots of this tree that I can see from my vantage point. But we all have hidden sources of strength, roots that go deep into the earth, keeping us from tumbling when it looks like our grip is slipping.