Root envy

Learning to see the fruits of our empathy

Today’s accompanying tune: “AWARDS SEASON” by Bon Iver

I think often of the people who never leave. Their reasons are many — cost, obligation, privilege and lack thereof — but the result, their rootedness, can feel universal.

Often, I envied them. I envied their intrinsic sense of place, their sense of belonging. Of knowing themselves and their place so deeply as to be able to refer to places, streets, trails long gone as vividly as those marked on an internet map. I envied the strings they could follow, trailing from themselves back in time to meet relatives, friends of friends, former teachers or mentors, neighbors, that had shaped their lives as much as they’d shaped this place. The two so intertwined that seeking to untangle them would simply be an exercise in fruitlessness and frustration. I envied the soft confidence of someone who could see themselves in the curves of the road, the detritus of an early spring trail, in the soft hills of the land. I envied their roots, growing wildly underneath the earth on which we both stood, branching and reaching and acting as the foundation for their lives.

I envied as those do, those whose roots are only just sprouting, only just beginning the lifelong journey for sustenance. They take their time, my roots, after having been yanked out of the soil before. They’ve seen this film before, and now proceed cautiously. They stay close, not at all eager to take the risk of watching it all get ripped away. They’ve been hurt, been burned, been drought-stricken and resilient. They’ve hardened ever so slightly, determined to make it work this time, able to find nourishment on the smallest of morsels. Enviable, even, in their ability to thrive once given the chance.

Often, envy lives at the surface. It sees only the flowers, the leaves, the fruit. It doesn’t see the roots. Doesn’t see how they’ve twisted around boulders and busted through cement. It doesn’t see how they’ve battled unwelcome pests and disease, or how they’ve sacrificed themselves in times of scarcity to keep the whole alive. Envy rarely sees the whole; it thrives on its own tunnel vision. Gaining the ability to see the whole, to see underground and map the roots’ progress, is so antithetical to envy that it requires a new word entirely. Empathy.

Now, when I think of the people who never leave, I rarely feel envy. I feel empathy. I see the dreams deferred, the ruts hastily filled, the slow diminishing of magic that comes with living in spectacular places. The acceptance of desertion, as those that want to leave and have the ability to do so, do. The mundanity of life fills the gaps left behind after any disruption, leaving the root system bare and alone. They watch new roots grow and caution them against getting too attached. They warn of hard winters and false springs. They want to protect the new growth, to help new growth learn from their accumulated experiences. To share the knowledge they’ve gathered from becoming so intertwined with a place it becomes impossible to tell the two apart. How to avoid tourists on the most popular trails, how to dry out your gear after a slow but steady downpour. How to keep warm when the chill seeps deep into your bones. How long you should wait after a storm to mow the grass. All of this, they know.

My roots, in comparison, have little to offer in return. They have the knowledge of sticking out hot, dry summers. How to best hydrate in an emergency. How to tell if a snake is venomous or simply an imitator. How to run downhill without eating dirt. How to simmer a sauce without covering the kitchen in tomato bits. How to talk a dog down from a panic attack. What it feels like to know the routine of a marine layer. How to live through days that seemed impossibly dark. How to go to the place in your head where things just happen. How to will things into existence. How to make a life, regardless of where you’ve been planted. All skills, to be sure, with varying levels of realistic value. Hardly the stuff of envy, though, since they more often than not sit just below the surface, residing at the base of the roots that haven’t yet had a chance to spread out, to explore, to discover a new home.

They have to begin again the aching process of growth, the heady days of progress and the despair of stagnation. They don’t know yet what they will encounter on their journey, and there is only so much guidance an established root system can give. Because those established root systems are missing what makes the newer roots special. The small bits and bobs they’ve collected over their journeys, the places they’ve called home firmly implanted in their memories. The knowledge that envy is only a superficial game — the good stuff comes just below. The well of empathy growing with each uprooting. A recent knowledge of what it is like to begin, to know very little, to start over. To try something new, to get a little uncomfortable. To get a lot uncomfortable. To meet discomfort with curiosity and compassion. To avoid speaking only in warnings, but in gratitude. Gratitude for the hard lessons, for the cold winters, the brutal summers. For the fear and doubt and never-ending uncertainty. Without it, there’s no way we would’ve made it this far.

As much as I hope to learn from those who have never left, I hope to return in any way that I can. That my root system can intertwine and become part of the bedrock of this place, this home. That I can contribute a bit of nourishment and a bit of gratitude when supplies run low. That our little ecosystem only strengthens for my time here and bolsters those who have been doing the hardest work for the longest time. That we can exchange some of that envy for a bit more empathy, a whole picture filling out the snapshot we had before.

That we can see the roots as well as the flowers and fruit, and be happier for it.

Here’s to root envy.

- Megan