Five Minute Friday, where we join in community over at Lisa Jo’s and have some open, honest and often gut-wrenching
writing. One word, five minutes, no take backs. It’s pure, and I love it.
The roots are deep, stretching out under the soil like long fingers that are searching through the dirt. Through the branches the wind whistles a Scottish tune, the pipes and drummers sending forth a melody of the days gone by. I can almost see the tartan, red and green, draped and caught at the ends with a pin. These sounds and images are at the trunk of this great tree, reaching from the roots and thrusting the branches into the sky. On the leaves are the breaths of life of my ancestors. Aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins. With each tangling twig is a story, a mark of my past, written in blood. And I know so much of who I am because of what I see in the rings of this memory.
But I can’t help but wonder what that feels like for my children. For their tree to be cropped, and added to. The rings are transplanted and altered to make a new story, a new past and present. I love that they pick up my history, that they claim my family as their own. And yet….I wonder if that will change. If as they grow and want to know more about their family history, if they will be disheartened at our lack of knowledge. If they will feel less secure of who they are for the lack of consistent roots. I can only pray that rings of history we make with them, the roots that we give them, will stretch beyond the fractured history and make a new beginning. That being my child, leaves on my branch, rings in my history, will be enough.