Rooted?

and an assortment of adjoining questions

What if…

What if that desire to move and to travel, to see things and set about into the world wasn’t possible? What if we were rooted in place, like plants, like trees, like moss? What if we had to let the world bring itself to us instead of us seeking it out?

What would it feel like to hold still and wait for the promise of rain and the delivery of micronutrients to my roots? Would desperation seize me? Would I feel despair? Hunger? Thirst? Would I quiver and twitch with the need to satisfy myself?

How could I build trust in a world where my independence meant not moving?

Or is that what faith is made of?

Would anyone come to love me? To sing to me? To whisper soft things and prune my branches? Would they know to fertilize the earth below when my tips turn yellow and my growth slows?

Oh hell, would I know how to grow like that? In just one place?

Would anyone know what to call me? Would I get a fancy plant tag? Would I nestle into a row of siblings like me? Would a nurse log hold me in place and feed of itself to watch me grow as it dissolved and decayed underneath? And who could reject a love like that?

Would I be frail and vulnerable to the wild runnings of feet and paws, to digging and sniffing, to plucking whatever (sweet?) flowers I may grow? Gosh, would someone pee on me?

Would the worms tickle? Would the ants scratch?

Would I taste good?

Would I wilt when the summer sun stays too long in the sky and the clouds dissipate? Would I still see the stars overhead at night? How do constellations look to a tree after all?

Would I know that my soil came from eons old rocks worn down by rain, worn down by wind, worn down by pill-bugs? Would I give a shit about carbon? Would I feel climate change happening?

Wait, could I ignore politics while I’m at it?

If I fell in a storm would someone right me? How would their boots feel pressing my roots back into the damp soil? And without ears would I hear them if they hummed a tune while they worked?

Would you cut the runners I send out? Would you replant them elsewhere and allow me to flourish somewhere new and unexpected? Would my seeds catch in your teeth from the berries you collect off my branches, or would you just sneeze at my fluff in the wind? And could that same fluff line the nests of birds, their eggs warm and safe within?

If I agree to this, and I’m not saying I will, then would I know regret if my decision was unwise? Or would my thoughts turn into slow rhythms of xylem and phloem, a delicate movement of vascular moisture and respiration through stomata and root and cell wall?

Will bee legs also tickle?

Will I be able to hear a hummingbird’s heartbeat?

Will you miss me? Or will you know where I am planted and visit me sometimes? Will you think about me when you’re cozy by the fire on a winter’s night, snow and wind howling, stars shrouded in clouds, my own bark the only barrier between myself and the storm?

Will I know myself?

And when I am finally gone, will you weave me into a willow fence or grow peas up my stiff branches? If I burn in that fire of yours, will you relish my heat? And what will my ashes mean? Would I be the source of stories you tell, and in those stories would I be a hero, a villain, an innocent vine, a seductive fruit, or a comedic nut? Or will you, instead, tell the truth?

Will you say that I grew in the wrong place, that my limbs were imperfect, that I suffered infections and infestations that bested me? Does the word beautiful even come to mind? Or gentle? Or is it my more brazen qualities you will speak of, your voice thick with emotion over my loss? Will you tell tales of your triumph over me, of how I was pruned or neglected, weathered, trained, sculpted, engineered? Was your husbandry of me the real story all along?

Should I rewrite my story for you?

Or…

Will I venture barefoot into the garden to listen?

Your trans friend,

Robin

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