Roots

This morning, I noticed a pile of leaves leftover from last fall, which is a common sight on my morning walks, but there was something different about this one. Every few inches within the pile, bright green shoots were sprouting up, pushing the leaves aside as they grew.

It made me think.

A few years ago, I had lived in a place full of "new". Growth was rampant, which led to an overabundance of shiny fresh buildings, streets and parks. If something became too old, it was torn down and replaced. The economy was thriving, people were bustling, competition pushing them on, and I just assumed it was like that everywhere else in the country too.

I guess I was a bit naive.

Not long ago we moved to this town. I was a little disturbed at how run down everything seemed. Although I loved the natural elements that intertwined throughout the city, the roads themselves were full of cracks, houses had crooked doors and peeling paint, and the parks often contained rusty, ancient playgrounds. It all felt so old.

I didn't understand old things.

When I was a young child, my cousin and I stayed with her grandma for a few days. The kindly old woman had a problem with flatulence, and she must have had a cold too because she was coughing a lot...which brought out the flatulence even more. To two selfish preteen girls this was uncomfortably hilarious, and we found it hard to contain our snickers.

Old people were strange creatures then, but I tried to do my part. I would visit the elderly in the ward and make them little books of inspirational quotes to try to cheer them up. Occasionally I rode my bike to the nearest convalescent home and played the piano, hoping to brighten the day of some elderly captive. It must have been so depressing to be old, or so I thought.

Sometimes they frightened me. Their gnarled hands covered in shrively, paper-thin skin, and the age spots that seemed to eat their whole face... it was all so foreign to one who still had the beauty of youth.

A few days ago, I looked at my hands and noticed they were quite wrinkly. They hurt too, and don't always want to work the way I would like them to.

I also realized, that the old things don't frighten me as much anymore. The houses with the crooked doors, well, perhaps they are haunted, but there is a story there. Years ago, someone hung that door and it was perfectly straight. And a proud father probably painted the wooden exterior with care, feeling pride in the home he was providing for his young family.

There were no nail guns or power saws back then, yet the craftsmanship exceeds much of what is built today.

At one time, I would have thought it wise to tear down a place like that to build something new, but I'm not so sure anymore. The local 80-year-old elementary school is scheduled for a remodel in a few years, and I find myself hoping it isn't drastic.

And I wouldn't change anything about the elderly old man in line at the grocery store who told me the story about how he met his wife.

Do the new sprouts I saw this morning realize the nourishment that the decaying leaves are providing for them? Or do they just see them as something to push out of the way as they compete for sunshine?

Do we take time to realize our roots? Or are we in such a hurry for "progress", that we are willing to push aside the nourishment our roots have labored so hard to give us?

Do we realize the beauty in the old leaves, or are we blinded by the temporary brightness of the new shoots?