We all have roots. Some planted firmly in rich fertile soil where everything touched becomes realities and dreams come true. There are those who's roots are planted in rich soil yet the fruit of each and every dream seems to be struck down by both pest and man alike and if anything materializes it is only for a short season, never becoming perennial. There are those roots that never seem to catch, missing the contact of fertility, of nurture, of the loving hand of a gardener. These roots run deep but they are without contact with the love needed to grow and to produce well. My Roots Run Deep. I come from my mother, she comes from her mother but the unity of being stops there. The blood line exists in name only fore the unifying factor of love and support, of care and of caring is totally non existent in the middle. It was severed by cold indifference. bordering with hate. Actually I will say hate. My Roots Run Deep because they do. They run deep enough to touch that of my Hawaiian grandmother. She is the fertile soil of my soul, of my existence. She is the strength, the grace and the inert energy of hembra hecha. She is what pride is. 'Grace under pressure'. She was for she is dead. She was but she still is for she lives in me and I live as her. My Roots Run Deep, grabbing each and every bit of life I can, holding onto dreams and aspirations, looking up, reaching for my stars. She, way below, reaching out for me, to let me know she is here for my soul and spirit, to know I am not alone, ever.
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