. . . toward a rooted life. A rooted and radical life, radical not as fanatic, not as zealot, not as idealism wrapped in certainty. No, radical as a radish, same root, radical as a root held close to earth, sustained by the deep mystery of sunlight and soil and seed and saturation and spirit combined, toward a rooted life that emerges, grows, blossoms, bears fruit, with no forethought beyond becoming what is already inborn, toward the hard work of a life rooted.
. . . toward a rooted SOLIDARITY. Solidarity rooted not in colorblind sameness, not in tasteless weightless wafer of monotony. No, solidarity in the solid lives of those among us, bodies broken over centuries, hearts pumping the same salt-taste sea of our earliest emerging, solidarity that sinks below only to rise up stronger, solidarity that is merely a single drop until returned to the teeming.
. . . toward a rooted STEWARDSHIP. Stewardship rooted not in a dominion over, not in control of a world forsaken save for souls. No, stewardship of every given thing, acceptance as if wrapped in paper on a snowy morning, a slow opening, the awe of, How did you know this is what I wanted, how did you know? An embrace of the given, (and, if able, of the Giver), and a promise to care, I swear, I’ll cherish this, I promise, thank you thank you, to care for and carry it onward.
. . . toward a rooted SUFFICIENCY. Sufficiency rooted not in a self-defeating poverty, not in a self-seeking abundance. No, sufficiency of settling into a new sense of Enough, never minding the neighbors’ acquisitions, the latest gadgets, someone else’s maid-polished baseboards, never-minding someone else’s version of desert asceticism. No, sufficiency as a bow to the sparrows, the lilies, the least of these, a deep bow to a creation too rich to abstain from it all, yet too at risk to plunder and devour it all, but enough, this is enough, this.
. . . toward a rooted DISSENT. Dissent rooted not in a picket-sign Saturday, not filling up on the news feed until full. No, a dissent born of the same heart-itch that gave rise to “Let my people go,” that gave rise to 95 Theses nailed to a door, Common Sense handed out in the colonies, a Declaration sent across the sea, Rosa in the front seat, Bidder 70 raising his sign, all knowing that the language of kings and clerics and corporations will never get it quite right, knowing that more voices might a mess in the mix make, but what might emerge, what might emerge?
. . . toward a rooted HOPE. Hope rooted not in the onward and upward, not the bigger and better, not the inevitable march of progress, not your grandfather’s manifest destiny, not your grandmother’s sweet By-and-By. Hope in hearts and hands at work, hearts and hands at work planting seeds, at work opening the day’s gifts and holding up for all to see, dismantling missile silos, catching newly-crowning heads, hearts and hands at work lifted to praise, lowered to pull weeds, hope in __________ .
Toward a rooted life of SOLIDARITY, STEWARDSHIP, SUFFICIENCY, DISSENT, and HOPE, move me, move us, let’s move, move, move us all.