The Uprooting

You can never uproot a plant neatly. It’s inevitable—the tiny plods of dirt, the hairy tentacles still grabbing to the earth—you are guaranteed a mess. Once life has settled into its prized position in the sun, it won’t go quietly. The flower is bonded to the seed, even if just in memory.

In a few short weeks, we’re leaving California and moving to Texas. There’s a constriction that happens when I think of leaving—I have already once, and subsequently moved back—and this time the stakes feel higher. I never imagined living in Texas because I never desired to, at all. I was born in California, in many more ways than one. And yet, the kind of change you look back on in life, the kind you thank for shaking dust from your creaky corners, rarely gives you advance warning.

With dirt stains on my white dress, I palm the gold in my pockets and trust that it’s time to go.

So be it. To get over the initial feeling is to free fall into a brand new space. I rarely jump. I’m too sentimental to believe I’ll take to Texas, even though cacti are already growing in our new front yard. They’re the same alien-looking shepherds that line our mile-long driveway now. I see it again, anew: Everything really is connected.

I can exist in any state, rooting deeper, becoming more fruitful. Finding my place in the sun.