Finding Myself Between Roots and Footprints is almost physical tug when you stumble across something ancient and familiar Maybe it’s the scent of a spice you can’t name the rhythm of a song you’ve never heard or the curve of a smile in an old photograph that mirrors your own. That’s the whisper of roots It happened to me recently, digging through a dusty load in the attic Not gold or jewels, just fragments of a faded recipe card a postcard from a place I’ve never been, a name written in careful script Pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was assembling.
Roots aren't loud they don't announce themselves with fanfare theey’re the silent undercurrents the quiet hum beneath the noise of daily life They’re the traditions practiced without question, the values absorbed like oxygen the resilience etched into the lines on an elder’s face they’re the stories told in hushed tones or boisterous laughter around a table, the ones that shape your sense of belonging before you even understand the word. Looking at those fragile artifacts i felt it, This invisible thread connecting me to hands that worked different soil faces that weathered different storms hearts that loved and hoped long before my time It wasn't just history it felt like a part of my own blueprint. Understanding where I came from suddenly felt less like archaeology and more like self-discovery. Why do I react this way Why does that value resonate so deeply The answers often lie tangled in those roots.
But roots are only half the story They ground you And yes but they don’t dictate the journey. That’s where the footprints come in.
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