Where Roots Cross

The sun has returned, and the trees stand as they always have — rooted in the same soil, fed by the same light, yet refusing to become each other. Birds move between branches. Nothing unusual is happening. I sit on the hill beside an old, dented bird feeder and try to understand how this works.

Across the yard stands the cherry blossom, my favorite. Each spring it erupts in pink sudden and lavish, and just as quickly disappears. For now it is bare, gathering itself. I wait for it the way one waits for a brief visitor who never stays long enough. It was never meant to linger. By summer it will settle into an ordinary green, its brilliance gone without apology. In fall, it yellows softly and lets go.

Nearby stands the Japanese maple. For now it, too, is bare. Soon its deep maroon leaves will return, though they will spend the spring living in the shadow of pink. But I remember last October, the slow build toward fire. While the blossom had long since faded, the maple burned steadily, then all at once. Orange overtook red. It did not flare and vanish. It endured.

Some lives blaze early. Others deepen before they burn. By the time it released its leaves, there was no spectacle left to compete with, only color held long enough to matter.

Behind them rise the pines. Taller. Older. Unhurried. They shed their needles too, the forest floor is proof, yet their silhouette hardly changes. Season after season, they keep their thin green hush while the others flare and fade beneath them. Birds come and go. Squirrels scatter and return. Even I will not outlast them. They keep watch over it all.

Not far from them stands the ginkgo. For now it is all restraint, bare branches, no hint of promise. In spring it returns quietly, an unremarkable green among other greens. Through summer it asks for no attention. And then October comes.

Without warning, it turns gold, not gradual, not polite. The leaves blaze so brightly it feels as if light itself has settled into the branches. For a few days, the entire tree burns. Then, almost overnight, the gold falls in a single shimmering surrender. Not every calling announces itself in spring. It had been preparing all along.

At the edge of the same patch stands the crape myrtle. For now, it is as bare as the rest. But when summer settles in and the others retreat into steady green, the myrtle begins. Its branches lift with color— pinks, purples, white— loose and almost careless in the heat. While the others hold their quiet, it swerves and sways in full bloom. It does not follow their timing. It keeps its own. By fall, it will soften and return to the shared shedding, indistinguishable from the rest.

I step back and take them in together. The same sun. The same soil. The same passing of days, and yet they do not turn alike. Inches apart, they blaze differently. None surrender their rhythm to match the others. None sever themselves from the ground they share.

My eyes drop to the forest floor. Roots rise from the earth and disappear again, looping in and out of sight. Beneath the surface, they must be crossing—touching, pressing, even contending for what they need. No tree stands alone, though none can surrender its hunger. If one weakens, the clearing changes. The air shifts. The shade alters.

How does one belong like this?

I once believed belonging required adjustment—sanding down edges, softening convictions, mirroring whatever stood across from me. It felt generous at first. It felt wise. But over time, I grew quieter inside. The outer shape remained. The inner voice thinned. I did not leave myself all at once. I dissolved by degrees. The question that remains is simple and stubborn: How do I belong without disappearing?

The trees endure the same seasons, rooted in the same ground. Yet none abandon their own design. They share space. They share weather. They do not share identity. What trees do by nature, we must learn by grace.

Shared ground does not require shared timing.

Each trunk rises on its own, yet none are severed. When the wind leans hard and branches break, the roots hold fast beneath them. No tree can surrender its life to save another. No tree survives alone. There is help here but not erasure. Presence is the offering. Disappearance is not.

Trees live this way without effort. It is written into their design but we are not so fortunate. We can mistake sameness for unity and distance for freedom. Yet the truth remains: we cannot flourish alone, and we cannot flourish by disappearing.

Love must be wide enough to hold our differences.

I sit beside the old bird feeder and watch the branches move. Each keeps its own time. The same sun rests on all of them. The wind moves through every branch.