Know your roots.
Pull up a few.
See those sallow
thick as your arm
slurping up existence quenching
I am tangled up in heritage and ancestor – those tough ties to blood, tribe, family, and gene – running through scripture and ancient traditions like twisting roots.
Long scattered to dust, hidden, yet flowing through our veins,
tenacious forebears animate our lives. I can hear them, stocks of gnarled and tangled cheerleaders, waving stringy fingers, scrabbling, murmuring
Stop slouching and grow for pity’s sake!
Do you know where you came from and who is still feeding your soul?
After writing this post I came across this passage from Isaiah, translated poetically by David Rosenberg, author of the masterful, A Poet’s Bible, Rediscovering the Voices of the Original Text.
I brought up children
held them in my presence
and they turn from me
deaf and blind
when even the dumb ox knows
who holds his food
the master fills
but Israel knows nothing
of its root in me
sees nothing of where
they come from . . .
Isaiah Chapter 1, Translation by David Rosenberg