From the Editor
Blooming Where We’re Planted
“To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul.”—Simone Weil, French philosopher.
To be rooted. To know how you came to be. To know and trust your values. To be confident—in yourself. To belong—to community, to work, to family, and to a group of friends. To feel safe—at home and in relationships. To believe in your future.
Adults bloom where we are planted, as the saying goes, with our roots—our security—being our heritage, our family, our homes, our careers, and our friends. It’s not surprising, then, that our “roots” can be shaken by events beyond our control. Events such as September 11, 2001. Economic instability. Job layoffs. Medical crises and high health care costs. Impending war. The Columbia tragedy. The death of friends and loved ones. All of these events cause us to question life, to analyze our roots, to question our future, and to wilt under the stress of our environment.
The uneasiness in people’s voices, the lack of confidence in their decision-making, the impatience for delays, and the intolerance for error. I’ve noticed this moodiness—these emotional characteristics—displayed in myself, my friends, and my colleagues. Life has always been uncertain, but when blessed with good health and good fortune, it’s easy to thrive, deeply seated in the security of our “roots.”
Disbelief and anxiety was especially evident after September 11. As the terror alert status dropped from orange (high) to blue (guarded), so did our anxiety levels, although business as usual would never be the same “usual.” The agitation returned with the anniversary of the tragedy, the toppling of some corporate giants, the downward trends of Wall Street, the loss of Columbia, and with the return to orange alert status.
In some ways it seems different though. A professor of psychiatry at Yale University describes the feeling: “It’s as if we’ve all had a stress inoculation. As a nation, we’ve become numb. It just felt very different this time. The reaction says something not about them (the grieving families) but about us—how we have changed and who we have become.”
Scientists call it habituation, or repeated exposure to a certain stimulus that produces less and less reaction to a stimulus with each exposure. I’ve watched with interest the one and only mature oak tree on my lawn as it’s tried to recover from the trauma to its root system when the basement of our home was dug four years ago. Half of the tree produces new, healthy, beautiful green leaves—more each spring—while the other half is barren. The arborist told us to be patient; the roots will rejuvenate, the tree is not dead, but it will need time to recover from the shock.
When many bad things happen, our minds and bodies begin to adapt. We aren’t as shocked as at first. Is it new-found strength in coping or is it denial of the horror and fear of circumstances? I struggled to understand the change in my emotions the last few years, when I read the sentence that began this editorial. For some of us, our roots have been traumatized for the first time in our lives. It will take time for healing and restoration. I hope the showers of April produce flowers in May. TPW
To be rooted. To know how you came to be. To know and trust your values. To be confident—in yourself. To belong—to community, to work, to family, and to a group of friends. To feel safe—at home and in relationships. To believe in your future.
Adults bloom where we are planted, as the saying goes, with our roots—our security—being our heritage, our family, our homes, our careers, and our friends. It’s not surprising, then, that our “roots” can be shaken by events beyond our control. Events such as September 11, 2001. Economic instability. Job layoffs. Medical crises and high health care costs. Impending war. The Columbia tragedy. The death of friends and loved ones. All of these events cause us to question life, to analyze our roots, to question our future, and to wilt under the stress of our environment.
The uneasiness in people’s voices, the lack of confidence in their decision-making, the impatience for delays, and the intolerance for error. I’ve noticed this moodiness—these emotional characteristics—displayed in myself, my friends, and my colleagues. Life has always been uncertain, but when blessed with good health and good fortune, it’s easy to thrive, deeply seated in the security of our “roots.”
Disbelief and anxiety was especially evident after September 11. As the terror alert status dropped from orange (high) to blue (guarded), so did our anxiety levels, although business as usual would never be the same “usual.” The agitation returned with the anniversary of the tragedy, the toppling of some corporate giants, the downward trends of Wall Street, the loss of Columbia, and with the return to orange alert status.
In some ways it seems different though. A professor of psychiatry at Yale University describes the feeling: “It’s as if we’ve all had a stress inoculation. As a nation, we’ve become numb. It just felt very different this time. The reaction says something not about them (the grieving families) but about us—how we have changed and who we have become.”
Scientists call it habituation, or repeated exposure to a certain stimulus that produces less and less reaction to a stimulus with each exposure. I’ve watched with interest the one and only mature oak tree on my lawn as it’s tried to recover from the trauma to its root system when the basement of our home was dug four years ago. Half of the tree produces new, healthy, beautiful green leaves—more each spring—while the other half is barren. The arborist told us to be patient; the roots will rejuvenate, the tree is not dead, but it will need time to recover from the shock.
When many bad things happen, our minds and bodies begin to adapt. We aren’t as shocked as at first. Is it new-found strength in coping or is it denial of the horror and fear of circumstances? I struggled to understand the change in my emotions the last few years, when I read the sentence that began this editorial. For some of us, our roots have been traumatized for the first time in our lives. It will take time for healing and restoration. I hope the showers of April produce flowers in May. TPW