The Rooted Presence: Beginning on the Edge of My Roots

For the ones who’ve always felt a little too wild, too quiet, too outside the edges of society—I see you. This is the beginning of something deeper. A return. A remembering. A rooted presence that’s been calling for years… and I’m finally answering.

So, after much conversation and thought, I think it’s time to start my journey down the longer path of truth.

Sharing…

I’ve spent my whole life on the fringes of society—not really fitting in anywhere, and mostly alone.
It’s been a gift, but also a hindrance.

The gift?
It’s allowed me to completely embrace and immerse myself in the fullness of my environment—without the influence or self-deprivation that can come from being around others.

The hindrance/curse?
It makes it difficult to reconnect with others once I’ve gained a true understanding of what life requires. So, I’ve spent a lot of time alone—and lonely.

It’s a strange mix of emotions… to feel lonely both in and outside of a crowd.

As an example, I was just now sitting in a quiet room at a friend’s house, typing this out. Her husband was in the other room typing on a computer, and she was behind me using her laptop. And yet… I couldn’t focus.
All I could hear was the tapping of keys—and the stillness.

So, I stepped out onto the back porch.
And all of a sudden—my thoughts started flowing.

Is there such a thing as a too quiet quiet?

Out here on the porch, I’m being greeted by birds of several tones and qualities—robins, stellar jays, and all the little ones flitting from tree to tree, announcing their travels as they go.
The gentle buzzing of bees and insects moves through the cedar and flowering shrubs around me.
One bird is literally saying, tweet tweet.
And a frog has joined the chorus now…

The longer I sit here, the more that comes alive in my presence.
Here, I can focus again.
Here, I am comfortable—on the edge of wilderness and forest.
Unbothered by their little noises, as though my internal rhythm is finally being satisfied.
Even the far-off noise of a lawn mower… even the cars… is forgivable because of what I’m being bathed in right here.

It helps me understand how these wildlings; of both flora and fauna, flourish in such environments—adapting, sharing space, knowing their roots.

That rooting…
That’s what I feel compelled to share now, after walking so many years alone.

It’s not that I’ve tried to keep it a secret—I’ve tried to share what I know is present in these spaces.
But most people I’ve encountered haven’t been able to understand how deep these roots go…

Still, it’s time to try again.

I fear it will be lost forever in our modern circles unless I do.

And—I’ve hit the age where I’m realizing…
I wasn’t meant to walk this path completely alone.

The old adage, “safety in numbers,” is becoming more apparent as my coordination and strength aren’t what they used to be in my youth.

And maybe that’s part of the message too—maybe it’s not just about forging ahead, but about circling back.
About reaching out to others who feel this pull toward something more real, more rooted.

So I’ll say this:

If you’ve ever felt a little on the edge, a little outside, or a little too wild for the world you were placed in—I see you.
And if you’re just curious about what I might be coming to understand—you’re welcome here too.
Curiosity is a sacred beginning.

Last week, I was exploring a trail I stumbled on during a restless night.
I had tried to sleep in a lot where truckers had parked to rest—but I couldn’t relax there.
So, groggily, I ventured on into the darkness.

I found a gravel road, and followed it—like I had so many times in my youth, exploring the logging roads near my hometown.
I drove in deep, found a turnoff with a makeshift campsite and fire pit, pulled in, turned off the car, and crawled into my sleeping bag.
I fell asleep almost immediately and woke to birds singing.

When I looked out the car window, I was surprised—pleasantly—to see old growth forest steeped in mist, lichens, and mystery.

I stepped outside and realized I’d overlooked a stream flowing quietly nearby.

I felt completely at home.

So much so, I felt beckoned to go deeper instead of turning around.

A few turns up the mountain, and I found a place to park next to a sign that promised waterfalls.

I paused.
The path before me went straight up into fog and mist—into the unknown.
I was alone. No one knew where I was—not even me.
No cell service. Just an outdated can of bear spray.
I paced at the trailhead, trying to muster resolve.

And then—I made the decision.

I started up the path, letting it reveal itself one step at a time.
I wasn’t going to let a little thing like age stop me.

Halfway up, I realized I hadn’t locked my car.
I paused, fully intending to go back down.
But then I chided myself—“It’ll be fine.”
And pressed on.

When I reached the crest of the trail, I realized I was just below the snow line—smiling and completely in my element, surrounded by mist.

A happy accident.

The trail narrowed as I got closer to the falls I could now hear.

And I’ll be honest—with 50 years behind me, walking a trail alone like this can be intimidating.
In my younger years, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I’d have been up and back in no time flat.

But this day… I took my time.

And I probably had a better experience because of it.

I remembered injuring my back in 2008.
Something about realizing your body isn’t infallible—it changes how you move. How you believe in yourself.
Back then, a doctor told me to stop doing the things I loved.
And for over a decade… I listened.

Until one day, I didn’t.

That wasn’t living. That was existing.

I started to remember hikes like this—watching my elders sit them out. I never understood why.

Now I do.

It’s not inability—it’s fear.
Fear that our strength, balance, and coordination won’t be there when we need it.

And maybe that comes from a lifetime of repetition—performing the same tasks just to survive.
Or maybe… it’s something more.