"Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
What do you think of when you hear the word roots? Trees, no doubt. Your hometown and your family, perhaps. A vague sense of where you "came from." The band from Philadelphia. Alright, maybe only a few thought of that last one.
Whatever the case, though, the term roots generally refers to some sense of groundedness, of being on a firm foundation. And the goal is to build upon a foundation that cannot be shaken. The focus is always, therefore, on the structure built upon the foundation, and never on the foundation itself. We like to admire the architecture – the soaring rooftops, the walls of glass, the intricate façades – and appreciate the foundation only insomuch as it prevents these architectural elements from crashing down, whether due to wind or seismic or snow loads.
You see, the foundation enables the construction of what we term success. The visible building is the success. Our public lives are the successes – or failures. What matters in our world is that which can be seen. We do not give thought to that which the visible is built upon – unless it fails.
We recognize that things can come crashing down around us, but rarely do we consider that something can also be upended. The soil beneath the foundation can fail. The foundation itself can fail through tension, compression, shear stresses. Frost can grab hold of the foundation and heave it upward. Yes, even deep foundations – drilled piers, driven piles, etc. – can be reached by frost.
It's an imperfect metaphor to describe the spiritual in terms of the physical, but it is nevertheless enlightening. Foundations fail – humans fail – because we fight against nature. We seek to build taller structures in more remote and arduous environments. We seek greater status and wealth. Collectively, we build cities of millions of people in deserts that cannot support them and then transport water to them unsustainably via aqueducts and pipelines (Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Phoenix). We build upon improper foundations and ignore them, until they fail.
Conversely, trees (and other such plants that grow literal roots), do not battle nature. They are nature and are simultaneously one with nature. Roots form a symbiotic system with bacteria in the surrounding soil to aid in the growth of other organisms. Groupings of quaking aspen trees sharing a single root system, known as clones, can grow to cover up to 100 acres of area and live, in one case, for an estimated 80,000 years. The hardy mesquite tree of the southwest can grow a taproot to depths of almost 200 feet, and its root system can regenerate and keep growing even if the tree above is killed. A firm foundation, indeed.
It is not that trees cannot be uprooted or toppled that makes them remarkable – for they surely can be brought down. It's that they are true to their nature in their growth. One might even say that they are fulfilling their purpose. With few exceptions, a tree builds that which it can support. It seeks that which nourishes it: the sun. It does not grow lofty in order to garner praise. In drought years, its growth contracts and slows as needed. In the cold season, a tree's above ground growth may go dormant, but its root growth can continue on, buffered as it is from the frost via the soil and snowpack. An expansive root system gives a tree its resilience. May we learn to be so resilient.
It stands to reason that this is what Tolkien meant by deep roots not being reached by the frost. In a sense, even the deepest of roots are reached by calamities. There is no way to prevent the frost from occurring, even to depths not previously imagined. But when calamities befall us, when the hard frost comes, we do not utterly fail if we have made our roots resilient. And we make ourselves resilient by being true to our nature, by living with purpose.
