In Sunday morning light a solitary root stretches long across the sand.  Sun bleached and long-since functioning, it’s still heavy and unmoving.

Tracing the root to the source, I stand beneath a thriving canopy with exposed roots as tall as me.  For years the tides have come and slowly eroded the earth they held.  Salt and splash, lots of time, and now that sturdy system is laid bare.  Surely the smooth and aged wood no longer feeds it, but the tree grows on somehow.  Old-time roots are its foundation.

The thick and twisted tendrils create a natural root cave.  Jeb can climb through the web of wood just like a jungle gym.  No longer steeping in dark loam and worms, these roots now bake in sun.  Fallen leaves meet their surface.

A  white,  jagged specimen of corral nestles tightly in a notch just like an alter.  A reminder of the elements that shaped this situation.  Many, many moon cycles.  Water, sand and wind.

Roots remain, the tree’s still growing.  Folks with lawn chairs come for respite in their shade.  Small feet and hands explore the woven patterns.

A loving mystic once said, “When you are seeking the answer to a question, look to a tree.”