God bless the roots! Body and soul are one.
Pretty much every weekend, my wife and I have the shall-we-live-in-the-country conversation. I suppose it’s something to do with getting older and feeling I want to shed some of the things I’ve been doing for the last 20 years and go back to my roots.
My parents moved from ranch to ranch, valley to valley, town to town, but our roots in Fowler never really faded. For me, it’s a place of history, stories and songs, not just facts and figures.
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
You can’t hate the roots of a tree and not hate the tree. You can’t hate Africa and not hate yourself.
I changed my name when we became aware of the African revolution and the whole question of our African roots.
Whether rich or poor, a home is not a home unless the roots of love are ever striking deeper through the crust of the earthly and the conventional, into the very realities of being, not consciously always; seldom, perhaps; the simplicity of loving grows by living simply near nature and God.
The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.
Food for us comes from our relatives, whether they have wings or fins or roots. That is how we consider food. Food has a culture. It has a history. It has a story. It has relationships.
The Arab spring was not as radical as the French or Iranian revolutions. It did not pull out the deeply entrenched roots of the state. Instead, it was satisfied to replace the top of the pyramid with newly elected, but inexperienced, leaders.