Don’t Cut Off the Roots
Well, my dear Unplugged Pagans, this one may get a little metaphorical, so walk with me for a moment.
A tree is only as strong as the root system that supports it.
That sounds simple enough, but there is a lot of truth buried in that image. A tree can have a strong trunk. It can have healthy branches. It can stand tall, green, and impressive for everyone passing by to see. But if the roots are damaged, starved, ignored, or cut away, that tree is already in trouble.
It may not fall immediately.
It may not look sick right away.
It may still stand there for a season, maybe even several seasons, pretending by appearance that all is well.
But without its roots, it will weaken.
Without its roots, it will wither.
Without its roots, it will eventually die.
And lately, as I look around at life, community, memory, faith, and the places people build together, I find myself thinking about roots.
Some places seem to forget theirs.
Some places drift from the very people, stories, labour, rituals, memories, and quiet acts of care that made them what they were in the first place. Some places keep the name, the sign, the surface, the public face, and the outward shape, but slowly begin cutting away the roots beneath them.
And when that happens, something changes.
You may still have the trunk.
You may still have the branches.
You may still have the appearance of health.
But the life beneath it has been weakened.
This is not just true of trees. It is true of people. It is true of families. It is true of communities. It is true of spiritual places. It is true of pagan circles, old friendships, shared rituals, and the quiet ecosystems of belonging we often do not notice until they are gone.
Psychology tells us that human beings have a deep need to belong. We are not made only of individual willpower. We are also shaped by attachment, memory, recognition, and relationship. We come to know part of who we are through the people and groups we have stood beside. Sociology says something similar when it speaks of collective memory: communities remember through shared stories, shared places, shared practices, and shared meaning.
In plain language, roots matter.
Roots are not nostalgia.
Roots are not weakness.
Roots are not dead weight.
Roots are the living system that holds the tree in place.
I remember a time when someone decided that the pine needles on a forest floor were a problem. They saw the layer of fallen needles and thought it looked messy. They thought it needed to be cleaned up. Removed. Tidied. Made proper.
But the forest did not see those pine needles as garbage.
The forest knew better.
That layer of needles served a purpose. It held moisture. It slowed the drying of the soil. It sheltered small life. It fed the ground as it broke down. It helped support the fungal life beneath the surface. And that fungal life was part of the larger health of the forest.
Remove enough of that living layer, and the system changes.
The soil dries faster.
The balance shifts.
The small hidden relationships that kept things steady begin to weaken.
And then people stand back surprised when the trees start to suffer.
But the trees were not suffering because of one dramatic act. They were suffering because the quiet supports had been stripped away.
That is the lesson.
Sometimes what looks messy is actually protective.
Sometimes what looks old is actually foundational.
Sometimes what looks unnecessary is doing work you do not understand.
Sometimes the fallen needles are holding the forest together.
And so it is with our roots.
Our roots may be old stories. They may be elders. They may be former volunteers. They may be first fires, first rituals, first songs, first gatherings, first mistakes, first lessons. They may be the people who carried wood, washed dishes, watched gates, cleaned up after everyone went home, tended sacred spaces, held memory, welcomed strangers, and kept something alive before it had polish, structure, or public recognition.
Those people matter.
Those memories matter.
Those early acts of care matter.
And when a place forgets that, it risks becoming all canopy and no soil.
Pretty from a distance.
Weak underneath.
Now, to be clear, roots do not mean we never grow. Roots do not mean we stay frozen in the past. A healthy tree still reaches upward. A healthy forest still changes. Branches break. New shoots rise. Old trees fall and feed the next generation. Change is not the enemy.
But growth without roots is not growth.
It is drift.
It is performance.
It is a tree pretending it can live without soil.
For us as pagans, this should matter deeply.
We speak often of the land. We speak of ancestors. We speak of spirits, seasons, memory, offerings, fire, water, soil, and sacred place. But those words ask something of us. They ask us to pay attention to what holds life together beneath the surface.
They ask us not to confuse neatness with health.
They ask us not to confuse control with care.
They ask us not to confuse cutting away with cleansing.
Sometimes the sacred thing is not the polished altar.
Sometimes the sacred thing is the old layer of pine needles underfoot.
Sometimes the sacred thing is the story someone still remembers.
Sometimes the sacred thing is the person who has been quietly holding part of the root system while everyone else looked up at the branches.
So do not forget your roots.
Do not cut them off just because they are no longer convenient.
Do not dismiss them because they are old, complicated, imperfect, or covered in the debris of time.
Roots are rarely pretty.
Roots are tangled.
Roots are buried.
Roots are hard to show off.
But roots are what keep the tree standing when the weather turns.
And the weather always turns.
A forest is only as strong as its ecosystem. A person is only as steady as the truths they remain connected to. A community is only as healthy as the relationships, memories, and acts of care it refuses to forget.
So tend the roots.
Honour the soil.
Respect the old needles on the forest floor.
Remember what fed you.
Remember who helped build the path before you walked it.
And when you grow, grow upward from something real.
That is it. That is all for now, my Unplugged Pagans.
Godspeed.
Notes Beneath the Roots
This reflection draws on a few grounded ideas: the human need for belonging, social identity, collective memory, and the ecological role of forest-floor material, fungi, soil, and roots. In plain language, both people and forests depend on hidden systems of support.
Unplugged Pagan 