On Sagebrush Root

Sharing stories to keep our lights alive

If you’ve read The Clapping Oak Journal for very long, you’re probably aware that the interlaced root system in a forest says something important to me about communication and community. It’s how diverse species coexist and support healthy growth. Each tree’s story affects that of the other trees.

Turns out it’s not just trees and forests. The same thing happens in other ecosystems, too. Take the western plains, for instance. I grew up in the Midwest where we had at least portions of old-growth forests left, and I loved that about it. I’ve been transplanted to the West three times in my life. It’s not my native habitat, even if I’ve come to feel at home here, too. I continue to learn that plants, wherever they are, have something important to teach us, both as we dwell in their world and as we exist in our own human society. We are all intertwined, after all.

For instance, let’s look at sagebrush, which is ubiquitous on the plains and high deserts of the American West.

These thoughts surface as I begin to read a book a friend loaned me months ago. It’s called Woven on the Wind: Women Write About Friendship in the Sagebrush West, edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier, and Nancy Curtis. It was not at the top of my to-read list, but I chose to bring it along the other day when I went to a medical appointment that I knew would take a while. ( I had a bit of skin cancer removed from my nose. Word to the wise: wear your sunscreen and wear hats.) Just four pages in, I found this:

“Beneath the outer bark of sagebrush root hides a slender white filament called the heart thread. Only by peeling away the root’s tough husk – or opening up the dark shell of a woman’s silence – can we find the translucent heart. To learn how other women have illuminated our spirits, we must know their stories. If we share our lives, we will remember the women who inspired us, and their light can never dim, flicker, set, or be extinguished. But if our deeper feelings are mostly inaccessible, we cannot move forward a deeper understanding of each other.”

For women, or any gender, telling our stories matters. Listening to and reading each other’s stories matter. We must create and maintain safe places to do so.

Sagebrush is called “mother sage” by Indigenous people, this book taught me. It is common in both senses of the word: common as in abundant and easily found, and common as in unpretentious. It is tough and resilient. It adapts to adverse conditions. Its leaves, stems, and roots have been useful through the ages in many ways to support the life of animals, other plants, and yes, humans.

The same goes for plants in a forest. So many species, from trees to mycelium, are common. In an old-growth forest, they are sturdy, resilient, and adaptive. They work together, knowing that their own well-being depends on that of the rest of the ecosystem.

We also need to be sturdy, resilient, and adaptive, especially in these historic times. Sharing our stories can shore up those qualities in all of us. Not just the triumphant ones, either. With whom can you share portions of yours? Where can you cultivate that safety? Where can you give it?

I get it; it’s scary. I quiver when I press into the vulnerability. I am “opening the dark shell” of my silence to reveal my tender white “heart filament.”

And so I’ll begin. I find my way into creating that safe place, for myself and hopefully in the process encouraging it for others. In addition to The Clapping Oak Journal, I’m starting a new Substack publication called “Untangling the Roots” to tell additional bits of my story.” The Clapping Oak Journal will continue, and if you are a subscriber, you will not automatically receive Untangling—you will need to intentionally subscribe to it. You are welcome to do so. It’s starting with a very small subscriber list; I invite you to share articles with others as you think they will find them beneficial.

You can check out the introductory article in Untangling here.