Deep Roots for Facing Storms

The storms are getting fiercer. Hurricanes tear through coastlines, democracies crumble, AI grows faster than our ethics, and fascism rises again in new disguises. The polycrisis is not coming—it’s here.

In times like this, many of us respond by strategizing harder, thinking faster, doing more. We try to brace our small trunks and fragile branches against enormous winds. But a tree cannot survive on outer strategy alone.

When storms come, what matters for survival of the tree is not how smart the branches are—but how deep the roots go.

The Work Below the Surface

Above ground, strength looks like visibility: statements, projects, posts, achievements. But real resilience is underground. Roots that go deep find water even in drought. They anchor us to something steady and unseen. This is the paradox of our time: when everything is shaking, the call is not to move faster but to go deeper. We need roots that reach into the dark, moist soil of being—roots entangled with the roots of others, forming a web of quiet solidarity beneath the chaos.

Going Deep Is Not Hiding

There’s a tension here. Going deep can look like turning away from the world’s pain. Some spiritual practices do bypass suffering—they float above grief, pretending that everything is fine. That kind of false peace only makes our compassion fragile.

But there is another kind of depth. It’s the courage to descend through pain, confusion, and rage, rather than around them. It’s letting our roots touch the underground rivers of grief and love that sustain life.

Going deep, in this sense, is not about escape. It’s about resourcing—finding nourishment strong enough to keep showing up without collapsing.

Depth as Resistance

In the face of collapse, spiritual depth is not luxury—it’s survival. We can’t face storms with shallow roots and weak limbs. Depth steadies our nervous systems so we can respond rather than react. Depth teaches us to rest without giving up, to listen without needing certainty. Depth reminds us that belonging—to ancestors, rivers, soil, and stars—is still possible in a broken world. If we grow deep enough, we can bend without breaking.

So as stroms keep coming—and they will—we can keep standing. Not untouched, but alive. Not rigid, but rooted.

Moment after moment.

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