What Rootwork Asks of You

Let me tell you something my grandmother taught me without ever saying it straight out: you do not start with the candle. You do not start with the root, the oil, the prayer, or the crossroads. You start with yourself. You start with the condition you are in when you come to the work.

Are you scared? Angry? Desperate? Showing off? Or are you settled enough to listen?

Rootwork will meet you where you are. It will also show you exactly what you brought with you.

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I learned most of this sitting around a kitchen table in Alabama. Some things were explained. Most things were not. You watched. You listened. You noticed what got done before company came over, what got cleaned before prayer, what plants were kept near the house, what names were spoken softly, and what subjects made the whole room go still.

That was part of the teaching too. Not everything sacred comes with a lesson plan.

My grandmother knew that spiritual work belonged right there in everyday life. It belonged in the kitchen, the yard, the wash water, the Bible on the table, and the quiet word spoken over a child before they walked out the door. It did not always look mysterious. Sometimes it looked like sweeping, boiling water, opening a window, or setting down a clean glass for someone who was no longer living. The holy and the ordinary sat close together in her house.

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Honesty

Rootwork asks you to be honest. Honest about what you want. Honest about why you want it. And honest about what you are willing to do once you get it.

Folks will say they want love when they want control. They will say they want justice when they want somebody hurt. They will say they need a road opened when they are afraid to take the first step. The work will bring that up to the surface, even when you would rather leave it buried.

My grandmother never taught me that prayer was a way to avoid responsibility. You could pray over the situation, but you still had to make the call. You could dress a candle, but you still had to clean up your own mess. You could ask for money, but you had better know how to work, how to save, and how to keep your word.

Rootwork was not there to make you careless. It was there to help you carry your life with more sense.

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Preparation

Whatever is in you when you begin becomes part of what you are doing.

Haste comes in with you. Fear comes in with you. Pride comes in with you. So does patience. So does faith. So does discipline. This is why the old folks would not let you start anything in a rush, and why the house got set in order before a word was spoken over it. The condition of the room reflected the condition of the worker.

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Lineage

Rootwork also asks you to know what you are putting your hands on.

A root is not powerful just because somebody put it in a plastic bag and sold it online. A candle is not strong because of its color. A Psalm is not a string of words to repeat until something happens.

You ought to know where a practice comes from, who carried it, and what it meant before it ever reached you. Lineage is not something you buy. It is something you answer to.

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Humility

And you need humility. Not the kind that makes you ashamed of yourself, but the kind that keeps you from becoming foolish.

The kind that lets you admit you do not know. The kind that reminds you that elders may understand something you have not lived long enough to see. The kind that keeps you from turning every coincidence into a prophecy and every good result into proof that you are somebody grand.

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Repetition

Most rootwork is not dramatic. It is steady.

It is changing the water. Wiping the table. Saying the prayer again. Keeping your promise. Remembering the dead when you are not asking them for anything.

A small thing done with care over time will carry more weight than a big display made once and forgotten. My grandmother taught by repetition. Do it right. Keep it clean. Do not brag. Do not start what you will not tend.

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Consequence

And you need to be ready for the answer.

If you ask for a road to open, something may have to close behind you. If you ask for truth, you may hear something you cannot unhear. If you ask for protection, certain people may leave your life.

The answer may not feel like relief at first. Sometimes it feels like distance. Sometimes it feels like loneliness. Sometimes it feels like finally seeing clearly.

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So before you gather your tools, sit down with yourself. Sit down the way folks sit at a kitchen table after everybody else has gone to bed. Be quiet.

Ask what you are really seeking. Ask what you are willing to change. Ask what you are prepared to keep tending after the trouble passes.

That is what rootwork asks of you first. Not perfection. Not performance. Honesty, steadiness, respect, and the willingness to keep tending what you started.