As I sew tiny white beads to the crotches of cloth roots, I can't help but marvel at the miracle of the real thing. Roots are the patient relentless hand of the plant, holding it securely to it's place in the soil. They are the mouth, drinking in water, taking in minerals and nutrients. They are a sort of reproductive system, sending out brave tendrils that urge new green shoots from the soil. Roots are hidden treasure food for foragers willing to sniff them out and dig them up. Roots hold the surface of our planet in place, keep it from washing into rivers and onto ocean floors. Over time, roots break up thick pavement crusts and crumble massive buildings. I am a great admirer, perhaps a worshiper of roots.