Geometry of Life: Episode 50 "Roots — Subterranean Fractals" Order in the Darkness
Winter roots
sinking into
the darkness of the universe
In the soil
the threads of life
are connected
Thinking of roots,
a night of introspection,
on being
What it means to feel the structure of invisible "roots"
When we stand on the ground, we rarely imagine the world beneath our feet. Unlike trunks, branches, and leaves, "roots" spread quietly in unseen places, intertwining and forming complex networks with soil, stones, water, and microorganisms. Within them lies a fractal-like order that seems to grow systematically yet remains somewhat unpredictable. Perhaps contemplating a single root is an act of quietly retracing the connections upon which one's own life "exists" in this universe.
In our busy daily lives, we tend to focus only on the "above-ground" parts, such as results and achievements. Titles, numbers, and visible evaluations are as easy to understand as the vigor of branches and leaves, and we often end up measuring our worth solely by them. However, if we pause for a moment of introspection, we realize that the "reasons we can stand here now" are hidden largely on the side of the invisible roots. The words of those who supported us, childhood memories, experiences of failure and recovery, and small choices so old we can no longer recall their names—when we think of all these things piling up like soil, supporting our existence in unseen ways, the darkness underground begins to feel not like mere darkness, but like a "layer of nutrients."
If you are currently feeling anxiety about the future or lost in the direction you are heading, try to visualize "roots." Though they may seem unable to grow deep, spread wide, or push things aside significantly, their supple mesh is said to protect trees from storms above ground and even secretly reconnect distant trees to one another. When you imagine that there is an invisible network quietly spreading within you as well, it becomes a little easier to believe that the "time that seems to be spent in darkness" is not meaningless, but a vital process of reorganizing order in preparation for the next step.
Roots — Subterranean Fractals
The Silence of the Surface and the Map Underground
The winter park was so quiet that sounds seemed to be absorbed somewhere before returning with a delay. The frost-covered ground was thin and white, with no footprints yet carved into it. Watching my breath unravel into white mist, I sat down on my usual bench and looked up at the large street tree in front of me. There were almost no leaves left on the branches, and the upper half of the trunk simply emerged as a bundle of black lines against the gray sky. The information exposed above ground is very sparse.
However, when I cast my gaze toward the base of the trunk, the scenery suddenly gains density. Thick roots that have emerged as if pushing up the soil, wearing the same cracked texture as the bark, spread out in all directions. On top of them, dead leaves and small stones were thinly piled, and the frost, not yet fully melted, wore a silver film. When I touched them gently with my fingertips, the roots felt cold and hard, yet I sensed something slowly flowing within them. Just imagining that beneath the ground, branches many times more numerous than these visible roots must be spreading quietly in the darkness makes the soil at my feet suddenly transform into a deep sky.
After the rain, the soil around this tree is usually muddy, and the footprints of passersby overlap in layers. I have often seen mud caught in the treads of shoes being carried away to other places. Each time, I feel that the slight unevenness of the surface and the way water soaks in are faithfully tracing an invisible map underground. I recall the mass of intricately tangled roots I saw where the base of a fallen tree was exposed. That feeling of surprise—that such a delicate mesh had been hidden beneath the thick trunk—quietly revives today from beneath the thin frost.
I also suddenly remember an exhibit I saw at a science museum. It was a model where you could observe the state of roots growing inside a transparent box filled with soil from the side. The footage of white fine roots slowly weaving through the gaps between soil particles over time was strangely similar to diagrams of brain nerve synapses or CG footage of neurons connecting with light. On another panel, subway route maps and sewer piping diagrams were lined up, introducing the invisible networks spreading beneath the city. While looking at the diagrams where lines branched, merged, and formed loops, perhaps I was viewing them all as variations of roots underground.
When I was a child, I once dug up the soil with a shovel in a corner of my home's garden. When I peeled back the surface grass, white, soft fine roots were spread densely just below, and earthworms were slowly crawling through the gaps. If I applied too much force, a root would snap, and that sensation would remain in my hand. I hurriedly put the soil back, trying to return the broken part to its original state while keeping it hidden. I think that even as a child, I learned that the structure supporting what appears on the surface is far more complex, fragile, and filled with resilience than I had imagined.
Now, in front of the winter street tree, I sit on the bench and try to draw the fractal shape of the invisible root system in my mind. A thick root extending straight down from the trunk, medium roots branching off at angles along the way, and further fine roots dividing like hairs from there. No matter which part you magnify, similar patterns appear, and another branching begins. Just as there are leaves at the ends of branches, there are also unseen contact points at the ends of roots. There, constant, quiet negotiations are likely taking place with others such as soil, stones, water, and microorganisms.
Suddenly, I recall the sight of the city looking down from my window at night. The points and lines of light created by building windows, streetlights, and car headlights. I try to imagine that layout inverted underground. Instead of light, bundles of invisible roots, pipes, and cables run there, carrying the water, electricity, and information we use every day. Even if the surface looks quiet and flat, a staggering amount of order lurks beneath it. When I realize this, the meaning of the word "darkness" changes just a little.
Darkness does not necessarily mean chaos or absence. Even in places where our gaze has not yet reached, invisible logic and harmony reside. The fact that I can sit on this bench like this now is thanks to the quiet contract between the roots spreading deep underground and the soil. Beneath the hardness transmitted to the soles of my feet, a map with details beyond imagination is spreading. Even if I cannot fully decipher that map, I can certainly feel that there are repeating patterns there that make me want to call them "subterranean fractals."
I quietly stand up from the bench and approach the base of the street tree. I stand on the soil where the frost remains and close my eyes. Through the small area where the soles of my feet touch the ground, I slowly confirm the sensation of my weight being entrusted to the Earth. Beyond the silence of the surface, an invisible map is spreading. Imagining that my own life, as a single line, is also thinly carved upon it.
The invisible root system extending inward
While thinking about the roots of the tree outside, I found myself thinking about the 'invisible roots' spreading within me. The history of my family, stories of the land where my ancestors lived, the habits I inherited, and the behavioral patterns I repeat without realizing it. Perhaps these are not the visible achievements or roles like branches and leaves, but rather the stories on the side of the roots, buried in the soil.
I remember the night I picked up an old family tree and a copy of my family register. On the thin paper, names spanning many generations were neatly lined up, with unfamiliar place names written here and there. I looked at them like branches growing from a single trunk, and when I found my own name added in small print, I felt a strange weight. The feeling that I am not here by chance, but that I am standing at this point as a result of many decisions and coincidences piled up. It was somewhat similar to the feeling of knowing that a single tree is supported by invisible underground roots.
There are moments when my grandparents' habits suddenly slip out of my own mouth. A dialect from a land I don't know floats onto my tongue at an unexpected moment, leaving behind a resonance that doesn't feel like my own voice. Each time that happens, the phrase 'roots as lineage' presses upon me as something more than just a metaphor. Values and ways of reacting that I don't remember being conscious of are quietly directing my choices and emotions. The habit of fearing failure, the body's reaction of becoming strongly tense in certain situations. Perhaps those roots have been growing in the soil long before my own life.
When I repeat small mistakes, I smile bitterly, thinking, 'This pattern again,' but somewhere I feel a sense of discomfort, as if I am touching a 'shape of roots I have seen somewhere.' When I find the same twisted logic in casual conversations at the family dinner table, I sometimes feel as if that twist has been passed down through generations as a habit of a single root. Wounded events and traumas also entangle with other roots in invisible places as 'roots of wounds,' sometimes blocking the flow of water and nutrients, and sometimes causing other roots to create detours.
Relationships with others are also similar to underground root systems. When I happen to see a social media post from a friend I haven't been in touch with for years, a faint stir occurs deep in my chest. Even though our lives have long since branched off in different directions, there is a feeling that only thin roots are still connected somewhere, exchanging information underground. When I realize that my role and behavior at work are similar to my relationships with past teachers or parents, I think that this similarity might be the result of roots growing in the same direction, not on the surface, but at the underground level.
When I learned in recent years that trees in the forest are connected by fungal mycelia, sharing nutrients and information, I was strongly drawn to the metaphor of calling it the 'Internet of mycelia.' It is said that there are many invisible pipes running underground, through which not only water and nutrients but also signals regarding stress and disease are transmitted. Roots are not just for supporting individual trees, but are also a network for balancing the entire forest.
Inside me, there are likely similar invisible pipes. Even if they are separate memories and emotions on the surface, there is a common 'underground water vein' deep down, and the water drawn from there appears on the ground as various thoughts and actions. When I make a certain choice, I sometimes cannot put the reason into words well, but that is surely the result of roots growing according to the flow of groundwater that consciousness cannot reach.
When I moved to a new city, I unconsciously check the hardness and smell of the ground. What kind of soil is sleeping under the asphalt, and how far does the stratum supporting the foundation of the apartment building continue? That sensation of trying to measure with the soles of my feet seems to be checking the outside environment, but in reality, my inner roots might be asking, 'Is it okay to grow here?'
At night, I turn off the lights in my room and close my eyes in bed. When the outside world becomes dark, I can sometimes see the underground inside me faintly. Scenes from the past I didn't want to remember and emotions I had buried deep in my chest emerge, appearing as tangled fine roots. At first, I am overwhelmed by the complexity, but if I change my perspective a little, I begin to feel something like order in those tangles as well. Detours that grew because I was hurt, voids left behind because I avoided them. All of that forms the structure that supports the shape of who I am now.
The darkness inside might not be an abyss to be feared, but the 'back side of a blueprint that has not yet been read.' There, just like the 'fractals underground,' self-similar patterns appear repeatedly, and events that look separate are branching from a single root somewhere. I don't need to dig up my inner self and bring it all to light. I just need to stop sometimes and quietly imagine the existence of the invisible root system spreading under my feet. In that imagination, the outline of the order in the darkness gradually begins to emerge.
Connection as a forest, darkness as a universe
When I broaden my perspective further, I realize that the roots of a single tree and the roots inside a single human are combined within a larger unit called a 'forest.' When walking on mountain paths, I often see tree roots supporting the soil on slopes, intricately intertwined as they bite into the gaps in the rocks. Even if one root is severed, another root takes over that role, supporting the entire slope so it doesn't collapse. From inside a rotten stump, new buds appear, and those roots grow in a different direction while using the remains of the old roots as nutrients.
Clusters of mushrooms are also a clue that makes me imagine the underground world of the forest. After the rain, many small white or brown caps line up on the fallen leaves, and underneath them, an invisible network of mycelia is said to be connecting tree roots and soil particles. The entire forest breathes through underground fractals, like one giant living creature. There, boundaries such as 'whose root is this' or 'whose nutrients are these' are ambiguous; rather, connecting itself is a condition for life.
This image strangely overlaps with the structures of cities, the Internet, and the universe. When I saw a photo of a server room, the equipment filling the racks, the tangled wiring, and the rows of regularly blinking lamps couldn't help but look like the world of underground roots and mycelia to me. The flow of information also travels between people through invisible pipes. When I look at a star chart or a large-scale structure map of the universe, the distribution of galaxies looks like a root system spreading in the darkness, and it appears to my eyes as 'roots floating in the universe.'
When I think that way, I begin to feel my ego not as a single isolated individual, but as an 'ego as a forest.' Inside my body, words, values, experiences, and wounds received from family and others stand in rows like trees, and their roots are intertwined with each other. One voice is silent like a stump, but new buds may be growing from within it. Another voice extends its roots deep underground and has hardly appeared on the surface yet.
This 'ego as a forest' is connected to the forest further outside. Friends, colleagues, strangers passing by, posts and works by someone whose name I don't even know. The roots of such others and my roots, even if not in a directly visible form, touch each other somewhere like mycelia and influence each other. When a certain word remains in my heart and a certain behavior is engraved in my memory, at that moment, new fine roots grow in the soil and connect with other roots.
The darkness of the universe may also be spreading not as a mere void, but as a background for invisible order. The vast darkness between stars may be filled with thin threads connecting galaxies or passages of something not yet observed. Even if it only looks like a blank space between points to our eyes, a self-similar structure similar to underground fractals is submerged behind it.
I return to the park bench. The morning frost is melting little by little, and the smell of the soil is becoming stronger. I approach the base of the street tree again and gently place one hand on the bark. With the other hand, I try touching the area around my chest. Thinking that there, too, invisible roots are intertwined.
I plant my feet firmly on the ground and close my eyes. I visualize thin roots quietly extending from the soles of my feet into the earth. The roots, which were initially unstable lines, gradually adjust their posture as they come into contact with surrounding roots, stones, and soil. It is not just my will that determines which direction they grow. The hardness of the soil, the flow of water, the positions of other roots, and the traces of past earthquakes—various conditions overlap, and the destination of the roots is chosen as the 'best possible direction' for that moment.
Perhaps 'cutting off' the entanglements of the past is not necessarily the only solution. Rather, it is about finding the possibility of growing in a different direction along the extension of a twisted root. It is about spreading new fine roots around the damaged parts to create a detour. I believe that such reconstruction is the continuation of life as a 'repair of root-turning'.
The order in the darkness is not predicated on being fully understood. Even if we cannot grasp every branching of the roots, the fact that the entire forest stands without falling might be enough. In the same way, even if we cannot analyze everything inside ourselves, the weight of the body standing here now, breathing, guarantees the existence of an invisible order.
I slowly open my eyes. The winter light is still weak, but beneath the ground, preparations for the next season must already be underway. I, as a single 'root,' am also quietly participating in the order in the darkness as part of a vast network that runs through forests, cities, and the universe.
I stomp firmly on the soil beneath my feet once before leaving the park. That stomp is like a small prayer. It is like a quiet signal, conveying 'I am here' to the invisible roots and the invisible connections.
