I carefully repotted my oldest cactus two weeks before the cross-country road trip. One of four succulents deemed worthy and capable of making the 3,555-mile journey, it had long outgrown its tiny pot.

I dutifully carried it into the motels in the Rockies, where the overnight temperatures dropped into the mid-twenties. As the days of the drive mounted, my cactus leaned over and leaned over again. During several nights in Pittsburgh, my daughter-in-law treated the chosen four to a few days on a warming pad. Still, she leaned over.

Upon arrival in Connecticut, I repositioned the weary traveler in the soil. Though her roots existed in new soil, she still held tight, unwilling to reach out. Trusting in resiliency, however, I placed all four traveling succulents in prominent positions in our room in my son’s home.

Like my favorite cactus, I find myself repotted in fertile soil. My roots are still tightly wound to their home in Oregon. Though not always an easy task as I enter the latter half of my sixties, I am consciously reaching out. The new soil in which I find myself is filled with the nutrients of unconditional love and encouragement.

In my first offshoot from my tightly wound roots, I ran a local 5K race four days after arriving. I met several people, one of whom invited me to join an informal group of Connecticut runners, each seeking to run a race in each of the 169 towns in Connecticut. Encouraged in my green offshoot by my 7-year-old grandchild cheering me and hugging me as I approached the finish line, I found the courage to join the Run 169 Towns Society as a way of getting to know the soil, sandy, rocky, or otherwise, of my new state.

This morning, as I sit in the local coffee shop, I note neighbors greeting one another and catching up. Their roots are in this community. Mine are still elsewhere, but like the cacti who road-tripped with us, I will soon be branching out, greeting my neighbors.