It's funny; as I get older I'm reverting to my roots - I want to

In the fullness of her years, Melissa McCarthy spoke words that ring like gentle bells over the gardens of the soul: “It’s funny; as I get older I’m reverting to my roots — I want to plant stuff.” Beneath their simplicity lies a truth as ancient as humankind itself. In youth, we seek to conquer the world; in age, we seek to understand it. What she calls “funny” is, in truth, the quiet laughter of wisdom — the tender irony that life, having carried us through storms of ambition and desire, leads us back to the soil from which we first arose. For the earth waits patiently for all her children, knowing that, in the end, they will remember her touch.

To revert to one’s roots is not regression, but remembrance. It is to rediscover the sacred rhythm between man and nature, between creation and patience. McCarthy’s yearning “to plant stuff” is not merely about tending gardens, but about rekindling a forgotten dialogue with life itself. The seed is a symbol — humble, silent, yet holding within it the force that splits mountains and gives birth to forests. When one plants, one becomes a co-creator with time. Each seed sown is a prayer, each sprout a promise. In her words, we hear the call to slow down, to feel the pulse of the living earth, and to remember the sacred labor of hands in soil.

There is a tale told of Cincinnatus, a Roman general who, after leading his people to victory, laid down his sword and returned to his farm. When his countrymen sought him again, they found him not in armor, but in the fields, his hands buried in the dirt. He had tasted both glory and simplicity, and in choosing the latter, he found peace. His life, like McCarthy’s reflection, reminds us that to plant is to return to harmony, to trade the noise of ambition for the music of the natural world. Even the mightiest among us are drawn, in the end, back to the soil — for in that humble labor, the spirit breathes freely once more.

Roots are not only the tendrils that feed trees; they are the unseen threads that feed the heart. They remind us of who we were before the world named us. As the years pass, many feel an instinctive pull to reconnect — to family, to childhood places, to forgotten crafts, to the earth itself. It is not nostalgia; it is the soul’s homing instinct. Like rivers that wander far from their source yet inevitably return to the sea, we too circle back toward what first gave us life. McCarthy’s words speak of that sacred circle — the truth that in growing older, we do not lose ourselves, but rather rediscover our origin.

To plant is to practice faith. It is to believe that something unseen will one day rise. The farmer does not see the harvest as he buries the seed, but he trusts. In this act, we find the essence of life itself: to sow love, patience, and kindness even when we cannot yet see their bloom. McCarthy’s desire to plant is the desire to create quietly, without applause. In her hands, the trowel replaces the microphone, yet the act remains art — a performance for the heavens, not for the crowd.

In an age of haste and spectacle, her words are a gentle rebellion. They remind us that peace grows in the places where ego once reigned. The garden is a teacher: it rewards not speed, but attention; not dominance, but care. It asks that we bend low, that we listen, that we wait. It whispers to us that creation is not always grand — sometimes, it is green and silent. To those who seek meaning, McCarthy’s reflection offers this truth: when life feels scattered, plant something. Watch it live. In that small act, you will rediscover yourself.

So let this teaching take root within you: As you grow older, do not fear your return to simplicity. Seek the soil — whether it be literal earth or the deeper ground of your being. Reconnect with what made you whole. Plant trees, plant ideas, plant hope. Care for something beyond yourself, and let that care transform you. For in planting, we mirror the divine: we give, we nurture, and we wait with faith. The wise do not flee from their roots; they water them, and through them, they rise again — stronger, truer, eternal.