So you find yourself alive, born to a particular time, in a particular place, and maybe into a particular tradition. The stories of that tradition weave themselves into your psyche, into the sinew of your world view, and you spend 40 years shadow boxing with something you feel you didn’t choose until you call a truce, make peace, and go back to your corners. You find yourself a further 20 years down the line, standing on ground zero of all that mythology because, chances are, the tradition you inherited didn’t come from the land you were born on, and you find yourself here, almost by accident.
Now, instead of fighting, you are dancing with the weight of it all, because at least you’ve learned that much—dancing with your opponent is more fruitful for the both of you. More graceful. More grace to be had. And you realize tradition is like a song that doesn’t end: you’ll be asked back to the dance floor, and you can accept or decline, and you can take a break if you get tired, and you can love or hate the song. It doesn’t care, and it won’t be offended. It will be the note under everything you do. You’ve come to a mutual understanding.
Because you are born in a particular time, a particular place, and maybe into a particular tradition.
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Image taken by the author: Golgotha, where, they say, was the site of many crucifixions, including Christ’s.
Gregory Hoskins 