Tradition is not the house that empire built -

Tradition is not the house that empire built, is not the graveyard that they think glorifies their clandestine creeds, is not their testament to triumph, nor trophy to something conserved for their halls.

Tradition is often quiet and kept by gesture, which passes without comment. Like a father sitting cross-legged with his child before ancestral shrines, whispering mantra and revealing mudra, saying, Now hold this finger to this nostril and breathe in, now move to the other, and breathe out, now say these words...

Tradition is kept under the skirts where the children gather for comfort when strange spirits move through the house, or is in the singing of the songs at the sweet and synchronic moments when noticing kisses passing...

Tradition can be in the flashing of steel in the darkness lit up by candles, and the smell of certain resins, and the speaking of certain words...

Or in the gathering of plants in palpable silence under the light of the full moon in Virgo on Friday night...

She is kept and honoured when we bleed on her, when He becomes wet with our tears, when we rage and scream with Them by our side and ask for Change, then usually more Primordial and Less Human forms and faces are offered -

Tradition knows how to sustain, how to adapt, how to shift, how to slough, how to anoint, how to consecrate, how to wait, how to return -

Tradition is not a dead-end, but a crossroads of power who has seen almost everything.

And if we don't gather there, under that Cloak, with the Hidden Company, and listen carefully, chances are we'll go lifetimes without Knowing.

x

(I wrote this in July, 2020 but I saw it being shared again and it felt like it belonged here).

Art: Triple Hecate, William Blake.