As genealogical histories go, the records of the modern day Netherlands, in most cases, do not go back very far; most records get jumbled and lost beyond the 16th century. Because of this, I feel more or less stranded in my family history. Continue reading
(more pictures in a gallery below)
THIS WEEK’S CHALLENGE
To recap, here’s what to do for the challenge. As always, feel free to adapt the challenge as you see fit. The object is to get you writing:
- Pick three original details from encounters during your day or your week that you’ve observed.
- Once you’ve collected your details, your “glimmers of a beginning,” write at least one paragraph containing your original details.
ancestors, appreciation, as above so below, awareness, below, blood, compassion, conscious, family, genetics, grandparents, heritage, inheritance, lineage, perspective, photographs, roots, Samhain, tree, wheel of the year
In this time of Samhain celebrations, heritage and what it means to me weighs heavily on my mind. What is a heritage, and how is it passed on? What are the ways we express our heritage, consciously or not? In what ways does knowledge of heritage impact the psyche of the individual? How does it impact the choices we make about who we want to be? What purpose is there to be conscious of and honor one’s heritage?
Some have described heritage as a person’s “roots“, analogous to the structures by which most plants establish stability and a means of nourishment. There are many different ‘root systems’ essential to a person thriving, but, of the systems of roots heritage encompasses, the system under examination here is a more concrete sort: the roots extended by one’s family tree.
Images of waving flags, countries on maps, and black and white photographs of ‘oddly dressed’ and unsmiling people all flit across my mind when I think of family and heritage. Having recently been made aware of a genealogy in the possession of my maternal grandparents, who are still living, thankfully, I have pored over many such photographs with eagerness. To read the names and see the faces of dozens and dozens of people that are responsible for my existence on this earth today was somewhat surreal yet strangely settling.
We enter the womb tonight. It is only a matter of time… the trees are weeping! The trees are weeping in the dark! Weeping and wailing, the trees and leaves are celebrating the only Tradition. It is only a matter of time. She once was a maiden. She became a mother. But now the Crone is here, knocking loudly on the door. Sing the dirge, sing the praise of the phase and honor the piles of teardrops. Different yellows, oranges and browns, singing the same song. There is only one Tradition, and this is it. She knocks and the Tradition sees you. Watch the prayers scuttling across the altar of the ground, grey and rough, green still in places; cartwheeling prayers skidding through the streets, floating on the cold steel of the pond. Some of them are stubborn, and cling to the cheeks of nakedness. See the crone’s fingerbone branches? She knocks.