via Kathy Shaidle, this reflection by “Laura”:
There are traditional laws, traditional customs, traditional manners. But, it’s the traditions of the heart that hound me. Perhaps I hear too much the naggings of the dead and the complaints of the not-yet-born. The dead, they do always whisper in my ear. Really, sometimes they talk about the pettiest of things. “Why don’t you have the wreath on the door? Where are the candles for the table? You think we were shallow and stupid?!” But, most of all they whine on and on about the traditions of the heart and the evaporation of love, between men and women and between parents and children. Oh, and the not-yet-born—Hah! They clamor in their cradles as if I were their mother! The most grating accusations of neglect so that I want to cover up my ears and say, “It’s not fair. I am not your mother. I want to live my own life!”
The not-yet-born are simply future generations, so intimately connected with me, you, everyone. It’s not possible to be a traditionalist if you think of yourself as part of a community that includes only the living. I think of myself as part of community—a living, breathing community—that extends far back in time and far into the distant future. But, I use the term “think of myself” loosely because it’s not simply an intellectual thing. I have no choice in the matter and have not arrived here simply by logic. I feel the complaints of the not-yet-born. Perhaps it’s simply maternal projection, but I sympathize, I know they will judge us, I know they will be angry that they must work so hard to resurrect what we let fall. Besides, I love them. After all, they are the children of my children and the children of these. They are the descendents of my sisters and brother, my cousins and friends. They are mine. Only someone with a shriveled heart wouldn’t care.
I know they will judge us.
And really, isn’t being mindful of generations present and future the ultimate in being inclusive?