The Seeds of Superstition

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The holidays, all of them, are filled with superstition.

There are old stories, older than time, but we do not hear them anymore.

And at the beginning of those stories, before time itself, are things we don’t understand, that we can’t comprehend.

It is said that history turns to legend like living rock turns to stone, and legend turns to myth, like water turning stones to sand.

But somewhere back in the mist, even before the mist, there was a kernel, and that kernel was hard and good and true. And it was passed along as something valuable for a long, long time.

And over the years, it changed to reflect the lives of its givers, adapting here and there to cultural nuances brought about by cataclysmic events and great distances.

Somewhere along its journey, our journey, the seed was lost. Perhaps in translation or just reduced in importance until there is nothing left but a husk, and the husk was passed along like a vessel. Sometimes given and sometimes alone on the winds of time.

But the husk survived the long journey, and we interpreted it as relating to something important, so we memorialized the husk into something we wanted or needed.

And we passed it along, until the husk – all dried up and crumbling – finally passed beyond memory into the faint nether regions of our mind where monsters and angels and demons play like movie characters on our screens of unconsciousness. Our dreamscapes.

But we are not so old that the stories of the husks have completely faded from memory. Rather, we, being an ingenious race of people, have carved a place for the memory of the husks into the structure of our lives.

We call them holidays, and we act out these stories without ever knowing they were stories, without ever knowing there was a husk that once housed a seed of truth.

We are not blessed with an ancient memory, but we are blessed with an ancient ability to memorialize what we do not understand and to celebrate it wholeheartedly. Not for the sake of merely celebrating, I suspect, but for the sake of the importance of the story that came from the husk that came through time itself that once bore a seed of truth.

 

 

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