Ancestors and the Persistence of Memory

The season of October carries a thinness to it. The air cools, the light shifts, and the veil between past and present feels almost transparent. Our ancestors are close. Their voices can be felt in the wind, their presence in the falling leaves, their persistence in the very fact that we are here.

To walk around the pond in silence is to acknowledge that we are part of something larger and older than ourselves. Every step is a reminder of persistence. The persistence of bloodlines, of stories, of memories carried forward even when spoken words have been forgotten.

Persistence is not always grand. It is the quiet endurance of moss covering stone, the slow patience of water carving its way through earth, the steady flame of a fire that refuses to go out when fed with care. Our ancestors embodied this persistence, often in ways that were unseen and uncelebrated. Their labor, their love, their sacrifices created the conditions for our lives.

And so we ask ourselves: how will we persist? What will endure after us? To become an ancestor is to understand that memory itself is a kind of persistence. What people recall of us may not be our accomplishments or our possessions but the way we carried ourselves, the warmth we offered, the care we extended.

a fire at night

When we gather at the fire after our walk, we will sit in the glow of this persistence. Flame is a perfect teacher -- fragile and fleeting, yet capable of outlasting night after night when tended. We too are fragile, yet capable of carrying light forward into the future. Our ancestors did so, and now it is our turn. The persistence of memory is a sacred thread, and it runs through us all.

On Saturday, October 25th, we will contemplate our ancestors with a special Forest Gathering. Will you join us?