The Innocence of Traditions

Readers may recall that I revived my Traditions Traditions Traditions! blog recently. It hasn't exactly taken off. There have been a total of seven comments on the whole blog, and they were all on a single post about garden gnomes, seven years ago.

I've often written about tradition on this blog, too. For instance, in this blog post from 2015. I'm quite pleased with this pasage from back then:

But what do I mean by tradition? I mean it in a broad sense; but in a narrow sense, too. I mean it especially in the most vulgar and obvious sense, the sense that makes many people roll their eyes. I mean it in the "Ye Olde Shoppe" sense. I mean it in the 'warm fuzzies' sense.

I mean Halloween, confetti at weddings, the Angelus bells being broadcast on RTE in Ireland, blowing out birthday candles, the FA Cup final, the Budweiser Clydesdales, white smoke at Papal elections (a relatively recent innovation, by the way), using the feminine pronoun for ships, bishops in the House of Lords, Corpus Christi processions, Valentine's Day cards, men proposing to women, poetry that rhymes, terrace chants, James Bond, cloth caps, the Two Ronnies Christmas special, the Oberammergau passion play, singing on the last night of the Proms, Guy Fawkes night, popcorn at the cinema, Toby jugs, the Late Late Toy Show, and so on.

Yes, my love of tradition absolutely comes down to "the warm fuzzies". It's nostalgic; it's sentimental; it's corny.

I've been thinking a lot about traditions recently and why they appeal to me so much. As the title of the blog post suggests, I think a lot of it comes down to innocence.

There is something very child-like about traditions. They appeal to the child in us all, and the participation of children always brings them to life in a special way.

Traditions are received, and for children almost everything is received. Nearly everything is a hand-me-down for a child; language, social cues, politeness, everything. This is the case for adults, too, but it's more obviously true in the case of children. Kids are learning and copying literally all the time. They're like the wet cement that a cat's paws are imprinted in for decades to come.

And perhaps that's also part of the appeal of tradition; tradition is humble. Traditions aren't original or creative or individual. They're not supposed to be. You put up a Christmas tree or light a bonfire at Halloween or eat popcorn at the movies because other people have done the same thing before. That's the whole point.

I remember watching a documentary a good few years ago-- there was a vogue for this particular sort of documentary at the time, "the hundred best TV moments", that sort of thing. At one point, some talking head was marvelling over David Bowie's love of Christmas. I obviously can't remember his exact words, but he said something like this: "It's so strange and wonderful that this super-cool, decadent artiste would love something as goofy and lame as Christmas." I'm not sure that Bowie did love Christmas. I can't find any evidence of this beyond the duet with Bing Crosbie, which he apparently did to please his mother. But the point is still well-made. Tradition is anti-cool, anti-cynicism, anti-iconoclast.

As well as innocence, there's something inherently social about traditions. It's very possible to have a completely personal tradition-- in fact, that's an interesting subject in its own right-- but most traditions require other people. People put Halloween decorations and Easter decorations and St. Patrick's Day decorations in their windows and gardens so that everybody can see them. People give stuff away on holidays-- chocolates, little gifts, that sort of thing. We need other people to play along.

Ultimately, much of my own fascination with tradition is irreducibly personal and based on my own experiences. For whatever reason, my memories of various traditions have a sort of luminosity about them-- a glow, a magic, a sense of wonder. There's often a bittersweet element to this, since traditions are so often disappointing or underwhelming. And yet the very underwhelmingness also gives the memory a certain poignancy, in the manner of every feeble but gallant effort-- like a newborn baby's hand clasping an adult's finger, or the very fragile flame of a candle sputtering in the air. (I associate Easter, especially, with poignantly feeble traditions.)