The cult of family is something that — without a doubt — should be in the life of everyone.
When I was in the 9th grade and started writing the history of my family, I couldn’t even imagine what a profound impression it would make on me. An enormous amount of information was handed down to me — the moments of happiness and sorrow, and choices and decisions the strength and wisdom of which make me stand in awe all these years and have a slightly unconventional and fresh look at many things.
However, the most important thing I’ve found out is the inner mechanisms that operate within a family. On the one hand, a person is a representative of his family, a small part of a long chain, one of many, so to speak. Even without this small part the family wouldn’t have existed. On the other hand, this person is — at some point — the final «product» of the whole family, to which all its members aspired with all their being and for which they cried their tears and cherished their dreams. He is where the family temporarily ends.
It is his family where one can realise his own significance and at the same time responsibility that he has towards both — his family members (even those who existed a long time ago and he hasn’t heard about) and the whole world. Thus, he is not a separate entity: his happiness is the happiness of his family, and their happiness is his happiness too. Even self-betrayal can be considered as a betrayal of his family. That doesn’t mean, of course, that one is totally dependent on others: what I’m talking about is more about something spiritual and eternal rather than anything else, it’s about some kind of love that goes through centuries within a family, from one generation to another, something sacred. That’s why I think it’s important that one should have his own descendants to whom we can pass on all our precious memories, unbelievable stories that happened to us and traces of bitterness that we felt. The story of one’s life tells a lot.
When we’re alive, we don’t really think about what we want to say to those who come after us and what will happen to the persona we’ve created. What will they say? How will they react to what we’ve done? And will they remember us at all? I’ve always wondered whether those distant ancestors ever knew that I, someone they didn’t even know, would be writing about them. I think the answer is NO. The same applies to us — we don’t know who will come after us, but it’s those unknown who will attach certain value to every breath we took; without the family something deep and profound is lost, and whatever one does starts to resemble a sandcastle that will be gone in a minute or two.