my tradition. heritage.

when i was there, i could never recognise it. it was so impregnated, that there was not chance for me to notice.

it was in the breakfast, in the school, in the talk, the accent, the “ños”, the “ma”, the “vamoh”. in the weekend, in where i spent my time, and they spent their time, and theirs, and theirs.

there was nothing to which compare, relate, differentiate, or recognise it.

i recognised the obvious, the labelled celebrated: los trajes de magos y romerías, el gofio, el timple, y quizás el mimbre. but not the rest, not the big rest.

as i got distant from it, i could recognise it. more, and more, and more.

and that happened with tradition, but it also happen with many other things.

distance can create meaning, or give meaning, or simply allow you to see from distance the whole picture, and the things for what they are.