It holds a pleasant connotation, usually, the word tradition. It speaks of comfort and continuity, of ties that bind and gentle moments. It sparks our cherished memories, or whatever goodness we've culled, or imagined and preserved from the actual events of the past. It bonds us with our ancestry accentuates the love from which we've been generated.

The year's end is the natural setting for tradition's peak. The winding down of the astronomical timetable leads to a pause for all of creation. It is designed for rest and reflection; we stop to think, almost perforce. We dust ourselves off after the frenzied activity of the light-filled months. We cart out our traditions and put them on display for a spell.

In our seasonal celebration of the end/renewal of life, we turn to our customs as keystones. We rely on symbols of the past to rekindle the best and brightest of our dreams and hopes, or what we long to believe was the best and brightest. In the midst of it all, we acknowledge our efforts as a bulwark against an undeniable melancholy that exists as palpably as our "joy."

Some customs, admittedly, should be beaten to death with a stick! We know from experience that today's treasures will tarnish in very short order: weighty fruitcake in a gaudy can, an elusive strand of tinsel, crushed peppermint in cellophane -- all lose something in the translation to spring. They get old, at a time when old is no longer synonymous with great, and we wonder how such traditions ever get started.

A tradition that should never have needed to be brought into being is, unfortunately, becoming part of the winter solstice "celebration." On or around December 21 throughout this country, the annual Homeless People's Memorial Day observation takes place. Locally, this year's arena was downtown Wilmington, Delaware. There was an irony of contrasts in the location. Quiet marchers juxtaposed rush hour traffic. The sparkling towers of Rodney square, home to some of corporate America's most lucrative enterprises looked down upon the steadfast participants shielding small candles from the wind as they assembled to preserve the memory of homeless individuals who had died in the past year. Names were called out in recognition of ones who, for whatever reasons, passed away without benefit of the very least of what America's dream implies.

The memorial should not have to happen again, in Rodney Square or anywhere. What is handed from generation to generation needs not to be rooted in inhumanity but in the joy of caring -- each for the other -- and in the cherishing of human dignity as it was in the beginning.

Let's gather again and stand, not in a moment of silence for the men, women, and children who have died homeless. Let's stand gratefully, forced into silence because there are no longer any names to be called out. And let's let that become a tradition to be proud of, and a true gift for future generations.

Pat Hughes is a member and worker at the Meeting Ground community in Earleville, Maryland.