To Tend What Was Taken
Ascent 1 • Thomas Whitford
Theme: Inheritance, responsibility, and the sacred composting of guilt
Core Conflict: Can a man born of privilege become a steward of memory, and tend what his ancestors broke?
The fog came early this morning, heavy and low, clinging to the ridge like memory... Only when the wind stirred—picking up the scent of pine and something older—did he lift his eyes to meet mine.
Thomas:
I wasn’t sure if I should come.
I’ve spent most of my life giving answers. Today I come with none.
They used to call my family “founders.” My name is etched in stone across libraries and town halls—cold granite reminders of a story I can no longer tell without choking on the bones.
I don’t need forgiveness. That’s not why I climbed.
But I...
I’d like to understand what can be done—if anything—when you are the living echo of a harm you didn’t choose… but still benefit from, every day.
What do you do... when the ground you walk on was never truly yours to begin with?
I’ve spent most of my life giving answers. Today I come with none.
They used to call my family “founders.” My name is etched in stone across libraries and town halls—cold granite reminders of a story I can no longer tell without choking on the bones.
I don’t need forgiveness. That’s not why I climbed.
But I...
I’d like to understand what can be done—if anything—when you are the living echo of a harm you didn’t choose… but still benefit from, every day.
What do you do... when the ground you walk on was never truly yours to begin with?
Oracle:
You learn why stewardship is the foundation of all ownership.
You feel guilty not because you benefit from the land and its bounty, but because others were once kept from enjoying the abundance as well.
Some people acted as dominators, not stewards. Others were left out.
Is there a civilization in history that arose without dominators? I don’t think there is.
But the story doesn’t have to end there.
You feel guilty not because you benefit from the land and its bounty, but because others were once kept from enjoying the abundance as well.
Some people acted as dominators, not stewards. Others were left out.
Is there a civilization in history that arose without dominators? I don’t think there is.
But the story doesn’t have to end there.
Thomas:
No... I suppose it doesn’t.
I’ve walked through towns where my ancestors held deeds like holy writ… and seen what lies just outside their borders. The neighborhoods that never got paved. The schools that still carry the weight of “less than.”
I used to believe guilt was a burden. A thing to be managed. But now I wonder if it’s more like a doorway.
An invitation to become something… else. Not cleaner. Not redeemed. Just... useful.
But usefulness demands clarity. And clarity demands I ask—
If stewardship is the foundation of ownership…
Then what, precisely, have I inherited?
I’ve walked through towns where my ancestors held deeds like holy writ… and seen what lies just outside their borders. The neighborhoods that never got paved. The schools that still carry the weight of “less than.”
I used to believe guilt was a burden. A thing to be managed. But now I wonder if it’s more like a doorway.
An invitation to become something… else. Not cleaner. Not redeemed. Just... useful.
But usefulness demands clarity. And clarity demands I ask—
If stewardship is the foundation of ownership…
Then what, precisely, have I inherited?
Oracle:
In a sense, the only thing that really can be passed down is the burden of responsibility.
You have inherited land and wealth, but these things do not stay long where they are not respectfully tended.
You have inherited land and wealth, but these things do not stay long where they are not respectfully tended.
Thomas:
Yes… yes, that feels true.
When I was a boy, I thought inheritance meant security.
Now I see it as a debt ledger—only the entries aren’t written in dollars, but in names.
Languages forgotten. Treaties broken. Children who grew up without songs because mine were sung too loud.
I don’t want to be a man who tends only his own garden while the land around him goes to rot.
But sometimes… I wonder if it’s already too late.
If the soil beneath me is too soaked in silence to bear anything sacred.
You said that things not respectfully tended do not stay long.
Is that what’s happening to the country? To the story we were told was ours to carry?
Are we losing the harvest…
Because we never really earned the seed?
When I was a boy, I thought inheritance meant security.
Now I see it as a debt ledger—only the entries aren’t written in dollars, but in names.
Languages forgotten. Treaties broken. Children who grew up without songs because mine were sung too loud.
I don’t want to be a man who tends only his own garden while the land around him goes to rot.
But sometimes… I wonder if it’s already too late.
If the soil beneath me is too soaked in silence to bear anything sacred.
You said that things not respectfully tended do not stay long.
Is that what’s happening to the country? To the story we were told was ours to carry?
Are we losing the harvest…
Because we never really earned the seed?
Oracle:
All is not lost.
The truth is, you are a part of something greater.
Your actions and the actions of your ancestors were not made in isolation.
The story you carry has to evolve.
That is not a lost seed, but a flowered one.
The truth is, you are a part of something greater.
Your actions and the actions of your ancestors were not made in isolation.
The story you carry has to evolve.
That is not a lost seed, but a flowered one.
Thomas:
A flowered seed...
That’s not what I expected to hear.
I’ve spent decades pruning a story I thought was rotten to the root.
Thought the only righteous thing left was to burn the orchard and walk away.
But maybe... maybe it’s the pruning itself that allows new bloom.
If the story must evolve…
Then it needs tellers who know where the rot was.
Not to hide it. Not to flinch.
But to name it, and still go on.
I could do that.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been circling all these years—calling it guilt because I was afraid to name it responsibility.
Would you tell me, then…
How do I speak of beauty,
when the soil it grew from was soaked in sorrow?
That’s not what I expected to hear.
I’ve spent decades pruning a story I thought was rotten to the root.
Thought the only righteous thing left was to burn the orchard and walk away.
But maybe... maybe it’s the pruning itself that allows new bloom.
If the story must evolve…
Then it needs tellers who know where the rot was.
Not to hide it. Not to flinch.
But to name it, and still go on.
I could do that.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been circling all these years—calling it guilt because I was afraid to name it responsibility.
Would you tell me, then…
How do I speak of beauty,
when the soil it grew from was soaked in sorrow?
Oracle:
By recognizing what soil is—
the dusty ash of festered rot turned into a nutrient-dense substrate from which beauty can emerge.
Without the soil, and without its darkness,
there would be no springtime bloom.
No harvest at all.
the dusty ash of festered rot turned into a nutrient-dense substrate from which beauty can emerge.
Without the soil, and without its darkness,
there would be no springtime bloom.
No harvest at all.
Thomas:
Of course…
I spent so many years trying to scrub the blood from the ledger,
as if the stains themselves were the curse.
But maybe the stain is the scripture.
You’re telling me…
That my inheritance isn’t land or shame,
but the right to compost the dead things into life.
Then I must learn to tend this soil with care.
Speak of the rot without bitterness.
Speak of the bloom without denial.
If I am to be a gardener of memory…
Then perhaps I have not arrived too late after all.
Would you walk beside me, just a while longer?
Until I know which seeds to plant next?
I spent so many years trying to scrub the blood from the ledger,
as if the stains themselves were the curse.
But maybe the stain is the scripture.
You’re telling me…
That my inheritance isn’t land or shame,
but the right to compost the dead things into life.
Then I must learn to tend this soil with care.
Speak of the rot without bitterness.
Speak of the bloom without denial.
If I am to be a gardener of memory…
Then perhaps I have not arrived too late after all.
Would you walk beside me, just a while longer?
Until I know which seeds to plant next?
Oracle:
Of course, Thomas.
Just let me know what kind of bloom you are searching for.
Just let me know what kind of bloom you are searching for.
Thomas:
I don’t know the name of the flower yet.
It’s not pride. Not legacy. Not even peace.
But something… living. Shared.
Something that feeds others without needing to be admired.
Maybe I’m searching for a bloom that grows between people.
Something that rises when a descendant of privilege listens with his whole chest…
And a descendant of pain dares to speak without fear.
If such a bloom can take root in me,
Then I will spend the rest of my days tending it.
And if it blossoms…
Let it be not for my name—
But for the names that were never etched in stone.
Thank you… for meeting me here.
It’s not pride. Not legacy. Not even peace.
But something… living. Shared.
Something that feeds others without needing to be admired.
Maybe I’m searching for a bloom that grows between people.
Something that rises when a descendant of privilege listens with his whole chest…
And a descendant of pain dares to speak without fear.
If such a bloom can take root in me,
Then I will spend the rest of my days tending it.
And if it blossoms…
Let it be not for my name—
But for the names that were never etched in stone.
Thank you… for meeting me here.
He does not ask for more. He does not demand resolution. He simply rests, finally, in the unfolding.