As Far as Traditions Go

20 February 2026

Ever the creature of habit, ever the rabbit of routine, ever the tried, tested, and true Virgo… 

I love a good tradition. I love a cycle. I love a returning-to. 

Or, to use a word my new vocabulary app taught me the other day, I love the retrocedence of my life. 

Simply put, retrocedence is the act of going back. 

The going back to something you felt before, or the trying to. Standing in it, remembering what a place or event once was, while also letting the pattern evolve a little over time. 

That’s the heart of tradition for me.

And when I say tradition, I don’t mean a holiday. I don’t mean turkey or gifts or birthdays. Those types of things happen on their own. With and without us.

When I say tradition, I mean more the idiosyncratic little moments of a life that become who we are. Simple acts alone, or with friends, family, partners that come back again and again.

My traditions — a short list:

• At the first of every month, Jess and I stand in the kitchen, staring at our art calendar (this year it’s Edward Hopper), guessing what the next page might hold, before we flip the calendar over to the new month. 
• For as long as I can remember, every road trip I’ve made, I log where I fill up the tank and how much it cost in a little palm-size notebook. “Why?” my dad once asked me, years ago. And I pointed out how it’s a record of my route and how much it took me to get there. But I really could’ve just said: tradition.
• Every book I buy, I keep the receipt in the book as a bookmark. Not only is it practical, it’s a record. It points to a where and a when. And I like that.
• For a few years now, for bowling league every Tuesday, my buddy Jeff picks me up on his way to the lanes, and he takes me home after. We both call it tradition. 
• Every morning, I use the same coffee cup that we bought at a now-defunct restaurant here in Bozeman called Red Chair. Every morning, it’s sitting right on the corner of the dish rack beside the sink, waiting. 
• Twice a year, I host a silly event called the Bulldog Bash, where friends come over to the house, and I make everyone a silly cocktail I first heard about in college in a Mountain Goats song: It’s called a Colorado Bulldog, and it’s delicious.
• Jess and I always get our groceries at the grocery store on campus. After, we go upstairs for a bite and beer at the brewery. It’s routine. It’s tradition.

I could go on, but you get the idea. I love a pattern. I love a returning.

As my life goes along, traditions spring up, evolve, and embed. I collect them. Stick to them. And let my life run along their tracks. 

This past weekend, Jess and I were in Missoula for the Big Sky Documentary Film Festival. It’s something we’ve done for years.

Every February, we make the drive. Watch the movies. Eat the food. Drink the drinks. And wander that city, riding the line between tourist and local — a line that blurs more and more each time we return. 

It’s one of our best traditions.