In some sense, I'm a romantic. I like the idea of organic history

The words of Rory Stewart—“In some sense, I’m a romantic. I like the idea of organic history and tradition”—are not the idle musings of a politician or thinker, but the voice of one who recognizes the sacred threads that bind the present to the past. In a world where the new so often tramples upon the old, Stewart proclaims his kinship with the romantic spirit, that ancient longing for continuity, for meaning woven not by force or design, but by time itself. To love organic history and tradition is to see life not as something engineered in haste, but as something grown, nurtured, and ripened across the generations.

The origin of this vision lies in the soil of human memory. Every culture, every people, has its roots in rituals and customs shaped not by decree, but by the slow unfolding of centuries. To be “romantic” in this sense is to see beauty in what has grown naturally, like ivy upon an ancient wall, or songs carried forward by countless voices until they become timeless. Such traditions are not inventions of ambition, but the quiet gifts of humanity’s collective journey. Stewart’s words remind us that in honoring these traditions, we honor not only the past but also the mystery of time itself.

History offers us luminous examples. Think of Japan’s reverence for the tea ceremony, a practice refined over centuries, where every gesture, every silence, carries with it the weight of tradition and the whisper of ancestors. It was not designed for spectacle, but grew organically from the rhythms of life, until it became a profound expression of harmony, respect, and mindfulness. In this ritual, as in many traditions, we see what Stewart calls organic history: something living, not imposed, flowing like a river from the past into the present.

Yet Stewart also calls himself a romantic, and this word reveals the heart behind his appreciation. For to love tradition is not only to study it, but to feel it. The romantic spirit yearns for connection with what has endured, finding in old stones and ancient songs a kind of nobility often absent in modern invention. Just as the Gothic cathedrals of Europe rise toward heaven, carrying centuries of devotion in their stones, so too does the human heart rise when it recognizes itself as part of something older, greater, and enduring.

The lesson here is profound: we must not cast aside the past in our hunger for progress. Innovation has its place, but if it severs us from the roots of our tradition, it leaves us hollow. To embrace organic history is to see that wisdom grows slowly, like an oak tree, its roots deep and unseen, its branches sheltering those who come after. We are not isolated sparks in the void; we are links in a long and sacred chain.

Practically, this means seeking out the traditions that give life meaning. Learn the songs of your ancestors. Walk among the old buildings of your town and imagine the lives that shaped them. Honor the rituals of your family, not as relics, but as living expressions of continuity. And if you are to create new traditions, let them grow naturally, with sincerity, until time itself weaves them into the fabric of memory.

Thus, Stewart’s words stand not as nostalgia, but as guidance. To be a romantic is not to deny the present, but to root it in something deeper, something that time has already tested and found worthy. To love organic history and tradition is to live not as a leaf blown by the winds of the moment, but as a branch upon the tree of humanity, nourished by the strength of roots unseen.

And so, let this truth be passed down: treasure the past, for it lives within you; honor tradition, for it binds you to the eternal; and be a romantic, for in romance lies the courage to see beauty not only in what is new, but in what has endured.