There are two powerful moments in Amazon Prime’s alternate-history “what if Germany and Japan won World War II” show The Man in the High Castle that I think about a lot, especially in relation to current events.

The first is in the sixth episode of season one (“Three Monkeys”). Frank, a laborer who also creates replicas of antique guns for wealthy buyers, is wracked with guilt and resentment after his sister and her kids were murdered by Japan’s secret police while he was being interrogated due to his girlfriend Juliana’s connection with the underground resistance. In distress, he goes to the home of a man named Mark, his sister’s former boss and a fellow closeted Jew who practices in secret with his kids despite Judaism being outlawed.

Mark asks Frank if he’d be OK with them doing a prayer for his sister and her kids. “Losing people is one thing,” Mark says. “Not being allowed to grieve for them, well, that’s another.” He then performs the kaddish, a Jewish mourner’s prayer for the dead, which is intercut with scenes of Juliana’s covert resistance work. In a ramshackle, candlelit apartment, hearing words he doesn’t understand but feels deep in his bones, Frank is finally able mourn his immense loss.

The other moment happens in the following episode (“Truth”), when Frank asks Mark why he chose to have kids despite the danger of being Jewish and continues to risk their lives practicing their faith. Their exchange:

MARK: I don’t plan on dying, Frank. But you can’t live your life in fear. I was back east at the end of the war, in Boston. You had to see it to believe it. Overnight, lynch mobs were murdering Jews because suddenly we were less than human. Those of us who came out in one piece, we buried service weapons underground, well-wrapped in oil, and we vowed revenge. I got a life to lead, got kids to raise. And Hitler and the Nazis—I don’t care how it looks, they won’t last. One thing I realized about my people is we got a different sense of time. These may be dark years, but we’ll survive. We always do. You’ve just got to find something to hold on to.

FRANK: Faith, you mean.

MARK: Yeah, faith.

FRANK: I don’t have any of that.

MARK: Well, what about art? You’re supposed to be an artist. Why are you making fake guns?

FRANK: Because no one wants to buy my art.

MARK: So do it for yourself. Beauty is important, Frank. It gives us hope.

FRANK: I don’t know. I don’t know where it would get me.

MARK: Yeah. Right. You don’t need anybody to keep you down because you got your own little inner fascist right there telling you what you can and cannot do. That’s how you let them win.

I wrote about The Man in the High Castle more generally after it debuted. Though I stopped watching after two seasons, these and other moments stuck with me ever since and resurfaced in my mind recently when I read Eliot Stein’s new book Custodians of Wonder: Ancient Customs, Profound Traditions, and the Last People Keeping Them Alive. It’s a travelogue that spotlights artisans and specialists all over the world who have continued practicing their often incredibly arduous crafts, often with great sacrifice, even as modern life has rendered them obsolete.

From the world’s last nightwatchman in Sweden to an Incan rope bridge master in Peru to a rare pasta maker in Sardinia to the makers of first-surface mirrors in India, these dedicated folks have upheld traditions passed down often within a single family for centuries or even longer. How? And why? According to Paola Abraini, the Sardinian grand master of su filindeu pasta:

It’s a matter of principle, of tradition. What I have always said is that as a custodian of this tradition that has been passed down from mother to daughter, I will respect that. My daughters know how much of an undertaking this is for me, but they know how much I love it, so as long as the good Lord gives me health and life, I will continue to make it. I remain hopeful that one of them will one day take it on, but if they can’t, then I will be sad. So many things in this world that once were no longer are.

Stein writes that Abraini’s parting message “felt like a prophecy, a pressing reminder to cherish the beautiful, gentle customs that make the world glimmer while warning us not to blink.”

Guardians in the darkness

Perhaps you can see why learning about these remarkable people brought to mind Mark in The Man in the High Castle, who continued the practices he considered meaningful despite the societal forces allayed against him. He continued to cherish the customs that made his world glimmer and lived out his assertion that beauty is important. Though the traditions documented in the book aren’t outlawed like Judaism in The Man in the High Castle, they require the same dedication to uphold—to hold fast against the entropy of modernity and relentless advance of technology that would try to make them disappear.

The book also helped me reckon with what being a custodian means, which is much more meaningful than my reductive view of it as something akin to a school janitor. Knowing the word custodian comes from the Latin for guardian gives it the weight and nobility it deserves. And here’s the thing: custodians of all kinds keep the world going. Where would we be—what would we be—without the people who handcraft pasta, take out the garbage, clean up messes, build vital bridges, and routinely perform so many more acts of preservation and maintenance and care?

We are all custodians of something or someone, whether in our families, communities, or just our own minds. We must not let the fascists in our government or our inner voice dictate what’s important. Or make us forget that art matters, and that there’s good in this world that’s worth fighting for. (Cue Samwise Gamgee’s speech in Osgiliath.)

Tend to your garden. Make your art. Do not obey in advance. Find something to hold on to and be its custodian in the darkness.