18/09/2026
My ancestors believed a person had a name, and that the name was a living part of them.
Not a label. The ren was one of the components of a soul, alongside the body and the shadow and the heart. And because it was alive, it could be sustained — every time someone spoke it aloud, the person was kept in existence. This is why they carved names into stone, and why erasing a name from a monument was the gravest thing you could do to someone. It was not vandalism. It was a second death.
I think we have kept the instinct and lost the language for it. We say someone's name at their funeral and feel something shift in the room. We know what it means to be called by the wrong name for years.
Whose name have you not said aloud in a long time?
Maria 🌿