marie
October 22, 2013 § 11 Comments
As a child I always felt my name a misnomer of self. My first and middle names were my grandmother’s and mother’s middle names respectively; an inheritance that wore like an ill-fitting hand-me-down.
It wasn’t until I became accustomed to the more formal acknowledgment of my married name and the well-favored endearment of Mom, that the informal commonness of my first name evolved into a small indulgence. I have grown to appreciate the unruffled simplicity of my name more mindful of the relationships and experiences that are forever spelled out in its letters.
Now, here, there is a rustling of desire to adhere my name more possessively to my written identity; too intimate in nature to be casually referenced by an alternate expression. What was once a simple exercise in letting go has become a more meaningful practice of holding on, scribbling my name more intentionally into the text of my story.
scribblechic 
Claim yourself! There you are, the real you.
I once went by “Orange” (hence the gravatar) and reached the same point. It feels comfortable to claim it.
Thanks! It felt a little like releasing a breath I had forgotten I was holding. In the beginning I relished the sense of security that cloaked my anonymity. I hadn’t realized the weight of such a secret had made me feel a little invisible, lost in my own thoughts.
Pleased to meet you, Marie.
The pleasure is mine. Thank you, Andy.
In this fishbowl that is the Internet it’s always difficult to know just how much of ourselves we wish to share.
Our ‘given’ name is very much a part of what each of us unique. Sure there are other Maurice’s, more Marie’s, more Andy’s, more David’s but only one that each of us can identify with intimately.
And it’s always an act of faith; an overt offering of trust when we choose to share it.
But, of course we all still have the privacy of our thoughts. We still get to keep our minds a mystery. Best of all we still get to choose which parts of it we share and on what terms.
And THAT is why blogging is such a rewarding passtime.
Oh, and by the way, I pronounce mine mor-iss, NOT mor-eese 🙂
Thank you, Mor-iss. I confess I have been mispronouncing your name for some time. If it is any consolation, I am often addressed as Maria.
My great-grandfather, Maurice, pronounced his name as “Moriss” too. 🙂
In an onslaught of reblogged glib, I have enjoyed the oasis of your thoughtful, heartfelt and well-written observations for some time. But I must confess that as warm as your words have always been, they are somehow warmer with the gift of your name to put to them. Strange, perhaps. But true.
I woke to this message and couldn’t seem to form a respectable response. Equal to my gratitude for such a lovely compliment was a certain awareness that my context could very much be considered glib for its personal indulgence. Thank you, Damien, for seeing something more that one woman’s dwelling in self.
As you may know, I’ve long loved your words, but putting a name to them makes them that much more intimate, purposeful, meaningful. And I happen to love the name Marie.
Thank you, Lara. Adding my name feels akin to signing a letter, recognizing the path each sharing travels.