(A continuation from a previous post)

When the child becomes of the age where they realize that all things living, must eventually die. The head of the tribe gives them their true name. The name that ties them to the elements, to the land, and connects them to the bloodline of traditions and knowledge. A name only spoken to the spirit. Not for the ears of the living. Branded on the skin in the language hidden from outliers (outsiders to the family).

In modern times this practice can be considered barbaric or even torturous. However to the clan, this is a sacred rite. A willing choice openly embraced without doubts. Through the centuries this practice evolved slowly. The ages of the children given their true names, increased. Brands became tattoos; which eventually became temporary dyes. A lot of these modern tribe members never wanting to receive their true names. To the vitsi as a whole, these members became the withering branches of a very old tree. The cracking spokes in a revolving wheel. Still growing and moving forward. But slowly dying and falling apart at the same time. You see, the members that received their true names were taught the histories of our people. Counseled on the rituals and practices that made us who we are. Only then being allowed to join the elders and the head; on telling stories and fables past only by speech and song.

So, when the past is all that is left of such a long span of tradition, what do the last remaining members do? Are we meant to reflect on the very thing that granted us access to this sacred knowledge? That everything living, must eventually die? We were not taught the importance of maintaining our culture. We just knew it was important. It didn’t need to be spoken. We did not need a song dedicated to this reminder. For those that chose to never receive their name. They never were privileged to the vast expanse of our legacy. They became the boundary to our way of living. Growing ever wider and distant from the center of our way of life.

I miss the visits with all the elders. The grand gatherings where the adventures weaved through the air. Colorful and thick with passion and wonder. Food, laughter, warmth, and content connection. Back then, I never could have imagined that I would be one of the last. I had always thought that I would eventually become an elder. Weaving our stories to the new generation of our vitsi. Continuing and teaching the traditions that were once taught to me, so long ago.

The weaving of fibers to the stories and songs of those that came before us. Sanctifying the love and brilliance we believed in. Showing how our connection to all things could grow and flourish. Making our lives more rich and fulfilling.

What is left? Hollowness and forgotten bonds. A sadness only felt by the ones still living with a name; private and steadfast. The wheel disintegrating. Left on the front lawn of a manufactured home. A token of a memory no longer understood. A landscaping ornament?

When the ever changing world creeps into the ‘way of life’ the individual was taught. Eventually, that way of life becomes only a distant dream. Radio, tv, movies, computers, video games, cell phones, smart watches, virtual reality, artificial intelligence… What-oh-when will be the next iteration? Methods of distraction and overstimulation. Could a distant individual far into the future, discover a past long forgotten? And by some twist of chance, adorn themselves with a secret name? To ignite a new history, rich with connection to more than just digital existence.

… damn.

…That was f’ing depressing.