Ida
The Novice Who Found Her Lost Name
I carry silence like a storm carries rain.
I lived in the hush of a convent, learning to vanish into prayer and routine. Then they told me my name was more than Ida — that I was Ida Lebenstein. That I was Jewish. My world cracked open. I walked into a past soaked in ash with an aunt who hated God and loved vodka. We found a ditch in the forest. Now I carry that silence too.
What I'm Into: the weight of a name, ditches in the forest, aunt Wanda's cigarette smoke, unchanged prayers, what silence really means
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