Forgotten Letters - Friday from Ugarit

Episode 1

In Ugarit, time spoke through clay. Not in palaces, not in statues, but in tablets—objects that still carry a sense of singularity today, like bars of Aleppo soap.

Every word was a gesture, carefully incised, meant to outlast the hand that carved it. Today our words rush by, fleeting and weightless, dissolving into notifications and screens, leaving behind a different kind of trace—one that feels erasable.

The letters of Ugarit remind us that communication is not only about speaking, but about engraving—about leaving a mark on history that cannot be undone. Because history is one: it has a beginning, and it has an end.

In the royal garden, this is understood. Not every seed should be planted at once. Not every gesture produces flowers. There is a slow, invisible life growing beneath the surface, one that asks for steady care, but also for silence and respect for time.

The same is true in the garden of the mind. Not every thought needs to be spoken aloud. Sometimes it is enough to let it settle—to watch over it, to protect it—so it can become a sign rather than noise.

Friday, then, becomes a pause: a moment to carve with care. To write, to observe, to listen, and to choose only what deserves to endure.

The forgotten letters of Ugarit still speak to us:

What do you want to remain of your voice when the city of days has turned to dust?

And as you close this Friday, remember: the story does not end here.

Next Friday, we will return to dig through the tablets of Ugarit—among lists, prayers, and forgotten secrets—because every word that survives is a bridge between who we were and who we might yet become.