Marice unfolds like moonlight upon a still bamboo grove, a unisex name of gentle paradox and hidden depth. Born from the same Latin root as Mauritius, Marice carries in its syllables the quiet strength of ancient shores and the whispered mystery of dark-skinned Moors, yet it blooms equally in the grace of a daughter or the promise of a son. Pronounced “muh-REES,” its sound drifts across springtime cherry blossoms one moment, then ripples like a silver koi through a moonlit pond the next. In Japanese gardens of the mind, Marice might be the soft patter of raindrops on paper lanterns or the luminous arc of a lacquered fan, each stroke evoking both strength and serenity. Though rarely spoken—its American ranks lingering in the fringes of popularity—Marice endures as an homage to hidden tides and quiet vigilance, a name that invites each bearer to write their own story in water and wind, to emerge in their own time like a lotus unfolding at dawn.
Marice Moylan Wolfe - |