Tanne
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Translated · Show original
Velvet Caress
It is winter fog-cold and I bury my nose in the turtleneck.
On it, Ambre Sultan still lingers.
A piece is missing in my heart and I feel a chill.
It would feel the same, even if it were summer sun-warm.
I found Ambre Sultan way too sweet during my first test.
At the moment, I find this sweetness comforting.
On these snowy cloud days, it does me good.
I distinctly perceive myrtle, coriander, oregano, and angelica root.
This spice mixture does not come across as overly saturated with Christmas,
but retains a freshness that opens the horizon.
Benzoin and amber tame the spice and make it velvety.
Sandalwood, styrax, and vanilla provide a cozy base.
In these days, when I am outside a lot, Ambre Sultan thoroughly warms me,
without constricting me in a tight cocoon.
Ambre Sultan caresses all that is sore and aching
and is a reliable comfort for the soul.
On it, Ambre Sultan still lingers.
A piece is missing in my heart and I feel a chill.
It would feel the same, even if it were summer sun-warm.
I found Ambre Sultan way too sweet during my first test.
At the moment, I find this sweetness comforting.
On these snowy cloud days, it does me good.
I distinctly perceive myrtle, coriander, oregano, and angelica root.
This spice mixture does not come across as overly saturated with Christmas,
but retains a freshness that opens the horizon.
Benzoin and amber tame the spice and make it velvety.
Sandalwood, styrax, and vanilla provide a cozy base.
In these days, when I am outside a lot, Ambre Sultan thoroughly warms me,
without constricting me in a tight cocoon.
Ambre Sultan caresses all that is sore and aching
and is a reliable comfort for the soul.
8 Comments
Translated · Show original
Of Remembrance and the Love of Life
As a little mouse, I accompanied my grandfather in collecting
healing herbs in the meadows and forests.
Everything we plucked and dug up, he infused in large, rounded glass bottles.
Corked and left to mature in the sun or in the mighty grandfather's secretary, his alcoholic extracts were created.
That’s how I came to know bloodroot and angelica.
Together we cleaned the roots and chopped them into small pieces for the infusion.
"Just a thimbleful every day," that was his dosage recommendation.
Sometimes he would sit down with us grandchildren on a stack of boards
and weave us daisy crowns...
Always ready with a little song that we could sing along to.
Even when he was already seriously ill.
The youngest grandchild enjoyed the privilege of being fed
while sitting on his lap during meals. Jealously watched by the others.
He comforted us during nighttime nightmares.
For that, only he, himself a father of twelve children and born in 1898, was responsible.
When he died, we used all our childish imagination to cope with it.
We fervently wished that he, who loved life, nature, and family so much,
was well taken care of.
Today I sit by my father's sickbed, who, like his father, loves life.
I feel his anger and despair over this incurable suffering that broke out of nowhere and leaves us all in disbelief time and again.
So far, I found nothing in my fragrance arsenal
that could accompany me in these hopeless hours.
Until this morning, when I aimlessly tidied up my desk.
That’s when I stumbled upon the small, almost forgotten vial of Angelique Noire.
Until then, I wanted to like it, but I didn’t understand the scent.
Could it?
Can...
Gently dabbed on, it brought life flowing back,
opened memories and built bridges between generations and events.
This familiar angelica note does me good.
A few weeks ago, in a different situation, it irritated me.
Now it gives me a soothing, secure comfort.
And the certainty that things will unfold as they must.
That some things repeat, some seem pointless
and yet are part of the greater whole.
Angelique Noire connects me to the familiar,
keeps me grounded and warms me thoroughly.
It opens blockages and lets energy flow.
Angelique Noire confirms my perfume world. It is oriented around how I feel
and which scent supports me, suits me, and touches something within me
or moves something.
It’s beautiful to experience that.
healing herbs in the meadows and forests.
Everything we plucked and dug up, he infused in large, rounded glass bottles.
Corked and left to mature in the sun or in the mighty grandfather's secretary, his alcoholic extracts were created.
That’s how I came to know bloodroot and angelica.
Together we cleaned the roots and chopped them into small pieces for the infusion.
"Just a thimbleful every day," that was his dosage recommendation.
Sometimes he would sit down with us grandchildren on a stack of boards
and weave us daisy crowns...
Always ready with a little song that we could sing along to.
Even when he was already seriously ill.
The youngest grandchild enjoyed the privilege of being fed
while sitting on his lap during meals. Jealously watched by the others.
He comforted us during nighttime nightmares.
For that, only he, himself a father of twelve children and born in 1898, was responsible.
When he died, we used all our childish imagination to cope with it.
We fervently wished that he, who loved life, nature, and family so much,
was well taken care of.
Today I sit by my father's sickbed, who, like his father, loves life.
I feel his anger and despair over this incurable suffering that broke out of nowhere and leaves us all in disbelief time and again.
So far, I found nothing in my fragrance arsenal
that could accompany me in these hopeless hours.
Until this morning, when I aimlessly tidied up my desk.
That’s when I stumbled upon the small, almost forgotten vial of Angelique Noire.
Until then, I wanted to like it, but I didn’t understand the scent.
Could it?
Can...
Gently dabbed on, it brought life flowing back,
opened memories and built bridges between generations and events.
This familiar angelica note does me good.
A few weeks ago, in a different situation, it irritated me.
Now it gives me a soothing, secure comfort.
And the certainty that things will unfold as they must.
That some things repeat, some seem pointless
and yet are part of the greater whole.
Angelique Noire connects me to the familiar,
keeps me grounded and warms me thoroughly.
It opens blockages and lets energy flow.
Angelique Noire confirms my perfume world. It is oriented around how I feel
and which scent supports me, suits me, and touches something within me
or moves something.
It’s beautiful to experience that.
17 Comments
Translated · Show original
I have no idea what the Moroccan desert smells like
The world revolves around me,
exclusively around me.
The sun only rises when I graciously nod to it
and I only let autumn take its turn
when I’ve had enough of summer.
I know everything and better than anyone.
And, I gladly and unsolicitedly share my wisdom.
"You suffer from self-righteousness
or are you prone to megalomania?"
Then I recommend L`Air du Desert Marocain.
It embraces you under the infinity of a starry sky
and sets the priorities straight.
It could say: "You are an insignificant speck of dust, a worm".
But it doesn’t.
It says:
"Nice to have you here, you are valuable to me.
If you’re lucky, a footprint of you will remain.
We are all intertwined.
Sometimes the little joys are the milestones.
You just have to see them."
L´Air du Desert Marocain is for me a magical-mystical fragrance.
I can only see it as a total work of art and marvel
at how the warm smokiness emerges from the scent notes,
how infinity is captured in a fragrance.
exclusively around me.
The sun only rises when I graciously nod to it
and I only let autumn take its turn
when I’ve had enough of summer.
I know everything and better than anyone.
And, I gladly and unsolicitedly share my wisdom.
"You suffer from self-righteousness
or are you prone to megalomania?"
Then I recommend L`Air du Desert Marocain.
It embraces you under the infinity of a starry sky
and sets the priorities straight.
It could say: "You are an insignificant speck of dust, a worm".
But it doesn’t.
It says:
"Nice to have you here, you are valuable to me.
If you’re lucky, a footprint of you will remain.
We are all intertwined.
Sometimes the little joys are the milestones.
You just have to see them."
L´Air du Desert Marocain is for me a magical-mystical fragrance.
I can only see it as a total work of art and marvel
at how the warm smokiness emerges from the scent notes,
how infinity is captured in a fragrance.
14 Comments
Translated · Show original
La Loba
Habanita is for me "La Loba - the Wolf Woman":
soulful, preserving, and caring
but also aggressive, demanding, passionate.
The psychologist Clarissa Pinkola Estés describes in her book "The Wolf Woman"
the power of female primal instincts.
She describes the ancient knowledge of women, the infallible instinct, their strength, and their intuition.
These gifts have been passed down since the beginning in stories, rites, and fairy tales.
They deal with inner robbers and naive conformity to self-abandonment.
What is essential is not bound by time and space, and it encourages trusting the wolf woman within and one's own abilities.
Pinkola Estés tells of her dream.
She dreamed of giving a lecture and:
"...until I felt someone encouragingly patting my foot. I looked down and realized I was standing on the shoulders of an old woman who held my shackles and looked up at me with a smile. 'For heaven's sake,' I exclaimed. 'This won't do. You have to sit on my shoulders because you are old and I am young.' 'No,' she replied, 'it is as it should be.'
And then I saw that she was standing on the shoulders of an even older woman, and this one was standing on the shoulders of an ancient one, who in turn was standing..."
The fabulously beautiful bottle of Habanita reminds me of this little chapter from the Wolf Woman.
And so it happens that the black lady, the wolf woman, leans casually against my kitchen fridge and sips black coffee.
"To hell with it..." she comments without looking up when I get upset about a mistake.
"Who, the hell, is..." she growls unwillingly when someone bothers me.
"Attack," she whispers in my ear when it becomes unbearable.
And she knows when caresses for the soul are needed.
Then she hums an indefinable melody that rocks and soothes
and spreads her mystical-animalistic and comforting scent.
That is Habanita: unfathomable and passionate.
She is not always the first choice.
But when she fits, it’s like a glove.
soulful, preserving, and caring
but also aggressive, demanding, passionate.
The psychologist Clarissa Pinkola Estés describes in her book "The Wolf Woman"
the power of female primal instincts.
She describes the ancient knowledge of women, the infallible instinct, their strength, and their intuition.
These gifts have been passed down since the beginning in stories, rites, and fairy tales.
They deal with inner robbers and naive conformity to self-abandonment.
What is essential is not bound by time and space, and it encourages trusting the wolf woman within and one's own abilities.
Pinkola Estés tells of her dream.
She dreamed of giving a lecture and:
"...until I felt someone encouragingly patting my foot. I looked down and realized I was standing on the shoulders of an old woman who held my shackles and looked up at me with a smile. 'For heaven's sake,' I exclaimed. 'This won't do. You have to sit on my shoulders because you are old and I am young.' 'No,' she replied, 'it is as it should be.'
And then I saw that she was standing on the shoulders of an even older woman, and this one was standing on the shoulders of an ancient one, who in turn was standing..."
The fabulously beautiful bottle of Habanita reminds me of this little chapter from the Wolf Woman.
And so it happens that the black lady, the wolf woman, leans casually against my kitchen fridge and sips black coffee.
"To hell with it..." she comments without looking up when I get upset about a mistake.
"Who, the hell, is..." she growls unwillingly when someone bothers me.
"Attack," she whispers in my ear when it becomes unbearable.
And she knows when caresses for the soul are needed.
Then she hums an indefinable melody that rocks and soothes
and spreads her mystical-animalistic and comforting scent.
That is Habanita: unfathomable and passionate.
She is not always the first choice.
But when she fits, it’s like a glove.
17 Comments
