"A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so" (Herman Hesse, Bäume: Betrachtungen und Gedichte [Trees: Reflections and Poems] ).

On living vertically: the tree stands still. It only knows upward motion to the light; or drilling to the depths of the dark soil with its roots. Even when the roots need to bypass a resistant rock or crack through a boulder, they are still vertically-oriented. Even when the branches are twining around an obstacle (another life-form, a building or a cliff) they are still climbing towards the sun.

The tree suffers silently. The tree does not even dream of escape or refuge from discomfort or disaster. Fires, logging and frost will attack it to its death, which it will welcome with barely as much as a sigh. It only knows of wandering and travel from the little birds that perch on its branches and whisper their sweet songs of freedom into its foliage.

When its arms are severed and when it is uprooted, a tree does not complain. It continues growing, silently, creaking only when the wind attempts to bend it beyond its range of flexibility. I long for the trees. When the snow and ice piles heavy on its boughs, the tree will carry these heavy waters as a water-bearer with a big family waiting in the village.

Despite all of these limits, the tree knows love. To the birds nesting on its boughs, feeding their youngsters. To the beetles that eat through its bark and tickle its thick skin. To the wind that caresses its tender foliage in springtime. To the children that climb its branches, jump on them and scrape their knees on them. To the earth that hugs its roots, and to the underground parasites pinching at its nerve endings. And even to the savage winds that uproot it; the loggers who take away its pride. It will still continue to grow and move forward, sending shoots of new life around the mother-trunk. 
 I am grateful and perhaps also cruel. In my apothecary I hold many lifetimes of trees and forests combined: essences from the fruits of junipers; needles of fir, spruce, cypress and pine; flowers of linden and balsam poplar; heartwood of santal, cedar, agar and oak; and tears (or sap) from frankincense, myrrh and hundreds of years old olive trees.

From my horizontal point of view, I might envy the tree now. I long for its dangerous exposure to the four elements. Admire its brave silence in face of all adversity. a sudden spring wind had sent me her blessing and promise of hope with a sprinkle of ume (Japanese sour plum) petals on my exercise mat that's been permanently placed by the windows now. The Hanami season is fading, and the scent of balsam poplar buds fills the air with its cotton-like warmth, reminiscent of honey, apricots, yeast and cloves.

"Pain travels side by side with joy and darkness is followed by dawn and another chance" (Judy Collins). 

It is true. The most joyful, blissful moments follow a rather painful experience. A great example is labour - followed by the greatest joy of all: the new life of your child. Likewise, the creative process can be a lengthy and agonizing one, not infrequently compared to giving birth - and ending in a creation that gives joy and healing to those who create it - as well as those who enjoy or experience the art, the audience.

Many of the greatest artists have suffered chronic pain (Frida Kahlo is a prime example, as she clearly focused her art on the subject of pain, both physical and emotional), mental illness (Vincent van Goh, Ludwig van Beethoven, and the list is loooong),  at times also followed by addictions (Billie Holiday, Amy Winehouse), or some other kind of childhood illness or chronic disease that shaped their personality (Joni Mitchell, Hayyim Nahman Bialik) or a tragedy that made a mark on their life (Eric Clapton, Rudyard Kipling - both artists have lost their child) - and Judy Collins seems to have a taste of all... 

It is often debated - is perfume truly art? Is it a commodity? Considering that some of the greatest perfumes were created in response to the perfumer's own experience of pain, loss or unrequited love; or were inspired by such experiences of the designer that has commissioned them - I would argue that perhaps, after all, perfume is one of the greatest joys we can have - created through alchemical transformation.


Frida Kahlo - Self-portrait as wounded deer (1946), a photo by petrus.agricola on Flickr.
And what about ethics? Would the suffering of animals that were sacrificed in the process (i.e.: tortured civet cats, Canadian beavers hunted for their fur, sperm whales slaughtered for their blubber and ambergris, bees robbed from their honey and wax, and the extinct, massacred musk deer) be a contributing factor to the great beauty of perfume? This is perhaps digressing from the question, but from my experience, although the animal essences on their own reek of violence, fear and death - the result of adding a minute amount of this torture or death-extracts to a botanical perfume transforms it beyond imagination. 

This cycle of pain and joy is essential to our existence. Like breathing and sleeping, we need to learn to live with that and accept it, as we must accept the cycle of life and death, rejoice in every fleeting moment while we still live and breath, and cease the day to do what truly brings joy to us - because pain might strike at any moment. And we'll need to stock up on beautiful energy to go through it with dignity and compassion.

The best part of traveling is getting lost.
It's the street corner I never intended turn into, the subway I boarded in the wrong direction (easy to fix, but still...), the dangerous neighborhood you somehow managed to get out of safely, the cafe that nobody ever talks about in any travel guide, and might not even be worth mentioning - but was just the right place to sit at after walking an extra hour on those sore feet... And then there is the perfume shop tucked away behind a flower market that you must only visit on Sunday...

I had two days for playing tourist in San Francisco, and most of them I actually spent in Berkeley because of a couple of injuries I had to be careful about. The first day was still raining and misty and cool (Wednesday, March 20th), we took the ferry from Jack London Square to the Ferry Building, got our fill of cutesy pastry shops, hopped on a cable car (so we don't need to walk, aforementioned injuries still in effect), and ended up at the wrong side of Powell street (wrong being needing to go downhill). Taking a cab for 5 blocks down Powell, I finally but sought refuge from the pain at Barney's, where I spotted a couple of favourite new perfumes (I'll tell you about them later). It might have not have been fun at the time, but I'm already remembering it fondly. We toughed it out, and survived.

The second day (being Thursday, March 21st), the sun finally showed her lovely face on Northern California again, and I decided to be adventurous again and go to the UC Berkeley Botanical Gardens, which I tremendously enjoyed in my last visit to the Bay area. Information about how to get there by public transit is nearly non-existent. But for the record: you should take the Bear Bus, a black vehicle that serves the inter-campus transportation within UC Berkeley. There are clear signs for the bus stops where it does stop; but you actually have to wave it down. Of course, I did not know that at the time, and let a Bear Bus slip by. So I hopped on the No. 65 (from the corner University & Oxford), the line that was promised to be stopping "very close" to the botanical gardens. Somehow the route did not look right. But what else is new with public transit? They are known for their roundabout. I got off where I was told I should, and a lovely lady gave me directions. I was puzzled at how completely different the place was than what I thought I was visiting. Turns out I was heading to the Tilden Regional Park Botanic Gardens, which are "much better", as the lady assured me, "they are free". OK, I thought to myself - this could go either way.
 
Sonoma Sage

I walked on following her instructions to the best of my ability. There was no sign in sight for the Botanical Gardens or any gardens for that matter. I avoided the gold course, as per her instructions - only to find myself walking slowly up a hill alongside the very same gold course I was instructed to avoid. After about 20 minutes of walking, and no gardens in sight except for the gold-course fenced-up green, I've decided to stop a car for directions. And we got a lift right to the gate of the gardens from a young gentleman who was driving that way anyway. Upon entering the garden (a vague point in space, when there are no gates or admission) I immediately thought to myself - no surprise this is free. It's just a bunch of native Californian plants growing about, with some plaques stuck every now and then to indicate their botanical names.

Well, that was just the tourist way of looking at that. If you love plants, and especially if you are a perfumer - every garden is a little piece of heaven. This particular one happened to be a perfumer's heaven. A very rustic perfumer, to be exact.

The air was filled with the scent of aromatic plants warmed by the sun - sage (aka artemisia) of all shapes, sizes and kinds. Cacti in full bloom, towering over the sun-warmed lichen-covered rocks. Sweet scent of pollen and the vegetal, surprisingly barely evergreen at all scent of redwood needles. And the opportunity at every corner to just bask in the sun. What more can a tourist ask for?


Redwoods

Five Fingered Fern