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Farewells

This past year has been mostly about bidding farewells. Change is inevitable and it brings with it, simultaneously, much excitement for a better future with more possibilities; and an increasing anxiety about the unknown. It is also has a destructive force as it puts strains on relationships and friendships, and also requires letting go of much of the past and erasing possible future chapters in one's life, so to speak.

We've spent 18 years in Canada, where we lived (me and my daughter) in Vancouver's West End. As my last year here approached, with the commencement of each season I was thinking how this would be the last time we will experience it here. It was bittersweet, as if seeing my daughter's entire childhood in the West End and bidding farewell to it: all the hardships of raising her alone in a strange, faraway country, of the diagnosis process, the different people that helped us along the way through all the phases, her daycares, schools, after school programs, summer camps... So many good people along the way that were like our family for the time they've accompanied us - and then, usually, moved on with their own lives. Looking back, I really feel that I've given my daughter an amazing childhood in this part of the world, and I feel more than a little guilty for plucking her out of her familiar environment and transplanting her into my own...

The last Thanksgiving and Halloween were especially emotional as they are also around the same time as my daughter's birthday and a very special time of the year for her.  But by the time the winter holidays rolled around I was beginning to see the benefits of my decision and being in transition phase. The things that usually bother me about this season - the isolation, the darkness and the sense that I don't really belong here - did not matter so much because I knew I will be leaving soon. So instead of being sad about feeling left out, I felt relief in knowing that I can engage in whatever social gatherings that I enjoy and that I will have plenty of family obligations soon enough to make up for all those years of being away.

But of course, just when I thought my path was already carved out for me and I was set with my nose toward Jerusalem, surprises and distractions started piling up along the way. I spent the past year helping a close friend recover from multiple addictions (including methamphetamine, whose recovery from involves all kinds of fun stuff such as hallucinations, paranoia and emotional bursts of all types); and then I got involved with helping a family of refugees to settle in Canada, which made those previous troubles seem like a piece of cake. And all along the way my own daughter began panicking about her approaching graduation and this being her last year in school and all the changes that we've been agonizing over, discussing and preparing for mentally for the past year.

For those reasons, packing my stuff now and leaving feels like too much for me right this moment. But I must do it. Vancouver has become a ridiculously expensive city and many of my friends are leaving for similar reasons. It has become an increasingly isolated and cold city, even more than it was before (and it was never friendly to begin with). The sense of alienation is piercing especially when big life events happen - good or bad. There is no sense of community and no matter how much people care about you - if you don't have family (of origin or one that you've built on your own, i.e. a husband or a significant other of some other title) - you're on your own in those dark and bright moments with no one to share life's most extraordinary aspects. It's not like that in other parts of Canada (including British Columbia) that I've visited, so I'm not ditching the entire country. I'm just saying Vancouver has become an increasingly hostile city towards the people who live in it and try to contribute something to its culture and community. It's quite astonishing really, that I was able to survive here - and at times even thrive - as long as I did.

So either way there is going to be a major relocation coming up (FYI for me, a routine-loving artist surrounded by millions of fragrant bottles and vials, who likes to dig my roots deep and stay in places for pretty long, even moving to a different neighbourhood in the same city is a big deal). Aside from my very nomadic early beginnings (a side effect of being born to a very bohemian mother), I spent pretty much half of my life in my home village and half of it in Vancouver. And as versatile and adaptable as I am, I don't like change and only take it up when I am absolutely forced to do so. As a dual-citizen, I've been always blessed with too many possibilities and I'm now suffering the consequences, so to speak.

But even a rather dark and personal post like this should end on a positive note: transitions aside, once that hurdles are past me (packing hassles, establishing my exact moving date, renovations on the other side of the globe, etc.) I'm very much looking forward to the next chapter of my life. There are going to be many more possibilities for me personally and also for my business, and particularly for my perfumery school. I'll have my own fragrant garden and and dreaming about dabbling deeper into extractions, distillation and tincturing of all those fragrant perfumery plants that are for the most part native to the mediterranean region. I'm looking forward to a simpler life, more community and family oriented, more connected to real people in real life and less distracted by social media and technology (for better or for worse - my home village is off the grid). Come visit me there and you'll see for yourself!

Rainy Day

Rain

Somehow, a rainy day when sad is much easier than a sunny one. It gives permission to feel what I feel. A sunny day, on the other hand, may seem like a mockery of one's misery. Like in Lisa Marr's song: "In the land where the sun is always shining on / Crying alone, palm trees are laughing at me". 

That kind of sun is one that I dread, pressuring one to pretend to have fun, get out and enjoy life, even if they feel dead inside. Not to mention, it brings to mind the harsh sun of my youth, aimless summers spent enclosed in the family ranch; tied down to chores that seem to have no beginning or middle or end.

Equinox Dream

Clematis armandii

Night was not only equal to the day but also just as warm. Breeze from distant countries brought in the scent of citrus orchards. It was as if we were walking in a rich neighbourhood in west Amman. Or maybe it was the reconstructed remnant of a vintage orchard, blocked in with sandstone and lit strategically with theatre lights, in Old Jaffa.

We walked from the top of the hill to the sea and savoured the salted air. We buried our faces in the white blooming foliage of clematis armandii, covering us in a shower of meteorites and drowning our nostrils in their dreamy orange blossom scent. 

Up the hill again, and in the garden. We sat under the blossoming cherry trees, observing their white petals fall one by one into the black pond. Just as our present moments are disappearing into the bleak past. We will never forget that night. It was equal to the day. Only that after that, the days will begin to lengthen, and we will have to wake up from this dream. Things will become more clear. More real. More light. Lightheaded from gin and tonic, washed down with salty tears of grateful appreciation muddled by the silent anger and deep sadness that is the inevitable realization that what is never will be again. 

Practice, (Continued)

Fats Domino's Piano, Post Katrina

"One doesn't have to be good at meditation, achieve anything or look for any particular results. As with any skill, only practice leads to improvement. And improvement is not even the point. The only point is the practice"
According the Meriam-Webster's dictionary:

practice
verb prac·tice \ˈprak-təs\

: to do something again and again in order to become better at it

: to do (something) regularly or constantly as an ordinary part of your life

: to live according to the customs and teachings of (a religion)

Further meditation on the concept of practice: it can take different roles in your life. It could be something you do over and over again towards achieving the goal of mastery. Or it can just become an integral part of your life. In the first instance (or approach, if you will), the ego can easily get in the way: "I want to be better than anyone else", it will tell you. Or: "Be as good/famous/successful as this role model". This is what would only cause you to procrastinate at best, if not completely abandon any practice at all. Make it a part of your life, integrate the practice in your daily, mundane schedule, without worrying about what everyone else will say - and your world will shift entirely. All of a sudden, instead of trying to get from point A (ignorance, or low skill level) to point B (knowledge and mastery) - your goal is to be in the present. The goal is the practice itself. Or, if you wish to attribute an even richer spiritual perspective, it's akin to the Jewish approach of "... for the reward of a mitzvah is a mitzvah" (Avot 4:2).

The full definition of practice (same dictionary):

transitive verb
1 a :  carry out, apply 
b :  to do or perform often, customarily, or habitually 
c :  to be professionally engaged in 

2 a :  to perform or work at repeatedly so as to become proficient 
b :  to train by repeated exercises 

3 obsolete :  plot

Here we see that it is the action of applying the knowledge, not just talking or thinking about it, that matters. This frequent performance or repeated action is what will bring one to the level of mastery and professionalism (if that's desired), in which the action itself becomes the way of life. A life of action and doing. A creative and fertile life.

intransitive verb
1 :  to do repeated exercises for proficiency
2 :  to pursue a profession actively
3 archaic :  intrigue
4 :  to do something customarily
5 :  to take advantage of someone 

Interestingly, here's where the double-edged sword of automation is fully expressed. Practice can be a repeated action with the goal of proficiency. Like studying the moves in a dance routine until "muscle memory" is achieved. This is not a very high level of mastery, but a necessary step in the process. However, one can be easily stuck in the mechanical, technical aspect, and be paralyzed by it. I've experienced this time and again in all of the creative mediums I've been engaged in throughout my life. Once the initial novelty of the new medium has worn off, I've been often left with an overwhelming sensation of inadequacy. And I've been led to believe that the only solution for that is achieving proficiency. Now, as my recent dancing classes under different instructors have proven: it's great to do some drilling , break down some moves that are complex or challenging, in order to integrate them into your muscle memory. But ultimately, what's most important for dancing (both from the dancer and audience's perspective) is the soul. A dance without soul is lifeless, boring and an eyesore to watch. Or at best an amusing entertainment in which you can see that drilling does hammer certain dance into a body to the point that they can move without belabouring them. But that does not make it an artful or expressive thing. And it misses the point of practice entirely. Ideally, one should move from "exercising" to incorporating the practice into one's life. Rather than doing things "customarily" with a mundane, yawn-inducing attitude - integrating the practice into one's life, and give it the space and time it needs to become soulful, to become an art.

practice
noun

1 :  the act of doing something again and again in order to learn or improve 
2 :  a regular event at which something is done again and again to increase skill 
3 :  actual performance :  use 
4 :  a usual way of doing something 
5 :  continuous work in a profession 

Throughout my childhood, I've been studying music - my piano lessons began in elementary school, even though I had no piano at home. I practiced wherever there was a piano and whenever I had time (i.e.: lunch breaks), at the underground bomb shelter at school, at our neighbour's homes all over the village, and finally at my own home once my parents finally realized I was serious enough to invest in a piano (not to mention make room for it in a very tiny home).

By high school I shifted my focus on classical singing, which was a most profound way of self-expression, with no restrictive intermediaries such as keyboards and piano room scheduling. I could sing anywhere, but preferably where there was an empty space with decent acoustics and no one listening. Of course I will have my weekly lessons where I had to perform in front of my teacher, and there was choir practice and what not. But the most ideal situation was somewhere where the only witnesses would be blind bats and deaf lizards. While I had my fair share of limelight glamour in those highs school days, in a way having an audience was actually detrimental to my self-expression. Especially if the audience was judgemental or critical. Such environment would immediately choke my "instrument". Looking back at those times, I now know that it was precisely those times of practice where the best things were happening. Not everyone is cut to be a performance artists, but that does not mean that when they sing or play or dance at the private of their own home, they are not creating art.

Contrary to the definition of art as we were taught it in the advanced music classes in high school - I do not believe that art is about the audience at all. Art is an internal process that takes place in the creator's psyche, and often in private - in a studio, or in nature, or just at a writer's bedside where they write their day's thought. The audience is only privy to the finished result, which, granted, can be beautiful. But as beautiful and interesting as it may be - it pales in comparison to the process of creation. When you hear an opera singer performing a polished aria in a concert hall - you hear only the result of hours and hours of practice. Hours of many different phases, including just straight forward solfège, diction and technical drilling of the music from one hand; and spilling out raw emotions, perhaps even bursting into real tears and singing in a choked-up voice - that are usually deemed inappropriate to deliver for a larger audience. But they are all part

Once again, we see that the importance of practice is in the act itself. In other words: "Just do it". Don't say that you want to paint, draw or write, run, dance or swim - or whichever practice your soul is hungering for. There is a reason why you're attracted to a certain discipline or another. It's your calling. Listen to it. Act on it. Practice it. Just do it!

Collecting


Signs of Springs

"Having a collection, taking it out, looking at it, reordering it, and putting it away is creative in itself. It doesn't yield a product, like the results of an art, but is stops time, as making art does.”
― Molly Peacock, The Paper Garden: Mrs. Delany Begins Her Life's Work at 72

The notion of artists as collectors is not new to me. It isn't lost on me either. Just like making art, collecting involves seeking and searching, contemplating, arranging, rearranging and editing. And both are driven by an obsession with a particular subject (or few). There are many aspects of collecting that are meditative and contemplative, such as gathering, sorting, organizing.

collection
noun col·lec·tion \kə-ˈlek-shən\
: the act or process of getting things from different places and bringing them together

: a group of interesting or beautiful objects brought together in order to show or study them or as a hobby

: a request for money in order to help people or to pay for something important; also : the money collected in this way

Children like to collect things - rocks, shells, leaves, flowers, bottle caps... Stamps, cards, puppets, dolls, toy cars, stickers and stationary. They'd seek them feverishly, willing to give away a disproportionate chunk of their wealth to acquire the "missing piece"; or gather them sporadically, with mixed levels of interest. They'll keep them somewhere safe and share them with no one, or they'll show them off, trade them, or even give them away (to someone who would really, truly appreciate it as much as they do).

If the little versions of ourselves with uncompromised-yet creativity and innate sense of playfulness are often collectors - there must be a deep reason and a need for it. Perhaps practice for our future survival, as hunters-gatherers. Collecting berries, medicine herbs, sticks, rocks and other resources for crafting aids for our survival such as weapons and tools. Additionally, the continuous seeking out and sorting makes sense of the world around us and cultivates the cognition, teaching skills such as counting, categorizing, laying out the collection and taking stock are skills we now take for granted only because most of us are so well practiced in them, unintentionally. Seeing what's missing in it or what we have too much of and can give away, share, or save for later...

Perfume Collection

The existence of the collection itself creates a sense of identity, connection to the world around us, point of reference, something to notice, or just pass the time (could that be our mission on this planet, anyway?). Many of my customers are perfume collectors, and I understand their desires because I am one of them - with a collection of 70 or so full sized bottles of vintage, classics and modern concoctions, a dozens of miniatures and decants, and an countless samples that in order to be able to actually make sense of I created two storing systems for - index cards; and a curated collection of samples sorted by categories - such as fragrance families (Chypre, Floriental, etc.) or  a dominant note (patchouli, vetiver, musk, etc.).

Tea Perfumes Collection
collection 
1:  the act or process of collecting
2 a :  something collected; especially :  an accumulation of objects gathered for study, comparison, or exhibition or as a hobby
b :  group, aggregate
c :  a set of apparel designed for sale usually in a particular season

Add to that my own perfume line, which is grouped into 5 different "collections" - i.e. "Liquid Poetry",  "Agent Moriel" and "Language of Flowers" and the notion of creating collections as means for organizing, categorizing, branding or communicating a concept is one of the main benefits of creating collections. These are similar to the third meaning of "collection" in the above definition, but also signify a thread that connects these creations to one another - a more abstract concept, if you will.

Which brings me to the next inquisitive part regarding collections: is there meaning for each part of the collection on and of itself; of do they only have an aggregate meaning, when positioned together as a group? Would a rock with a hole in the middle be more special on its own; or does it become more meaningful if one starts collecting other rocks with hole in the middle, or thread them on a shoelace to keep them together? Would a fresh bud or a fiddlehead or a new leaf have a significance on their own - or is it only together that they become the embodiment of spring? I will not pretend to have the answers, but this is one of the things that the process of collecting initiates.

Sample Collection

Being a perfumer also means that my odoriferous collection contains not only an astounding amount of vintage classics and modern olfactive works of art, but also raw materials in various amounts and sizes of bottles, vats and sample vials (which I also organize in an indexed card system). Perfumers are ever on a mission to find new, exotic raw materials. They're the forerunners of the concept of travel as luxury. I, for one, prefer to be an armchair traveller - or more so - a bench traveller, seated by my perfumer's organ, and take a trip down memory lane, which may take me thousands if not millions of years back to the beginning of time when our ancestors first lit fire and experienced the phenomenon of pyrolysis; or ancient rituals utilizing the most ancient incense (frankincense and myrrh).

Over the years, I learned that both the perfumes and raw materials are like vats of frozen memories. Like the magical glass orbs in the Hall of Prophecy, if they are uncorked, or unintentionally spilled - the sensations, emotions and deep meaning of a situation or an entire period in your life can be re-experience. All one needs to do is open a vial and be reminded of random life events that were marked with a fragrance: The scent of the deodorant you wore in highschool, the smell of your first boyfriend's aftershave, grandma's home (and her dresser in particular), and so on and so forth. And if the fragrant collection is actually used - the feelings, sensations, memories and meanings will deepend and create new layers as we live with a perfume in a new situation; or create a different connection to a raw material, noticing a new nuance that our trained nose can now detect (after smelling something else).

Portable "Organ"

This is what I've been busying over in the past couple of weeks: I've been going over my collection of raw materials, and making organized notes of all the mental notes, sensations and memories that I've had in response to them over the years. As I smell champaca CO2, for example, I don't only recall the first time I've smelled this raw material; but also the delicious, ambery-incense-like dryout on the scent strip, reminiscent of the Nag Champa incense I'd burn in my 20s when I wanted to make my little apartment feel relaxed and luxurious (unfortunately, now that I discovered better quality incense sticks, I eschew these cheap joss sticks altogether and need to order most of my incense online or wait for a friend to go to Japan for a visit and bring me more). And, wait! I suddenly detect a surprising note of grape-scented markers (an aspect in champaca that is more obvious to me now that I've smelled methyl methyl anthranilate as an isolated molecule).

And then, just like creativity, a collection has its own cycles within its existence: The feverish spark that ignites a new obsession (or re-activates an old one), followed by a disturbed mental state where one feels continuously discontent: searching, researching, seeking out new specimens to populate the collection, feeling restlessness until the desired object is found. Once it was acquired, though, there will be a sad sense of emptiness, of feeling lost now that the need to find something is no longer there. Just like the artist, the collector will ask herself: "What is my purpose now?". A period of dormancy will ensue, in which either there will be no interest in the collection whatsoever, or, a not any less obsessive arranging, rearranging, in a process not unlike soul-searching, purging of unnecessary elements, editing, so to speak, and then perhaps also regretting that we've let go of something beautiful; yet it's all part of the process in which we figure out what is now missing from it. And then the cycle will repeat itself.   
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