It's been three washes and still my hair is steeped thick; cade, smoked birch, pine pitch and cured oak. The incense of October crocheted into my old wool sweater I refuse to give up. It's hooded and so warm despite the whole hole at the armpit seam I don't know how to mend. It's not grey or brown, or black, but just the color of wet bark on a furrowed locust. Its hug, a lap of stories. It's been to the deepest corners of the Hollow where children looked through glinting spiderwebs it's trekked the rocky banks of the rose hemmed river getting snagged on thorns and always surviving It's been over and under and in between every other layer of down and easily snuggled. It's carried hickory nuts in the left pocket, wintergreen in the right, and sassafras saplings in the hood, in a pinch. It stretched itself to fit a fat feral pear and a pointed found antler. Its sleeve unrolled to shield the hot steel of the stew pot from my cold, susceptible, human palm. It matched the sweater of a long sweet friend I've lost touch with. So many peeled acorns and cherry barks and cracked thumbs and very long hugs. We used to lift each other up on our shoulders to reach the biggest, creamiest Elderflowers.
If only the memories could be a little clearer; stuffed in the weave like post-it notes, I could flip through the yarn and share the albums.
Strength:pure perfume extrait
toast fall air thick wool layers rich loam chestnuts comfort beverages smoldering embers
The Process, The Gathered.
We've returned to the immersive experience of camping as of late. Sweater Stories and Waxed Leaves are both olfactory compositions that are informed by these sensorial, site specific experiences. New England autumns are so special, it's hard to capture its whole energy but small attempts through olfactory art seem a worthy effort. As Falling becomes an archived perfume, I welcome Sweater Stories it its stead, at least for now. You can take a peek into a couple of our camp experiences here and here.