Ochre And Fire

**Note: I will be phasing out the usual individual picture labels on my perfume bottles to a uniform brown handwritten label, so perfume labels may vary from current listing photos** “Daybreak. The low hills shine ochre and fire, even the fields shine. I know what I see; sun that could be the August sun, returning everything that was taken away —“ “This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring. The light of autumn: you will not be spared.” -October, Louise Glück When I was 22, my favorite book store closed. I grew up visiting it often, usually with my grandmother or aunt who’d sit drinking lapsang souchoung in the small cafe. Occasionally my mother would visit, but only to appease me. She didn’t care for books, and preferred to spend her time outdoors. Through the years, I had grown quite attached to the place, as it became a solid constant in a world of chaos. After I lost my great grandparents and grandmother, I’d hide out there. I couldn’t wait to enter the door, to hear the low tone of the hanging brass bell that shook when you walked in. The scents of the cafe mixed with the sweetness of book pages, and the proprietor, a small silver haired woman, who always smelled like a wool sweater, wildflowers, and something sweet I never could place. She didn’t talk much to anyone, but would listen to me ramble on about Halloween and cobblestone sidewalks. She told me I was an old soul, I’d heard it before, but thought it was nonsense. A week before I started college, I came across a tiny lone book, that really was more like a pamphlet. I remember it’s location, on the only brown wooden shelf(the rest were black) that was worn down and smooth like a church pew. The “new releases” shelf, that never changed, but held the shopkeepers favorites. The pamphlet was black, with a maroon stripe and read: “October” Louise Glück. I read it six times over while sitting and drinking a too-sweet and too-delicious caramel-turtle latte, and for the rest of the night thought of the lines ‘this is the light of autumn, you will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.’ Every time I visited from that day on, I’d take the lone copy of October from the wooden shelf and re-read it. I could have just bought it, but it was an excuse to leave the house, to be in my favorite place, and watch the sunset cast maple leaf shadows on the cafe walls. The poem was lonely, and so I was I. It was slowly changing, and so was I. It was accepting the inevitable, and so was I. It was angry, and despondent, but still shined in the sun, and so did I. In that year of reading October over and over, I dropped out of college, my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, my mother had morphed into a person I didn’t recognize anymore, I couldn’t sleep, or dream of good things, or imagine anything turning out well. Then the doctor told my grandfather and I that he had 4-6 more months to live, and the following day while I sat and stared at the glittering first snow fall on the sleeping maple outside the bookshop window, I learned that they were going to be closing forever. I don’t think I have ever felt more alone, more beat down and broken than in that moment. I had nothing, I felt like nothing, and there was nothing I could do about any of it. Everything and everyone I loved was leaving. “You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.” For months after, I smoked too many cigarettes, drank too much gin, didn’t sleep enough-sometimes not for days, felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest at any moment, mourned the loss of my pet cat, watched my grandfather slowly waste away, listened to his stories late at night when he was too afraid of sleep, visited the desert, lost my grandfather on a warm June day, and avoided the bookstore. I’d take a different route on the way home so I didn’t even have to pass it. I didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore, everything I knew of the forest, or of magic, of spirits, or faith, of blessings, optimism, courage, and belief didn’t matter. All of it was buried with decaying skin and bones six feet underground. Then one day autumn came again. After a sleepless night, I didn’t go to work in the morning, but watched the sun rise over the mountain beneath my favorite chestnut tree. The leaves looked like they turned overnight, or i was just too focused on myself to notice. I made my way to the bookstore, lit a new cigarette with each one spent, and waited for it to open. I was soon greeted with a “what the hell are you doing?” as she walked from around the corner of the building with a bag of garbage. She gave me a hug, and we went inside. I noticed that October wasn’t on the shelf. Someone must have bought it. I helped wipe down tables that the cafe girl neglected, wheeled the yellow cart of sidewalk sale books to the outside, and we smoked more cigarettes, and talked about how miserable life could be. I remember how red leaves from the maple tree kept landing on the book cart and she’d wipe them away with her hand. Before leaving, I got a latte to go and she yelled as I walked out the door “OH! And will you take this book home already?” She handed me October. She saved it. I didn’t say much of anything else, but it meant the world to me. I watched the leaves fall from the maple tree, red on the pale and dark spines of books. They would all eventually be brushed aside or blow away with the wind, and decay into the dirt. The tree would sleep. The snow would come, the cold would frost windows, death was inevitable, change was inevitable, growing, and fearing, and living were all inevitable. And so was the sun and the promise of rebirth. I still felt so alone, but the autumn became spring to me that day, -the time for possibility and a newness sweeping across sidewalks and streets, rooftops and trees. Blazing bright on the hillside— Ochre and Fire were the colors of my aftermath as well. Never has story or poem so closely correlated with my life as October. I felt like it was meant for me, and I’m thankful it came to me just when I needed it. I’m not sure who or where I would be without it. So after all that, here’s my new perfume, lol. I know it all seems very odd, maybe even melodramatic or downright silly for a perfume to be inspired by this story, but to me, perfume IS a story. And this is mine. I pour every bit of myself into the things i make, and simply can’t do it any other way, so I had to tell you that Ochre and Fire is named for the poem October, for one of the darkest times of my life where I learned the most about myself, for my favorite bookstore and place I found solace in, for maple trees and sunshine in autumn, for wool sweaters, caramel turtle lattes, and a small woman with silver hair who smelled of wildflowers and something sweet that I could not place. For anyone who tries it, I hope it stirs your own memory, and brings you a smile and the comfort of knowing that when the world beats you down, you can make it through as long as you take the time to notice the sunshine through the leaves, and seek inspiration and courage in the things that move you. NOW ONTO THE SCENT!!! Cozy, sweet, with a touch of the outside autumn breeze, tree branches scraping at a sunshine flooded window. A faint ghosting of wildflowers and a hint of balsam dance atop heady patchouli and the sweet scent of wood. Clove, caramel, and jasmine create a warm, inviting feeling, like being wrapped in your favorite sweater protected from a cold wind.