Oenone Creation Story Vol. 1

My perfume pilgrimage began after the sudden death of my mother in 2013. My first act of embracing that loss was to nightly burn herbs over fires; observing and smelling the transition of the physical to the ethereal; the transformation of plant to smoke. So, for me, perfuming was born out of an unconscious instinct for aromatic death ritual; a practice, I would later learn, that is as ancient as human existence.

 

My mother's death opened up a whole new space for me. 

 

All I wanted to do was burn things. I made a fire pit out of cinderblocks and a wok and bought a hatchet; and then I just started lighting things on fire. Every night. My dried herbs, flowers from her garden, scraps of material, random lists written in her scrawl. On special occasions I would add a pinch of her ashes. I was called the fire maiden by my tenants, and referred to as the "fire house" by my neighbours. They always knew I was in town because of the awful sound of me splitting wet kindling on the decrepit concrete stairs and the following hours of fire smoke and whiskeyed conversation in the front yard. This was my ritual, my way of feeling close to my mom. Even though we never had fires together, and she didn't really know my adult self as a herbalist or ritualist, this was my act of communion as it made sense to ME. This is how I processed the rite of passage of losing my mother and last living parent.

 

This is how Oenone was born, out of reality bending loss, and the bizarre sense of freedom that comes from being almost entirely genetically orphaned. Her absence created space for me. I felt guilty about feeling free, but I also felt like there was room for me to flail and expand on my own without worrying about or being tethered to her. I was filled with a sense of non-moral spiritual joy as well as feeling physically bereft; this was one of the many interstitial or paradoxical spaces I would occupy over the following eight years.

 

Perhaps an overshare, or straight up straight forward (both of which, if you are familiar with me, are on brand), but my mother's death meant I was flung in to a bunch of roles for which I was unprepared; those of executor and beneficiary, landlord, and boho CEO of the smallest of empires; I suddenly had bank accounts I needed to hack, obituaries to write, a coroner and a mortician to question and consult; a constantly ringing phone that I would answer by stating my name so that no one could confuse my voice for hers and further deepen the shock when I said she was gone. This was followed by being supported by rule bending bankers, mortgage brokers, and insurance agents; and then legit lawyers, accountants, and, later, a travel agent and a real estate agent. This was a reality learning curve that I had not planned for.

 

The day I decided to sell our house, the last vestige of my mother, my childhood, and our life together (when she died she still had laundry to be washed, an ornate collection of condiments in the fridge, and 25 years worth of doorknobs, lampshades, random electrical bits and bobs, and notes to self that I held in place for as long as possible), I took a walk and asked myself what I wanted to do. I was told by well meaning friends that I should open to the many "possibilities" that this milestone provided for me.

 

I'd had a long time fantasy of becoming a perfumer, my nose has always been keen; I love plants, alchemy, ceremony, and spirituality. My trade off was to let go of my childhood, my roots, and my home (they were already transitioning) and "become a perfumer".

 

This brings us here. This moment in time. I stopped being a daughter, a caregiver, an excuse maker, and began my privileged journey to furthering my path as a student of perfumery, ritual, and spirit.