Essence - A Lifetime's Fragrance

There is a perfume that I used to call ‘The Essence of Me’. Of course, it has a real name, Dioressence by Christian Dior. I can’t remember my first introduction to it, but it was possibly in a batch of perfume sample phials my father brought back from a trip to France, late 1970s, early ‘80s. There was another one I really liked but never knew the name. Anyway, I adored Dioressence for its light, subtle fragrance. I don’t like strong perfume that takes over a room or announces an arrival before the wearer is in sight. It was my only fragrance for many years. I had the matching soap and talcum powder, eau de toilette and perfume. Expensive, but long-lasting and I always used it sparingly. It suited my personality, along with my collection of Laura Ashley summer dresses and hippy style embroidered jeans worn with floaty tops.

Sometime in 2004 I lost my sense of smell and it hasn’t come back. I put the blame on chemotherapy, radiotherapy or the illness. A small price to pay for survival but how I miss all the familiar smells, not just my favourite perfume but everyday things, like the house smelling clean and fresh, home baking and the pleasant aroma of appetising cooking going on. Occasionally I think I get a waft of something very slight and not for long, or it might be my imagination. I continued to wear Dioressence. I couldn’t smell it myself, but it wasn’t lost on others and it was still very much a part of me. It disappeared for a while and now it can be hard to find. Other Dior fragrances have pushed it out of vogue, like J’Adore, but I have no way of telling if I would like it, if it would suit me. For now, I treasure my remaining tiny drop of Dioressence and hope to find more soon.

The Laura Ashley frocks have made way for M&S long skirts and tailored trousers. Jeans are a staple wardrobe item, but plain and functional without embellishments, yes, boring even, and worn with tee-shirts or jumpers. If I remember, I’ll wear some beads but I usually forget.

My Haiku poem,

I Miss My Dioressence.

It was a scent of
Individuality
And it became my

Signature fragrance
Subtle, light and delicate
Ev’ry day and night,

For so many years
In my Laura Ashley frocks
Or embroidered jeans,

A hint of jasmine,
With a spicy bergamot
Accompanied me.


PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Sacred - Auntie's Lord Jesus

A plaster figurine of Our Lord Jesus stood on my auntie’s bedside table for as far back as I can remember. As a child, he fascinated me. I could look, but not touch. He was very special. He was a sacred gift to my aunt and uncle on their wedding day in 1946 from the Catholic priest who married them, I was told.

When she passed away, widowed and childless, my sister and I were next of kin and I became the keeper of her treasured possessions, including her religious bits and pieces.  Our family was an equal mix of Protestant and Catholic. I still hang on to the Christian faith of all camps I grew up with, but Auntie’s artefacts were not for display. I can’t remember what happened, but I know I was very upset and distressed when ‘Jesus’ became damaged and decapitated. The least I could do for my late aunt was to care for the things that were special to her and I failed. This was as bad as my failing to appreciate that she needed help and care herself and wasn’t just a selfish, cantankerous woman. Life’s hard bits really hurt.

The Jesus figurine ended up at the top of my wardrobe for twenty years until I brought it out today. I wanted a photograph for this blog and I intended to mend it, or rather ask my husband, who has some proper glue for such a job, to mend it. I would then put it with the other items I have of Auntie’s. I feel reluctant to part with these things yet feel burdened with by keeping them.

‘Jesus’ was there where I put him, at the back of the top shelf of my fitted wardrobe, wrapped in a towel and a piece of my aunt’s unfinished knitting before being zipped up safely in a holdall. I lifted him out of the bag, unwrapped the coverings and was surprised to find him intact. I have no recollection of any of us repairing the figurine. And no, there’s absolutely no chance of spiritual intervention, if such a thing exists to mend broken ornaments. There is a faint line of shiny adhesive visible and because it is made of plaster, the break crumbled and left chipped edges. To be fair, it looks alright. It’s just me feeling I’ve let my aunt down by spoiling something that was sacred to her. In her rightful mind, I know she would forgive me.

If anything is sacred to me at the moment, it’s my lovely geum plant in the garden, called Totally Tangerine and doing very well. It must be an omen. The colour of the flowers are more orangey than the photo. 

  

  

My choice of poem doesn’t match the theme of ‘Sacred’ but I’d like to share a favourite of mine from Maya Angelou,

  

 Still I Rise

 You may write me down in history

 With your bitter, twisted lies,

 You may trod me in the very dirt

 But still, like dust, I'll rise.

 Does my sassiness upset you?

 Why are you beset with gloom?

 ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

 Pumping in my living room.

 Just like moons and like suns,

 With the certainty of tides,

 Just like hopes springing high,

 Still I'll rise.

 Did you want to see me broken?

 Bowed head and lowered eyes?

 Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

 Weakened by my soulful cries?

 Does my haughtiness offend you?

 Don't you take it awful hard

 ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

 Diggin’ in my own backyard.

 You may shoot me with your words,

 You may cut me with your eyes,

 You may kill me with your hatefulness,

 But still, like air, I’ll rise.

 Does my sexiness upset you?

 Does it come as a surprise

 That I dance like I've got diamonds

 At the meeting of my thighs?

 Out of the huts of history’s shame

 I rise

 Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

 I rise

 I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

 Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

 Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

 I rise

 Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

 I rise

 Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

 I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

 I rise

 I rise

 I rise. 

              Maya Angelou (1928-2014)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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