Imagine a sultry world behind the veil. (cue track: Kundalini in G by the Goddess workout) Not the veil before the eyes of an exotic Middle eastern woman, but the veil between this world and the next; the veil that bars us from our own understanding. Remove the duality, and step into an area of pure pleasure and heartfelt indulgence, where each step is more joyful than the last.
Imagine sustainably sourced, premium organic and nature-borne ingredients, where the souls of the plant essences mingle and speak with anima and joie de vivre. Alpaca.. coziness..the spice market. A place that brings forth the essence of Gaia's natural Garden of Eden and the cornucopia of the human built Garden of plenty. Where spirit, soul, and body meet. I rest here in embroidery and silk, in baths, oils, perfumes, and lotions. Where both men and women swap bracing vigorous scrub-and-rubdowns, juicy gossip, and long-hidden secrets.
This is the place of womanhood; of the Goddess. Of power, strength, and beauty. The subtle charms of the feline deity Bast in Ancient Egypt; the allure of secret fertility dances passed down through generations of loving oral tradition. (play: "Kidda" by Natacha Atlas); The pure romantic innocence of a young maid(en) walking along the forested shores of Lough Erne's shore (cue eponymous song by Connie Dover.)
Imagine a spicy base of sweet amber, echoing rustic homecooked Indian food, tingly papadum, and papri chat. A not-so-subtle, feisty and insistently magical, maddening, and alluring note of pure Jasmine Absolute floats along on the warm springtime breeze and scents the air, followed by an ethereal, spectral waft of orange blossom and honeyed neroli that makes your mouth water for the thirst of sucking all the juices from a sunripened ruby grapefuit alfresco.
Immediately, as if you were captivated by a\some talented, hypnotic wordsmith, you feel the urge to eat many pistachio pastries filled to bursting- with roasty pistacios smothered in nectar and rosewater syrup, crowned with rich cream and a slightly tangy bite at the end.
Next, as you walk through the blooming sunlit garden and enter the historic, stone masonry hacienda esconced with redolent and rejubilant bouganvillea, you pass the threshold, underneath the velvety wood-beamed ceilings. You encounter an ancient, polished dark table and caress it like meeting an old friend once again for the first time. Adorned, this sweet composition, with a bouquet of orange and yellow lilies sparkling with diamond dew and gem essences.
You glance at the well-loved and soapy-textured sandalwood, sheesham, and stinkwood spice cabinet nearby, lined with cedar, stacked with mismatched china and earthenware, little bits and pieces of buds and leaves everywhere.
You wander over to pick through the assortment of tiny colored jars and bottles like the determined, savvy, and seasoned haggler you are. A hint of pink pepper, rare and flowery Papua New Guinea vanilla catches and intices your humbled, overstimulated, and mystified nose.
You head over to the bathroom to splash your face and rinse out your nose with some citrusy, lemony honeysuckle castile soap, and spritz your neck and face with a refreshing, cleansing mist of bergamot and coriander. You look in the mirror and realize how gorgeous your almond-shaped eyes and sun-kissed butterscotch caramel ringlets are. You give them a quick brush and a toss, and then start to run a bath surrounded by candles, your favorite crystals, and cute nonsensy whimsical boxes and baskets of potpourri in front of the French pane doors that open to let your spirit out, and a view of the fairies' garden and its sublty glowing gazing globes that now illuminate the haunted twilight at the forest's edge
Submitted by L Ayre-Smith