Issue 20

Quiet communication...

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how the most vital parts of us often exist entirely out of view. I've thought about communication; not as something that begins with words, but as something far older and more embodied. Listening to The Telepathy Tapes has raised questions about how meaning travels outside conventional speech and how narrowly we tend to define intelligence, connection and understanding through language alone. So much human experience (pain, intuition, memory, resilience) is rarely communicated or fully understood, yet it can shape everything going on in a person's life.

This feels especially resonant in the context of the world as it stands now: fractured, reactive and saturated with commentary and competing truths. There is so much noise, hurt and rage, it feels more important than ever to remember that communication does not begin with speech, and that some of the most meaningful exchanges happen beyond language altogether. To look into one another’s eyes with kindness, to remain present and to allow ourselves to see and be seen for who we are (beneath the trappings and judgements of everyday life and lives lived) is an act of connection that feels both urgent and necessary.

I was thinking about this while watching a clip from The Artist Is Present, a performance art exhibition by Marina Abramović at MoMA from 2010, during which she allowed strangers to sit across from her in silence. At one point in the exhibition, her longtime collaborator and former partner, Ulay, appeared unexpectedly, sat down with her and met her gaze. There is no dialogue, no explanation, no introduction, and yet what passes between them is enough to break your heart. Presence itself becomes the language and eye contact reveals something of the soul.

I felt a similar recalibration while reading The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Jean-Dominique Bauby’s account of his locked-in syndrome after suffering a stroke. Unable to do anything other than move one eye, he learns to blink through the alphabet to form sentences and communicate with his family and friends, sometimes unsuccessfully. What emerges is a form of communication shaped by urgency and longing, where patience and care are not chosen but required, and attention becomes a way of reaching across an unbearable constraint.

As this month opens with Imbolc, a time traditionally associated with patience and trust in the quiet renewal of spring, it feels like an invitation to consider what lies beneath the surface for all of us — to acknowledge the unseen weight each of us carries, and the inner lives unfolding behind both carefully composed and visibly broken exteriors. What might be growing out of sight? How do we learn to sense it and to communicate with it? What form should communication take when words fall short? I hope this year somehow marks the beginning of more authentic communication, on a larger scale, and a deepening of soul-level truths and connections that exist beyond words.

Olivia x

BTS

I’m easing into the new year slowly and quietly, and one of the things I’ve enjoyed most is connecting with our customers over email. Conversations about formulations, scent and the natural fluctuations of crops have been especially meaningful, and they’ve left me feeling deeply grateful for this community.

Roots

We have a mimosa tree in our garden that always feels like an offering of light through the cold, wet stretch of January. Last week it began to flower and this weekend, when the rain eased, my daughter and I climbed a small step-ladder to snip branches. My daughter laughed with pure joy at the shower of soft yellow pollen that fell into our hair, onto our clothes and all around us, as the blossoms shook from the branches. We tied our little bunches with ribbons and placed them on bookshelves, desks and by our baths, crowning corners with the promise of their spring-like scent.

Body

I’ve been using our Vanderohe Perfume Oil over the last few weeks to create something of a ritual. What I've noticed most is the way it works through repetition. Applied at the same points each day, it becomes a signal; a cue for the body to soften and for the mind to settle. Scent is powerful in that way. It bypasses logic and speaks directly to memory, sensation, and mood. It also smells like a beautiful, lush English garden.

Playlist #20

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Long Haul

Since the end of last year, my perspective on health and exercise has shifted sharply after witnessing something devastating happen to someone who was, by all outward measures, extremely fit and healthy. It has made me acutely aware of how accustomed we are to pushing our bodies to their limits, often forgetting just how fragile our frontiers of safety really are, and how quickly and easily they can be crossed.

In that sense, I’ve come to feel unexpectedly grateful for my experience with Long Covid, as it has taught me to listen more carefully to what my body is communicating. Over the past few weeks, my focus has narrowed to small but essential aspects of wellbeing: paying attention to my breath, taking time to prepare for and unwind after movement, noticing what helps counteract fatigue or dizziness, and being more intentional about how I begin the day — with light, water, and warmth.

I’m learning that resilience is not built through extremes, but through small structural supports and an honest sensitivity to what the body can realistically hold.

Mind

I read Train Dreams last week after being deeply affected by its film adaptation,Train Dreams, directed by Clint Bentley. What surprised me was how different the two felt. Where the film conveys the force of nature through the sound and majesty of falling trees, the sweep of fire and the stark contrast between the wilderness and the accelerating life of the city; the novel traces a quieter, more internal relationship with the natural world, carried most powerfully through the recurring presence of the wolf. I found the book reaching further into something primal and instinctive, blurring the boundary between dream and reality, and suggesting how deeply the body can be shaped, overtaken even, by forces beyond our conscious control.

Soul

(wisdom for the week)

“There can be so much in pauses — or so little. The fact that something cannot be said, the fact that something refuses to be said, or the fact that something is best said by not saying anything. But what I am quite sure speaks through these pauses the most is: silence.”

Jon Fosse, A Silent Language.

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