It feels like the world is coming apart.
And, like Nero, I fiddle while it burns. Well, not fiddle exactly. Grind. I grind while it burns. Resins and herbs and woods are sacrificed to the mill, and the dust motes sparkle with luminous, heavenly scent. It's the best form of protest I can muster at the moment. Too much weighs on my heart and mind to make of me an effective warrior for peace, calm, and understanding. I can barely put two words together (in speech) to be coherent. And I'm angry, about a lot of things, and that's never good under any circumstance.
Creating incense is a respite from the vile and repulsive, the ridiculous and the horrifying. Why incense and, not, say, perfume? Or balms? Or something else? Because of the smell. Because of the constant work, the motions of grinding and forming and being immersed in the scent of boswellia sacra, Arabian myrrh, Hawai'ian sandalwood, pink rose petals, lavender buds, bergamot peel, cade, oud, and, yes, even a smidge of 'ethically harvested' civet paste. In their rawest forms, these materials are a panacea for what ails me, they reinvigorate my zest for life, fill me with spiritual awareness, love me unconditionally -- and so I love them back.
I've just begun a journey into the world of resins, namely myrrh and frankincense. I'm in the gathering stage of the process, sourcing suppliers, testing, and learning the character of these resins in more than a cursory way. I'm on the verge of stepping into the Thurifercorum completely.