Saponification by Brooke Stant

1476534_10202145088096238_896157885_nThis is something I wanted to add, to me it is quintessential winter. I don’t like the emphasis on warm/cozy/cinnamon this time of year – I’d prefer to emphasise the cold and stark. The only thing that slowed me down is that this soap is not currently avail, although I’ll have some made for early January. I used to do a blue/white icey floral called Frostbite, but I far prefer this one for winter. Sometimes I even make it during the hottest days of summer.

“Siberian fir and stately pines dusted with powder-soft layers of sweet snow.”‘

Photography by Julie Sims at

Poetry by Victor Morgado

Journey towards Winter

During the after math of the great massacre by Yantuno, great grand father of the first emperor of the civilization known today as the Mayans, a group of survivors gathered their strength and headed North following the stars. The leader of the group, a tall long hair warrior known as Wantani, son of the village story teller, remembered the tales that his father used to tell them by the fire during moonless nights.

Tales of a valley beyond the painted mountains, where the echo of a Puma’s growl would reverberate endlessly through the wind in circles; as the white fields of snow swept to the yonder, oceans and lakes pushing ice like a moving white quilt .

Wantani took a gander at their equatorial belt attire, and wondered what skins would they need to survive the other side of the painted mountains. Loose weeds called Enaguas was what they wore until then, and vis a vis the cold breeze of the morning, what they knew until then was no longer enough to feel oneness with the Earth.

One night, as the braves and their wives had entered the dream world, Wantani struggled with his decisions with anxious yearning, sitting on a moon lit hill facing the valley which no one before him had ever ventured to cross. The reflection on the moon on the distant ice..

Anxiety grew in him the anticipation of numerous performances in the unfolding drama of life, in a way in which only a warrior with story teller genes , could feel it coming..

Their language was warm and paced, fairly stated like a jungle Latin, the ancestor tongues of the first Mayans.

it was known that the great great grand father of Yantuno, had known the land of birth of he Sun…it was said that one time, the entire Earth was one chunk of land and the continents and islands we know today.

In a sudden burst, Wantani stood up with his eyes fixed on the starry night, and in his Jungle Latin he spoke to the Great Spirit of Life and destinies.

” it is the voice of my angel That which I no longer hear..the merciful one, the guidance of my solitude. The angel architecs of worlds and the sudden peace I ferl when rhythm abides and a message is conciled…O dear Angel, come.. I feel your presence and must I believe thatI never was?

must I believe that this is it?…along forever guide us survivors of Yantuno’s wrath..and lead us into the Winter which we know only moonlit night stories by my own father….but no real life, huntings nor dance in the great lake of crystal…