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Six rituals
A category tells you what a thing is. A collection tells you when to reach for it, and what to reach for next. Each of these is a sequence we actually use, in the order we actually use it.
Everything here is sedative. Rose, sandalwood, oats and low light — assembled in the order you would actually use them: a bar, a soak, and something to burn while the water cools.
Read the sequence4 pieces
Standard sizes. Change any of them in the bag.
Citrus, coffee and rosemary. Brisk, slightly rude, and the fastest way we know to convince a body that it is awake before it has agreed to be.
Read the sequence3 pieces
Standard sizes. Change any of them in the bag.
The bars we make for skin that reacts to things. No essential oils where we can avoid them, old remedies where we cannot, and nothing here is trying to be clever.
Read the sequence4 pieces
Standard sizes. Change any of them in the bag.
Diyas, urlis, tea lights and floating flowers. The things you set out when the house fills up — made by potters and brass-spinners we can name, and filled by us.
Read the sequence5 pieces
Standard sizes. Change any of them in the bag.
Donuts, prisms, alphabets and a croissant. None of this is necessary. All of it is made to the same standard as everything else, which is the joke.
Read the sequence5 pieces
Big Alphabet Soap needs which letter, so it is not included — add it on its own page.
Standard sizes. Change any of them in the bag.
Three bars built on unrefined Ghanaian shea at twenty percent — a proportion most soap will not carry. Rich to the edge of being a balm. For skin that has stopped responding to anything lighter.
Read the sequence3 pieces
Standard sizes. Change any of them in the bag.
