When you were young, did you ever parse unknown words while reading, only to realize years later you guessed wrong on the definition? Moreover, when you learned the actual definition, did you find yourself still preferring the old one? Well, it has happened to me more times than I can remember.

Over the years, I have learned that “blithe” does not mean “graceful and gazelle-like, especially when leaping in the sun.” “Gingerly” does not mean “with much zest and flair, especially while wrapping a wound in gauze.”

And “journeyman” is not “specifically, a young mage sent off into the wilds on a journey for experience and wisdom, only to be gained through much sleeping out-of-doors and eating berries from bushes.”

Despite knowing the true definitions, I can’t help but still prefer many of the ones concocted by 9-year old me, sprawled on my beloved “reading rock,” paperback book in hand, the rhythmic burble of the tide receding, and sun deliciously warming the top of my head.

Though conceding to the “proper” definitions of all those words, as one must, it is still difficult to let go of “journeyman,” because it is so visceral and romantically linked to an aesthetic that I still hold close. Eventually, I learned that “journeyman” is really just a generic term for someone who is starting to work in a profession on their own. The term is not intrinsically linked to mixing elderberry elixirs, sleeping under woolen cloaks, or words of instruction for errant knights. Despite now knowing this, “journeyman” is a word I don’t think I am going to give up readily.

The incredible thing about language and communication is how imprecise it is. When speaking to someone, it is impossible for a perfect meaning to be conveyed, because words are respective. When you say the word “cordial” to me, I am compelled to inwardly laugh at the thought of an intoxicated Diana Barry and sigh at the long-felt anguish that mistake causes poor Anne. Eventually my mind gets around to processing what you mean by the word “cordial,” but it is already being comprehended through the lens of quaint, rural happenstance and a series of books dear to me. For you, the word “cordial” might have a very different set of feelings attached to it.

All of this to say… I am keeping “journeyman.” For me, it will forever conjure images of carefully assembled packets of dried herbs and tossed pebble runes. It will feel like a powerful horse being spurred through the night and walking through tall-growing stalks of vervain leaning in the wind. It will smell like dripping crystal caves and hastily extinguished fires. I am keeping the word “journeyman.”

And with that word in mind, this series. In my mind, labradorite is the journeyman’s stone. You can practically hear the crackle of magic trapped inside them. And like the furtive journeyman, the stone appears dim and murky until tilted in the right light, when suddenly flashes its deeply saturated bottle greens, glittering golds, and azures.

The rings in this series feature hand-forged pebbles leading the wearer forward and back. They are set down on simple, unassuming bands of varying style.

A few of the rings feature generously high-domed gemstones, allowing for more angles of colorplay. Those are for the bold women.

The necklaces also have a larger pebble at the base, giving the pendant weight and direction.

I can envision these pieces on hands grasping gnarled staffs, leading the wearer safely through gales. The weight of the rings felt in times of contemplation, the flash of iridescence reminding the wearer of the spark of which they are capable.

I think I will have to keep one of these for myself… These thunderous beauties will be available in the shop sometime during the evening of Sunday, March 12th. Until then, let’s gather hawthorn berries and share often-told tales, shall we?

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Lately:
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Listening – to Fleetwood Mac, because “magic.”

Watching – Stranger Things again and again because Halloween is so far away and I am experiencing very real anguish about Will’s fate.

Reading – Crime and Punishment… still. After 3 years… It is incredible, but too effective. I find myself reaching for it during the winter months with the hope to finally finish, but the feverish anxiety Raskolnikov exeriences is palpable. I can smell his sweat-stained clothing and hear him grinding his teeth as he considers whether the jig is finally up. The book gets into my mind and skulks around in the shadows. Perhaps I should save it for sunnier days when the malodorous gloom the book creates can be offset by raspberry lemonade and warm grass.

Appreciating – lists, all kinds. The ones you make to remind yourself of chores to be done on the next sunny day: throw open the windows, repot the unruly ivy in the front window, finally start that patchwork quilt…  The names of all the kittens you’ll rescue one day: Beatrix, Marble, Feifel, Emerson, Tink, Arriety… Observations of lonely things: fog on the ocean, flowers pressed in dusty books, empty lockets... Brewed teas for every day: darjeeling, almond, peppermint, english breakfast, lady grey…(These are all real lists that I have made and continue to keep. I like lists.)