Dear Listeners I'm Olivia Penella.
Founder of Uma Gaya,
A refuge for inner and outer alignment.
I'll be the voice behind a new passion project created with Jonas Pesciattini.
Founder of Amnions,
A functional and emotional perfume house.
We call it memories through time.
A small woven universe born from our own curiosity about people and the stories they carry.
In an age of broadcasting the self,
We wanted instead to open a space for others to gather fragments of memory,
Moments,
And sensation,
And to shape them into a story that can be felt.
Each month will share one Memories Through Time episode centered on the month's resonance and one sense that honors it.
Over the year,
These threads and senses will interlace into a single unfolding story.
To help you visualize.
We are in May,
And this month's written piece explores the sound of May.
In June,
We'll weave a story around the taste of June,
And then we'll move through the senses,
One month,
One sense,
Until the year's tapestry is complete.
Will you join us on this journey?
Before we begin the tale of the Sound of May,
We honor the present and keep connecting the dots.
This May,
Amnians will travel to the Excellence Expo,
Where Jonas will forge new ties within the international perfume world and steal quiet park lunches for people watching and attentive listening,
Whether with friends or simply inspired by passing strangers.
I,
Olivia of Umugaya,
Will revel in the raining mornings and sunlit afternoons,
Attune to the birdsong,
And weave in one-on-one client sessions,
Event planning,
And many family visits from across the Atlantic.
Do you already have plans for May?
Shall we begin with what the essence of May sounds like?
To bring this essence to life,
We called upon our dedicated in-house composer and sound design director,
Yaman Alma,
Also known as Merciel in the world of neoclassical music.
The piece of music you hear throughout our May episode is organically composed by him to evoke May through sound.
Our curation of contributors listen to Merciel's composition and say they sensed a new year unfolding in May,
The true energy of spring revealing itself.
That resonates deeply with us as we launch Memories Through Time here and now.
Let us start with a few luminous impressions that sketch the soundscape.
Of May.
May,
The beginning of something unexpected.
Flourishing,
Enchanting.
May the resonance of gratitude.
Animals at play,
Light stretching longer,
Buds unfurling.
May,
A season of connection.
Coming together.
Leaving the nest,
Growing,
Smiling,
Every flower finding its place as it opens.
May's energy is swelling,
The vibes rising,
Undeniable.
May carries hope on the wings of birds and in their songs.
The trees dance.
The people dance.
The animals dance.
The flowers dance.
The river dances.
The mountain dances.
The whole world moves as one.
We flow.
Our bodies shake off the winter and long nights,
Finding the new rhythm of light and letting it guide us.
We give ourselves permission to leave colder thoughts behind and welcome May's warm kiss against our skin.
Goosebumps.
A tickle.
A bright,
Celebratory sparkle.
Each of us dancing.
Each of us moving.
Each of us a tune.
To the song.
Of May.
Is this a dream of color and sound?
Is this real?
Can it all be so beautiful?
So vibrant?
Can it all be so fulfilling?
The colors fill me up.
Each hue,
A note,
Each note,
A moment in May.
Can this be life itself?
Bursting.
No more weight.
No more heaviness.
No more cold.
Can this be true?
Do we really get to live this fantasy?
Our Earth,
Our nature,
Our world.
Green,
Green,
Green.
Fresh grass,
Electric with light.
Each blade soft and striking the heart with love.
Pink,
Pink,
Pink.
Every petal delicate and fierce.
A warrior who just won the battle of winter.
She is a queen.
What do we call her?
The peony.
Blue,
Blue,
Blue.
Clarity returns.
The sky gods have heard and answered.
From azure to ocean.
Egyptian to sapphire to midnight.
Blues arrive and open our minds with ease and space.
Yellow,
Yellow,
Yellow,
Dandelion and wildflowers,
Tall on the mountain,
Carpeting the world in laughter.
Let us walk into the field and listen.
The ladybugs hush.
The bumblebee's hymn,
Oh wild one,
Do you not hear?
Are you the fairy queen?
Weave your crown,
Set it upon your head.
Smile and sing from mountaintop to rooftop,
Letting joy spill like light.
Yes,
It is true.
We are here.
We are singing.
We are alive.
Everything is perfect.
The warmth,
Just right.
The sun,
A soft,
Tender brightness.
A breeze kisses my ear and neck,
Whispering sweet nothings.
Sunsets linger longer.
Pulling a smile across my lips,
The moon grows larger in the clear night sky.
Terraced dinners under open air,
Crystal chiming,
Wine spilling laughter into the warm evening.
Plates piled with garden vegetables,
A rainbow on porcelain,
Simple and sacred.
Laughter rises and ripples,
Giggles like chimes,
A living symphony that tethers us to the present moment.
Fireflies stitch tiny constellations through the dusk,
And music from a distant window threads its way to our table.
Hands meet over shared bread,
Stories bloom between sips,
And the city exhales in a chorus of light and ease.
We breathe it in,
The slow,
Golden pulse of May.
And feel that everything here,
Right now,
Is exactly as it should be.
As it should be.
One,
Two,
Three,
Four.
Gonna make a record in the month of May.
In the month of May.
In the month of May.
Gonna make a record in the month of May.
When the violent wind blows the wires away.
Month of May.
It's a violent thing.
In the city the hearts start to sing.
While some people sing,
It sounds like they're screaming.
Used to doubt it,
But now I believe it.
Month of May.
Everybody's in love.
Arcade Fire.
We begin as a singing star,
Arriving through our mother's womb.
And before that,
Through the great mother,
Gaia,
Pachamama,
Tara,
Bumi,
Names shift,
But the knowing is the same.
We come from her.
We are her children.
You.
Me.
Them.
All of us.
In May,
She births again.
Her children run with spark-lit eyes.
They see what we forget.
They catch the light and sing both joy and grief into the open air.
Your mother is with you now,
Cradling you,
Holding you close in her warmth.
Mother's Day in May is no coincidence.
Close your eyes and send her a gentle song.
Let your love travel soft and true.
Even when mothers drift into starlight,
They remain inside of us.
Memory seeds that bloom forever.
Sing the song of Mother.
Sing the song of Mother.
Sing the song of Mother.
Sing it threefold.
Sacred Keeper,
Bridge to the Cosmos.
Thank her now.
Whisper her name,
Feel her arms around you.
A memory of one.
Is a memory of another.
It also reminds me of a story that my mom used to tell me about a butterfly and a little girl playing together nearby a pool.
It's poetic.
The light is soft,
Like the end or the beginning of the day.
The little girl is smiling,
Laughing,
And running after the butterfly.
And I can see my mom smiling in the back of the picture.
Nothing fancy,
Just a raw moment.
Aurelia.
It reminds me when my mom and my sister and myself would ride our bikes around Monadnock Mountain in New Hampshire.
And this one afternoon,
My sister was far ahead of us,
And it was just me and my mom.
And all of a sudden,
A majestic wolf came out of the forest and began to cross the street.
It stopped in the middle of the road and looked directly at us with a stoic gaze full of love and respect.
We were not afraid,
And the wolf was not afraid.
It was as if the wolf was greeting us and blessing us.
It continued on,
As did we,
But this memory remains imprinted in my heart and shall be there forever.
Olivia.
A memory from the 90s,
The early signs of summer in our childhood home,
Was blooming of the elderflower trees scattered seemingly randomly along the side of our country roads.
I always wondered if elderflower trees are solitary by nature.
Have you ever seen an elderflower forest?
We would gather as a family to collect the delicate flowers,
Tiny flowers clustered together,
Creating a new shape.
I remember looking at my grandmother,
A pre-war woman,
She dressed of a different era with her high-waisted pleated ankle length skirt,
Silk blouse,
Large glasses,
And a tight perm,
Which would be wrapped in a plastic cap by the slightest sight of rain.
As she was reaching for the flower,
The wind would ever so gently push it just out of her reach,
Only to sway back as she was giving up,
A sort of dance that neither the wind nor my grandmother was going to give up on.
We would then make elderflower cordial out of our harvest,
Ready to be enjoyed throughout the summer.
Yonas.
Memories are songs that tie us to the past,
Present,
And future.
Threads of sound that anchor who we are.
Do you have a song memory of you and your mother?
Pause.
Listen.
Let it rise.
Maybe it's her humming in the kitchen.
The tune she whistled while folding sheets.
The lullaby that tucked you into sleep.
Or the laugh that filled a summer evening.
Hear the exact note that made you feel safe.
Hear the quiet sigh that held you when you were small.
Hold it close.
Let that song move through you now.
A living bridge.
Between then and now.
And what is still to come.
Nostalgia is alive.
The day begins with warm orange rays setting the pine tips alight.
We slip from the sheets.
The warmth falls away.
Eyes flutter open.
We brush our teeth.
We wash.
Water,
Steadying the spirit.
The shower sings a gentle cleanse,
Preparing us for what will unfold.
We wrap a light robe around our bodies.
Time for creams,
Oils,
And aura sprays.
A podcast or soft music.
Or the window thrown open to the neighborhood's morning chorus.
Today is all we have.
We dress for the adventure of these 24 hours.
Breakfast is a ritual.
Eggs boiling.
Now let us pause here,
Since this can be a delicate debate,
For the perfect soft-boiled egg.
Runny yolks,
Set whites.
Step 1.
Bring eggs to room temperature.
10 to 15 minute or use straight from the fridge and add 30 seconds to the timing if cold.
Step 2.
Use large eggs for timing consistency.
Fill a pot with enough water to cover eggs by one inch.
Bring water to a gentle,
Rolling boil.
Step 3.
Reduce heat to maintain a gentle simmer,
Not a violent boil.
Using a slotted spoon,
Lower eggs in one by one.
Step 4.
Timing from when eggs enter the water.
Five minutes,
Very soft,
Jammy whites and very runny yolks.
Five and a half minutes.
Classic soft-boiled with set whites and custardy runny yolks.
Six minutes.
Firmer whites,
Still soft yolk.
Serve.
Gently tap and peel.
Season with salt and pepper.
Avocado sliced,
An orange peeled,
Lemon squeezed into water.
Bellies full.
At the closet,
Winter coats are tucked away.
Yes,
Even the beloved ones.
May guides our choices.
Softer fabrics,
Lighter layers,
Something that flows and shifts.
Today,
A crisp white cotton tee,
Dark denim neatly tucked,
And bright Repeto for our toes,
A peony pink scarf tied just so.
For the rain that may come a spring trench.
Practical.
Poetic.
Heirlooms come next,
A bracelet,
A pair of earrings,
A ring,
Gold or silver,
As you prefer.
Choose the omnions mood of the day and tuck it into the ritual.
A pulse for your wrist,
Protection for the day.
Pack the tote with essentials.
Notebook,
Water,
Laptop,
Umbrella,
And all the usuals.
Your chosen crystals.
Your tiny treasures you never leave behind.
And off we go into the not yet known.
Our agenda is a sketch.
The song of May,
The present moment leads.
Work,
Play,
Connect.
Work,
Play,
Connect,
Pause,
Eat,
Laugh,
Return.
Each hour unfolds until the dusk decides whether it brings us home.
Evenings linger in May.
The crimson sky stretches and invites you to take your time.
Move slowly.
Listen closely.
Sing the song of present here in May.
We thank our May contributors,
Lucia,
Aurelia,
Carrie-Anne,
Alex,
And Ludmila,
Whose generous answers to our questionnaire wove the threads of this story.
To close this chapter,
Listen with ears and heart to the full Murcielle sound of May composition.
Join us next month for the Taste of June.
