Everything is Perfect (Part 2)

A little bit ago, I wrote about how everything happens in its perfect time. I like to remind myself of this when things don’t seem to be going particularly perfect.

For example, an inflamed temper tantrum (don’t you ever just want to throw something?) over something that wasn’t really a big deal, has me writing on my son’s computer. My computer, currently, will not turn on.

My husband asked if money were no object, what would I want. I want my computer to work again, that’s what I want. I then started dreaming of a desktop computer. Something permanent, maybe I do most of my work there. Right now, I do my work on my (sorry now my son’s) laptop. When we chose to buy me a new computer, there was enough in the budget for ONE, not two, so we bought one. I picked out the model that was the easiest to open and repair, that had all the ports I like to use, that still had the CD ROM drive because we haven’t completely let go of that technology, and the fastest processor I could put in it. And, it has served me well for 2.5 years. And, then there was the unfortunate liquid incident last Friday that now has my computer rendered useless.

Funny story, husband thought that this particular model wasn’t as easy to repair as it might be. So, we had a friend swap the hard drive for son’s computer before our vacation. His money and fix-it values prevent him from willingly giving money to “contractors” (I don’t care if they are pouring cement, fixing a car, or fixing a computer, they are all contractors of a sort). But, we did take my machine to the contractors to fix. And, now, because of the ill-timed tantrum, he is getting really acquainted with my machine.

It went like this. The unfortunate incident happened. I grabbed my computer, mopped up as much coffee as I could, and I worked quickly to shut down the computer, correctly. I changed me, which also got soaked, and then I went back to my computer and tipped it over on end, and more coffee leaked out. I put towels underneath, and I walked away.

Then, I called Apple Care and confessed the liquid damage. No, it is not covered under your basic Apple Care (the new Apple Care + has a clause for liquid, though). (“What did I pay for?” I consider.)

Husband got the machine, and he opened it. He worked to rinse the interior of the machine with isopropyl alcohol and then blew it out with an air compressor. He has since read that sucking liquid out is the optimal choice. After about two hours, we plugged in the machine, and it turned on. The keyboard did not work, so we grabbed a spare keyboard and plugged it in. The trackpad worked, the keyboard did not. No key worked. The spare keyboard did work, so I logged in, and I began updating where I had left off. If that worked, I would take computer upstairs and back up data before resuming. I walked away again because I am a mother and despite my grief over my non-working computer, dinner still had to be made.

About 30 minutes later, we both looked back at the computer and it was off. No one turned it off. It was in the middle of an update. So, the next day, after some morning appointments, we took it to the Genius Bar. I chose not to make an appointment, as the earliest available was days away. We were able to divert the “pre-launch” line and enter the store. My no appointment showing up got me served in less than five minutes. The sorry news was that because it was liquid damage, that I yet again confessed, to the ire of the husband, we were looking at the low price of $755 to send off and repair. No computer was opened to verify if and where damage was. My verbal, “it won’t turn on,” was the only thing taken as proof, perhaps aside from the Apple Care call of the previous day.

We left and went to the Simply Mac store. I had called the day before and they assured because I had Apple Care, the $70 diagnostic fee would be waived. (The next day, they called, and the said it was the logic board. After reminding him that it was liquid damage that brought us in, he came up with about a $650 repair cost. Our research yields that a used or refurbished machine of the same or similar specs is about $800, online or at the Simply Mac store. )

So, off to Free Geek we went to continue the exploration. Times have changed, and the Apple is much more popular than when Free Geek rooted its humble beginnings. There were at least 5 iMac’s on display, with prices, gauging their value between $250-$400 (for the 21.5″ machines I was interested in).

And, I remind myself that everything is in its perfect time. I love my 2012 top case and subsequent keyboard. The typing is softer and more accurate. I cannot even count the errors I am making on this machine that can’t quite keep up with my speed.

Monday, I collect my computer. We would rather buy a “parts” computer than giving someone $800. This is our choice. And, I solemnly leave my computer in its case. What’s there to protect now? Husband gets a hold of it. Simply Mac could not even turn the computer on because they assumed the logic board had died. Husband plugs in the computer, and it powers on.

We question yet again what service these technicians have given us and how complete their tests really are. The computer does not shut down this time, but the keyboard still does not work. I back up everything and transfer current working files. Pictures have to stay where they are for now. We restarted the machine a few times, and it powered back on just fine. I updated everything. And, then, after all that was done, I decided to turn it off. And, it did not turn back on. So, I sit here still with my son’s computer. He shouldn’t use it during the week anyway (in fact we have rules about this). And, I remind myself, it’s only a thing, it doesn’t really matter in the long run, and everything happens in its perfect time.

Everything in its perfect time

Selfie in front of the south end of the Salt Palace Convention Center. This place would be our second home for 5 days.

It is Monday, September 11. This is the 16-year “anniversary” of a terrorist attack on the United States when the World Trade Center came crumbling down after planes strategically smashed into it.

Today is also my first day back from an epic summer vacation and an amazing convention at dōTERRA. Upon leaving, careless teenagers threw fireworks into a canyon on a beloved hiking trail, which ignited over 34,000 acres. The speed at which the flames spread was alarming, sad, and scary. I could sit in the comfort of my Portland home and only be affected by the smoke, which made it very difficult to breathe. I was not affected by an evacuation order, but I wondered if it would come close. Just days before my husband and I discussed renewing our hiking along some of those very same trails. And, with a heavy heart, I reminded myself that everything happens in its perfect timing, no matter how sad.

I took that thinking with me to the convention last week, and it did not disappoint. Some funny, silly, frustrating, amazing things happened, and through it all, I reminded myself that everything happens in its perfect timing.

Space was combined because the Utah Jazz had an amazing season. So, the planned construction of Salt Lake City’s arena was delayed. That meant more lines, more waiting, and more patience required. The day we registered, I was hoping for quick lines, as was my previous experience. It took an hour to register, and I panicked that I would miss my scheduled and paid for tour. I did not miss my tour. An employee kindly guided my momentarily panicked being to where I needed to go and ensured I got to see what I got to see. I spoke my mind to someone who I deemed entitled (reminding people of boundaries). I gave suggestions for a smoother flow. I met a new friend, who I saw briefly every day afterward. I smelled the most amazing warehouse.

The next day, we missed hearing Rachel Platten sing Fight Song, but we spent time together, and we were reminded of how other people live very different lives than us. In a moment of desiring to stock our room with cheap wine, we were reminded, perfectly, of the need to ask, sometimes, “Are you safe?” (See dōTERRA’s partnership with Operation Underground Railroad.)

We, as a team, got to know each other a little better, we opened our hearts a little more, we learned a whole lot, and we reconnected with our purpose, just a little bit deeper. Together, we watched others be vulnerable, and we touched our truths one more time.

Are you thinking, seriously, all this at an essential oil convention? YES! All this at an essential oil convention. Stay tuned for more updates. Make sure you’re on my mailing list to receive a breakdown of the 9 new oils.

Much love to you my dear friends. Remember, everything happens in its perfect time.

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10 Years – a Quiet Reflection

My son’s age is a constant reminder of how long I’ve been without my sister, Cristi. This year, he turned ten. This year is the tenth year of her not being here. This day is the tenth year of her not being there, though we found out ten years ago tomorrow.

Every time I think about this, I think about an image of a 29-year-old woman on the brink of blowing up her career (for good), touching all the lives of the students she worked with, and the laughter she brought to my family. Forever frozen in time, and now we only have her memory to hang on to.

We are back, traveling again, celebrating family, sites, and death. Two of the deaths we are going to celebrate are the lives of my grandparents, my maternal grandmother, and grandfather. We will have a memorial around the family farm, celebrating their lives, their legacy. At the same time, our immediate family will hold tight to the memory of our sister, daughter, friend, who died ten years ago, much too soon.

In the midst of this intimate memorial will be nearly 4 generations of people. People who wouldn’t be here or have come together without my grandparents. And, then, of course, there will be the people who couldn’t make it. Maybe it was money or time, or in the case of Cristi, maybe it was because a life was taken too soon. We will celebrate. We may cry. We will share stories. We will laugh.

Then, we will depart and go back to our regularly scheduled lives. Some of our travels will take us to exciting new adventures. Some of our adventures will take us to the normal routines of daily life. Wake up, go to work, go to school, get dressed, eat a meal. We go on living while the dead do what dead people do according to your respective beliefs.

I was raised in the Catholic church. My husband and I are raising our son with Christian (Protestant) – Catholic views. Yet, I hope for an afterlife that is kinder and more loving than that which these religions preach. I dream of an afterlife where our loved ones are walking with us, guiding us, our guardian angels. I dream of an afterlife where we’ve made pacts with each other, and we are each others soul mates. Where we are learning some spiritual lesson, every day, and we have the support of those around us. There is no accident when it comes to where we are.

In this moment, I am writing this at a yummy café near where my mother’s new job is. Near where high school friends are employed and helped me with certain esthetician tasks. Near where I’m meeting another old friend for lunch. Near where I’ll meet up with my family at a beloved fabric store (that happens to be having a tent sale today). None of these things happened the way I envisioned. And, it’s all working out perfectly. I will take this sign on this tenth anniversary of my sister’s death that no matter the heartache we’ve had or is to come, everything is unfolding as it should.

States My Son’s Visited

After summer travel completes, we’ll be able to add a few to this… So, far, here are the states Levi has been able to visit.



For the states I’ve visited, check out this post.

Connecting Women: Why This is Our First Priority

I’ve written about this before, but this is a topic so near to me that I think uncovering and unpacking the layers is relevant, important, and necessary. When I go back to what it is I do, connecting women and holding space for women is the common theme. So, why is that so important?

Connecting to Sustainability

Years ago, I identified that my goal is to educate people on the importance of a sustainable society. This was a beautiful moment because it allowed me openness to opportunities that had just been created and were now available to me. I was able to declare Sustainable Urban Development as my minor at Portland State. I was able to travel to Italy on a Sustainability Study Abroad. I was able to co-author a book on Sustainability. Because my bucket job explorations in sustainability didn’t lead to a paid gig, I kept unpacking what sustainability meant for me.

The Triple Bottom Line is the common definition I use. It’s easy to understand, wrap our heads around, and generally gets the point across. I’ve called it the Three Es, until this new definition. It means that you balance three things equally instead of just one.

In business, the norm is to balance the books. You know if a company is making a profit, or not. You balance the profit books, the economic books. In the Triple Bottom Line definition, you add two books: people (equity) and planet/place (environment). With how we’ve measured environmental success, this piece is easy to measure. We know if we are polluting the environment more than cleaning it up. We know if we are cutting down more trees than planting. We know if our food is contaminated, or not. We know if our water is contaminated, or not.

Connecting people

But people, that’s where things get messy. Because people are messy. We bring all of our junk, or baggage, to the table – no matter what the table is – work, family, volunteering. If we had a bad day at work, it’s often hard to hide it from our families. If family life is stressful, it affects our concentration at work. We are a society that likes easy things, so we don’t deal with the people aspect because it is hard.

And, the hard thing is exactly what we need to deal with. If we want our society to be a better place tomorrow than it is today, we have to tackle the hard thing. I want society to be a better place. I want my son to grow up with kindness, compassion, and opportunity within a setting of health, wellness, wealth, and awesome choices. I want the next generation to have even better opportunities. If we collectively want that, and I think we do, then we have to work together to figure out people.

Connecting with Women

I am focusing on women for many reasons. I am a women. I was raised by a women, who served our family as a single mother using social services, until she remarried. I have sisters. One sister is the mother of a special needs child. One sister was killed by her boyfriend. That is, one sister was a victim of domestic violence.

I watch all the women in my circle: gay, straight, single, parents, black, hispanic, white – and they all have spaces where they need support. Many women I see are not the sole breadwinners of their families, and that directly affects choices they make. Some women face exclusions that I, as a white women, cannot relate to, and it’s unfair and unnecessary.

So, I see a need for us, women, to come together like we never have before. I see a need for us to cross race, political, and economic lines and see the potential in each of us. I see space for us to thrive together.

When women support each other in joy, we do amazing things. We love. We share. We are kind. We show up with compassion. We gift, and we support. I want to create a society that honors the feminine to bring these necessary things back into our world, massively. Join me. Let’s connect.

Dress Codes as Privilege

A few days ago…

I’m putting on my gifted black skirt. I’m eyeing my favorite black shoes. I put on a shirt I bought, new, a few years ago, buttoned and collared. I grab my trusty black and purple argyle vest out of my closet. I am privileged to have this opportunity. I am dressing for an important meeting. I am dressing to impress.

I bought these clothes, the ones purchased, at mid-level stores, affordable to my budget. None of these clothes came direct from a thrift store. The gifted skirt was from my sister, and sports the name Calvin Klein. I am wearing the embodiment of privilege.

I sillily consider this my school marm outfit. There is something 1880s about the shoes, that I adore. Even though this outfit doesn’t say “power suit”, it is a power outfit for me. Even though the skirt is now too large, and my shirt needs a good iron to it. None of it would be considered, probably, in fashion for the current trends.

But, I sit in the embodiment of privilege. I have many clothes to choose from in my closet. I have a range of colors and styles. I have dresses and more button up shirts. I have skirts, some from thrift stores, but they always get compliments. I have a range of shoes, and even one pair of knee-high boots. All this choice screams privilege.

I am white. My husband and I are college educated. We live a middle class life, even if it’s not as squarely middle class as we’d prefer. We own our home. We own multiple cars. Privilege. Privilege. Privilege.

I am so aware of my privilege, I am actually shocked when others aren’t aware of theirs. Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up economically privileged. Maybe it’s because I didn’t feel as if life was handed to me on a silver platter. Maybe it’s because I’m fairly intuitive, and I can feel the pain others have gone through and I know suffering occurs in our world, sometimes, often, needlessly. So, I am actually even angry when others exert their privilege and they disguise it for the greater good.

Where expressing privilege is a problem

I was sharing this topic with a friend, today. She shared another way we have to be aware of how we dress. She recently began volunteering for a group that provides food and toiletries to homeless women. She was told, very explicitly to be aware of her privilege and hide it when volunteering. She had to dress down, jeans and a t-shirt. She had to remove jewelry, even her wedding ring. She had to appear plain and nonthreatening so as not to incite unnecessary jealousy from those she was sent to serve.

Part of my calling is to raise awareness of how others live in this world. By raising our awareness, we can take better stock of where we are individually to justify where we want to be collectively. And, when we are a part of groups that sit in a corner of privilege within a place that suffers, and then we ask attendees to showcase their privilege, we create a space that is NOT inclusive of all those we hope to attract and serve.

Are you aware of your privilege and when you might ask others to showcase theirs, whether they want to or not?

More perspectives

The Unspoken Messages of Dress Codes: Uncovering Bias and Power

You Call It Professionalism; I Call It Oppression in a Three-Piece Suit “In office environments especially, standards of professionalism are the law of the land – and they reinforce social hierarchies that value white maleness above all.”

And, “Dress codes make room to turn a lot of “isms” into policies – especially since typical standards of professional dress are, at the core, racist, sexist, classist, and xenophobic.”

Dress Codes: Myth versus Fact

Ladies, Take Off Your Makeup

March 2011, driving to the UP, sporting a rocking red drugstore lipstick. It pretty much only looks this awesome when you put it on.

Last month, in my educational newsletter to my fellow oilers, I talked about the importance of spring cleaning, and I related it to the chemicals on our face. Women are exposed to a range of 150 and 500 chemicals, daily. Most of which we do not know the direct effects. A risk averse person might suggest that the average women is a chemical concoction away from disaster.

Societal norms, aside, maybe it’s time for women to take off their make up?

Societal norms, considered, what does it say when we wear make up every day? Men don’t, in our modern age. If we are going to a play, a night out on the town, both genders are generally expected to dress up a little, comb their hair, brush their teeth – societal hygienic and grooming standards. But, aside from a blip into metrosexuality (isn’t it all beards now?), only a woman is required to cover her face, in a painted on mask, to be considered put together.

Let’s take a pause. I actually love wearing make up. I enjoy the whole process. I equate it to art. I think it’s fascinating the shapes we highlight and create and the colors we play with, with paint for our skin. I even find that a powdered foundation keeps my oily skin feeling fresh, all day. Me and make up? Love it. (The more research-intensive part is finding toxic-free varieties.)

What I would like to link together, though, is this requirement that women put a mask on to look their best. It’s a direct implication that women do not look their best without new skin, new eyes, new cheeks, and new lips. Men can simply walk out of their house, and they are applauded for buttoning their shirts or not sagging in their pants. The expectation is different for women.

What does that continue to say about our society? Yesterday was Equal Pay Day for Women. Yesterday marks the day that white women begin to earn as much as their male counterparts in the workforce. If you add other aspects, such as being black, or Hispanic, their day is not yet here. What does it say, about our society?

It continues to reinforce the message that women cannot and will not be enough. It says that we don’t look the part, and we don’t deserve to play the part.

Clarification, I don’t choose to believe this. I feel that if we succumb to this victim mentality we allow the oppressors to win. And, I will not allow the oppressors to win. Everyone deserves a fair shake at this game called Life. Everyone deserves to be treated fairly, no matter what their skin or gender, or choice of make up. Instead of being a victim, I will, however, kindly challenge these micro-oppressions.

Women are not required to wear make up to look their best. Women are not required to wear a dress, or a pant suit, to be presentable. We, this generation and beyond, are shaking the old beliefs and creating our own, because the old beliefs, the old suit, it just doesn’t fit anymore.

I believe our job is to shake those suits that don’t fit anymore. Our job is to challenge these micro-oppressions when they are, again, layered as norms. Our job is to say, “No, that really isn’t how it is and couldn’t we consider it a different way.”

And, today, I’m saying that about make up. Not only is it generally quite toxic to our skin, it can mask who we really are. If we are to truly show up and change this world, we need to show up as we really are. So, please, take off your make up, and change the world.

More to consider

Men like women to wear less makeup? No, they don’t

Make up at work – from the abstract, “Although many women find pleasure in wearing makeup, the authors conclude that the institutional constraints imposed by the workplace effectively limit the possibilities for resistance.”

We Need to Stop Making Assumptions About Why Women Wear Make-Up — Here’s Why – “At some point – probably high school – I believed that learning how to ‘put my face together’ felt like a necessary right of passage because I am a woman.”

I’m not sorry

This is home. My grandparents picked up this property around 1961. 80 acres on one side of the highway, 80 acres on the other. This is what my first idea of a “hobby farm” looked like.

I love, so much, the outpouring of support, love, prayers, and friendly thoughts to me and my family in this time of grieving. The kindness in the thought expressed, “I’m sorry,” means a lot. But, I need to acknowledge that I am not sorry.

I was sorry when Cristi died. Hers was a life cut too short, unfinished. She was my sister, and I felt robbed that we didn’t get a chance to adult together. I was very sorry when she died. And, I really appreciated the sentiment expressed, then. No one really knows what to say in times of such a tragic situation.

I found the words, “I’m sorry,” were the best choice for others also experiencing grief. “I am sorry that this thing is happening that is causing pain.” But, pain is life. Life is full of promise, joy, pain, happiness, tears of sadness and gladness. So, in a sense, I am far form sorry that you are experiencing that we are experiencing this human existence to its fullest. I am glad that we have the opportunity to feel sadness and grief over a life no longer with us, immediately right now.

How lucky am I that, in this immediate instance, I have a grandfather that lived to be 93 years old. Though he wasn’t always lucid the last ten years of his life, by all accounts he lived a full life. He married his high school sweet heart, he served his country, he raised a large, boisterous family. He provided for his needs, his children’s needs to the best of his abilities, and supported the next generation. I am so happy that I get to call him my grandfather, and I am so happy that he had this rich story cultivated around his values and his expression of life.

I am not sorry he died. I am not sorry he lived. I am not sorry for his story, as it was a glorious one.

In reflection, there are a few things I am sorry for. I am sorry that Alzheimer’s consumed his existence these last ten years. I am sorry that dementia made him into a man I didn’t recognize. I am sorry that old age brought bloating and other ill-health side affects that mostly made him unrecognizable. I am sorry that the last time I saw him, five short minutes, was largely spent with him sleeping.

But, I am not sorry I did get to see him in his end of life. I am not sorry for that last hug. I am not sorry that his life helped me reshape what I think about aging and the aging process. Like leaves that wither and die in the fall, all life has a season, and I truly believed my grandfather and grandmother lived their season to their fullest. I am not sorry I got to witness so much of their life.

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for continuing to show me what love and life can look like, even past your end of days.

In memory of…

I took this picture September 2004. I came over, from Oregon, a long weekend to celebrate (surprise!) Grandpa’s 80th birthday. The cool, beautiful September, with the crisp temperature and changing colors. This is how I will remember my grandparents.

It’s Thursday. It started out as a normal Thursday. But, now, it will forever be known as the day my grandfather died. He was 92.

He lived a long life. He met his sweetheart in 7th or 8th grade, and they courted through high school. He served as a nurse, stationed in Germany, during World War II. We didn’t call it PTSD back then, but I was instructed never to ask about the war (to any of my grandparents), rather to listen kindly if they shared stories. Grandpa Woodaz didn’t share any stories.

Uncles talking, about what? Does it matter? This is a common occurrence. Groups of men gabbing, outside, on the farm.

Growing up, I thought of him as fierce. Like my grandmother, he was always there. We spent a lot of time on the farm when living in the UP, where I was born. One entire summer, we lived with my grandparents. I remember being told our car needed to be fixed.

We would wake up and go to bed with the rest of the farm, which included my grandparents and my uncle. He was the youngest and finishing high school. Together, they had ten children, never loosing any, within an almost 30 year span. That uncle, Danny, was an uncle when he was born. Their legacy includes over 40 grandchildren and many, many, great and even great-great grandchildren.

My grandfather offered me my first beer. It was likely Pabst Blue Ribbon. I was 8. I had a sip, because, why would you say no to Grandpa? I hated it. And, boy did he laugh. His Polish blue eyes twinkling, and the smile that lit up his whole face. Contrasting with his deeply tanned, brown skin, and white hair, always short in a buzz cut. We often saw him after he came home from work at the paper mill. And he always asked, “Do you want a whisker rub?” The worst kind of cheek-to-cheek kiss a child could ask for, with his five o’clock shadow, like sandpaper on your baby soft, childhood skin. And he would laugh, and laugh.

Munising Paper Mill

Sometimes, he wouldn’t laugh, and the fierceness would come through. When I was about 5, my cousin, Darryl, did not obey my grandfather, and he climbed on a flat bed trailer that was on the property. The wood was rotting, and Darryl fell and cut his lip. The next thing I knew, Darryl was in Grandma’s chair, in a timeout in the living room, a little blood coming from his lip. How could he be in trouble when he got hurt? He did not listen to Grandpa, and that’s why he got hurt.

They had 10 kids. TEN. Can you imagine? I can’t. We’ve stopped at one. I’m guessing that’s one reason why it was a never-ending parade of weddings when I was a little girl. All the weddings were held at the Hall. This was a community building, and every single reception was held in this hall. We had a formula for weddings. From my young eyes, it looked like: potluck made by all the gray haired aunts, kegs of beer, and a DJ who played polkas. The building was like a large pole barn with hard, concrete floors. They were perfect for dancing, and boy did our family dance. I have memories of begging to polka with Grandpa. Why? Because you didn’t actually need to know how to dance! He would spin you around, and you would fly. Uncle Tommy was the only other person who would dance with you, like that.

Eventually, Grandpa retired. And, then, he was home all the time. But he never stopped moving. He was always puttering to and fro. Coming in the house, periodically, for another cup of coffee. When I was younger, he’d open the fridge when the day was done and get a beer. That stopped after some time. Coffee, though. Never ending coffee. After my Uncle Danny returned from his tours in the Navy, the coffee got better. You see, Danny spent time in Seattle. So the Midwestern, watered down brew turned into good coffee. When it was the Midwestern brew, we had a church coffee pot in the kitchen. And it was never empty. The coffee was always on.

Sherry shared this photo. This is a GREAT way to remember Grandpa.

Eventually, age settled in. But, it was after they both turned 80. Though I’ve heard that the human body has the capacity to live to 120 years old, because our life expectancy is in our 70s, I was amazed they made it that long. That feels like a long, full life. The end of life cycle turned into a challenge as health related issues arose. That’s not how I will choose to remember either of them. This image in 2004 is how I will remember them. Vibrant and full of life. The laughs – everyone always laughing. The big, giant bear hugs (and yes, this is why I’m a hug person), the traditions old and new, the pride of our Polish heritage. I miss my grandparents, as they were, every single day. I cling to hope they are reunited, maybe ready to recreate their love story.

Thank you Grandma and Grandpa for showing me what love can look like.

The Shop is Updated

A few weeks ago, we worked with some of the pieces of walnut and oak we have, and we updated our shop. Check out the new pieces on Etsy. Most are one of a kind. Get yours today!

Stained Walnut Oil Holder
Finished with a salad bowl finish, this oil holder holds 11 9 or 10ml roller bottles. The salad bowl finish brings out the dark, beautiful richness of the walnut. This piece was designed to accentuate the natural beauty of the grain. It’s great to fit in small places.
Walnut Oil Holder
This unstained walnut oil holder, with its butter soft finish, will hold 12 9 or 10 ml roller bottles. This is a one of a kind piece. Fit your diluted touch kit or your emotional oil touch kit with ease!
Massage Kit Oil Holder, White Oak Massage Kit Oil Holder, White Oak Massage Kit Oil Holder, White Oak 🔎zoom  Request a custom order and have something made just for you. Item details 5 out of 5 stars.      (1) reviews Shipping & Policies Do you have your favorite massage oils in 5ml bottles? This holder was designed specifically for dōTERRA's AromaTouch Technique Kit, including space for fractionated coconut oil. Keep your massage tools at the ready to offer the healing touch of massage and oils! Will hold any 5ml bottles or 4oz bottle in the center. This holder is made of white oak. Meet the owners of BalanceShared Learn more about their shop and process  Michelle Lasley    Peter Lasley Massage Kit Oil Holder, White Oak
Store your 5ml AromaTouch oils and Fractionated Coconut Oil in this oak holder.