Coarse, unrefined grey sea salt, hand-raked from the tidal marshes of Guérande on the Atlantic coast, sealed into a small cork-stoppered glass jar. The crystals are damp and irregular, a soft grey rather than bleached white, and still carry a faint trace of the clay flat they dried on before harvest, along with a mineral edge finer table salt loses in processing, the same trace clay that gives the region's salt its color.
Salt is close to a universal agent of purification and boundary-marking across folk practice, cast across thresholds, sprinkled into the corners of a room, or laid in an unbroken line said to turn back whatever ill thing might try to cross it. Few substances appear so often, across so many unrelated traditions, doing exactly the same symbolic work with so little ceremony required.
A pinch is enough for most uses — scattered at a doorway, set in the four corners of a room, or added to a bath. The jar is meant to be refilled once emptied; any coarse, unrefined sea salt will serve the same purpose just as well.
Sold as a curiosity — no medical or scientific claims are made.
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