I don't know how others may experience this, but to me it feels
like knots, a heaviness in my chest. It's not always extreme. It's often imperceptible,
an unconscious nagging. It may be from anxiety. It may be from fatigue, worry,
doubt. It may just be the result of a cloudy day. Whatever it is, it must
escape or else settle darkly within.
I have various ways of discovering what this darkness is and
where it lies. Writing has helped in this regard. It's a way of having a
conversation with myself. And sometimes I reveal my own secrets. Like finding a
map to a hidden pressure point: once pushed, ahhh, a sigh is released, something escapes to the light.
Particular smells cut out all the small talk that writing to
one's self provides. These smells enter your mind through different means and
undo your tensions with ease.
Two stories and several stragglers may help me to explain.
...
I once lived on High Street in the Brooks House. (Moved out just
a few months before the fire actually.) I had electric heat, didn't have a lot
of money, so I kept it around fifty. Wore slippers always, a sweater, and often
a hat. The drafts were bad. I'd hold my hand by the window and feel the cold
air pouring in. So I went to the hardware store and got some pliable foam for
the cracks and gaps, and some plastic sheeting to cover the windows from top to
bottom--the kind you tighten and seal with a hair dryer, laborious but
effective.
It was horrible. Felt like I was living in a plastic bag for
five months. The cold air didn't enter so boldly now, but the warm air, from
those few unexpected days in winter, lingered just on the other side of plastic
and glass.
Then came early March and the hope of spring winds. I didn't
dare strip the plastic from my windows yet, but the longer days and the
addition of an hour to the afternoon buoyed my spirits. As did the hyacinth
plants that I started to bring home from the grocery store.
Their fragrance simmered in my small apartment all day, slowly
creeping into every crevice, and building up an offensive at the doorway.
Striding through the door, bewildered and fatigued from another school day
spent with at-risk youth, I was always tossed sideways into delight and
contentment. I'd be drawn by the nose to the short wooden shelf where my
hyacinth sat innocently.
I'd approach with care and reverence, as though it were a sacred
object. Breathing out first, clearing my lungs, I'd bring my nose close to its
stalk of flowers and inhale deeply, filling my chest from the bottom up,
holding in fragrance, the sweetness lingering in my nostrils, a lightness and
ease coming over me. Then, I'd breath out and feel lighter still.
...
Pho Hong in Burlington's Old North End sells, as you might have
guessed it, pho--immaculate pho, at that. The broth clear and rich, the noodles
soft and fresh, the meat tender. It's served to you in a deep bowl with a
variety of garnishes: lime wedge, cilantro, thai basil, mung bean sprouts.
The first time I had pho I thought these garnishes were a quite
unusual side salad. I tore the basil and cilantro leaves over the sprouts,
sprinkled it all with lime juice, and dug in. Refreshing but not too appealling
on its own. I was embarrassed to discover later that they weren't, in fact, a
side salad. I haven't made the same mistake again.
When the steaming broth now appears before me at the table, I
stick my face down into it. My glasses fog up. I take those off. I breathe in
the steam, filling my lungs. I sigh deeply. Now having entered a new world, I
look to my other options.
First the bean sprouts, those go in. Then the cilantro and basil
are torn and sprinkled down into the steam. They wilt immediately and the scents
drift up; my face coming down again to meet them. With my glasses still on the
table, slowly defogging, I sigh again, deeper this time. Something in my chest
unwinds itself and pushes for my throat. When I squeeze the lime its spritz
leaps into the air, and its juice drips down. Sometimes, if the sunlight is
angled just right, I notice the spritz still hanging in the air, mingling with
the rising steam, and time slows.
I lick my fingers, pick up my chopsticks, and my head lowers
once more; I sigh once more. With this sigh, the knot now untied in my chest,
whatever I was holding rises up and out, and I eat.
...
The heavy, clinging smell of a fire. Music, revelry, and
reverie. A connection with times past.
...
The smell of a lover. The exchange of breath. Their scent on
your fingertips.
...
Soil from the garden left beneath your nails.
...
Cherry tree blossoms warmed in the sun.
Sometimes I feel like smell is the strongest provoker of emotions than any other sense. Loved the post James!
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