Yesterday I spent an hour smelling things. First, the roses outside Candy’s house showered me with their profuse sweetness. I didn’t even have to put my nose into their creamy petals, the fragrance radiated about two feet out from the vines. I sat down to knit at the bench, and suddenly I was smelling Christmas! I heard voices behind the bushes coming from the young doctor’s front yard, and then a cracking sound as a branch of a douglas fir tree came crashing down to the drive way. There was a man up in the tree with a jigsaw, thinning out the branches and the voices of a man and woman below shouting up instructions to him. With each crash, the spicy, pungent scent increased. It was wonderful. A few moments later, I started inhaling the smoky, sweet aroma of barbequed meat from a grill drifting on the breeze from God-knows-where. I don’t know what it was about my nose or the clarity of the air, but I have never had such an intensely pleasurable hour of unplanned aromatherapy.
I was struck by this quote by Wayne Dyer earlier this day: “When we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change.” I wonder if you noticed the man in the tree?
A car drove down over the hill, then stopped abruptly and dangerously. It parked itself at a crooked angle on the top of the hill, and a woman got out of the car. She drew near to ask me about the project. “The view is beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked her, and she said, “Yes, I never get tired of looking at water.” “Me too. It’s kind of strange,” I say, and she says, “Not at all. It’s always changing.” Today the water had lights in it from the direct angle of the sun’s rays. Yesterday, the surface was full of zigzags from the unseen movements of the wind scribbling its mysterious line drawings across its surface. She said that at first glance, she had thought that I was spinning and that the hose reel held my “roving.” I’d never heard the word used this way before, but it describes the long, unspun strand of fiber that one spins into yarn. Earlier this day, I was reminded of another kind of roving, the fact that I had moved 6 times in two years, on a quest that began after I lost my university teaching job, spent 6 months in a Cistercian monastery in the Redwoods, and returned to Bellingham with a newfound freedom to pursue my artistic calling.
And a confession: I threw away the hose reel yesterday. Whatever poetry I saw in it, has disappeared, and I needed to make room in my tiny storage unit!