The Nose Knows

Early this morning when I walked through my yard admiring the spring's floral offerings, the most amazing scent enveloped me. I couldn't put my finger on it. Or more accurately, I couldn't put my nose on it.

For the first time, I learned my magnolia shrub has a most penetrating aroma. I never knew. I stood there with my face buried in the branches, amazed at the rich, full scent. I've always loved the visual beauty of the magnolia blossom. Add this scent, and the plant is completely perfect.

For a couple years following a sinus surgery, I experienced a complete loss of my senses of smell and taste. It's the nose in combination with the mouth that makes the olfactory system function fully, able to detect one trillion different scents. I think those two senses are underappreciated. It's one of those things you're unaware how good you have it till it's gone.

My loss of taste affected my overall nutrition; I no longer had an interest in eating because there was no flavor and no feeling of reward. My loss of smell made me feel unsafe, worried that I wouldn't detect warning smells, like noxious fumes, smoke from fire, or spoiled food. The loss of both significantly lowered my mental positivity.

Gradually I've regained a good bit of my sense of taste; my smell seems to vary day to day. Some days I can't smell anything. Some days I catch whiffs of things I haven't smelled in a long time. Sometimes things have to be very near to my nose. Many smells I'm extremely sensitive to; my brain feels overloaded and overwhelmed.

Often when I notice a scent, I have to stop what I'm doing and try to remember what I'm smelling, a sort of mental retraining. I can feel something being stimulated in my head, but it feels like I have to flip through an old-fashioned card catalog of scents until I recognize one as a match with what my system is detecting.

This experience has taught me to be more purposeful about immersing my senses, making a mental note of each, clarifying what I'm seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, and tasting. The best opportunity I've found for this is at First Light, alone in nature's early morning space.

I enjoy being out in the world before the distractions begin. On the days when I miss the early brilliance, there's no evidence later that it even occurred, and those days don't feel quite complete.

"Our morning eyes describe a different world than do our afternoon eyes." —John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley, page 60

When I step outside while the sun is barely rising, to wander around and survey our property, the sky is fantastic with its pale light; the clear stars still visible; the dark fractals of the tree branches, trunks, and leaves backdropped by the early-lit sky.

Recently, after I climbed the steps to perch on the wooden platform at the top of my kids' old play set, a pair of orioles and a pair of bluebirds all flew in to a tree branch above me. Their oranges and blues were vivid and spectacular; the sounds of their singing crystal clear. It felt like they had come just for my benefit.

Another morning, I was seated on the ground with my breakfast when a butterfly settled about a foot in front of me, his face pointed directly at mine. I could see his antennae; his super thin, black legs; the patterns on his wings; his eyes. I wondered what details of me he could see. He kept me company until I was done eating.

I've noticed in the early mornings, when the air is calmer and cooler, I can more clearly hear the church bells in town, a mile away. Their ringing sounds different then, like it's in my own yard. They remind me to pause and breathe deeply.

Some mornings, I have to convince myself to get up and out, remembering I've never regretted having gone. From the moment I open the door and breathe in my first breath outside, I feel like I've exchanged a stale version of myself for a fresh one.

It's comforting to be surrounded by so much that connects with my senses, particularly with my renewed sense of smell. My interconnection with the natural world around me makes me feel settled. It feels familiar. Familiar feels good.

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