Soft furry squishy bright pulsating sparkly and dripping, drip dripdripdrip drip and drip... Spying it there, it weaving ever so slightly back and forth in the wan breeze, nosing up to it, edging my way amid the shrubbery, sidling up for a sniff, wasn't sure about the snickerers, the remnants of the peanut gallery, wasn't sure if they lurked nearby, but eventually dived in irrespective of their presence, yes, regardless of the threat of their kibitzing I pounced... feeling first, then parting the petals with my nose, gently, then more brusquely, inserting directly into the middle of it, pushing some of its petals aside, feeling a feathery silky presence on my septum, the wispy twitch of style and stigma, nevermind the bite, the ouch, the sting of bee or nip of spider or wayfaring deer tick, that's right: shunning, ignoring those negative possibilities, I inhaled deeply and barely noticed the difference between its perfume and what I had been breathing: our exurban air... Barely noticed really, but sensed it nonetheless, a soft sweet odor, pleasant enough, and yes, it smelled like a rose, it smelled rosy, it had a flowery bouquet and was pink with purply highlights, its petals white-fringed; and I didn't care if it impaled me with its thorns when I pulled it to me, such was my hastiness to whiff, nor did I care what I stepped in or on when I approached, when I barged up to it, when I thrust my nose completely into it; I could have been bit! And I braved all that simply to be smelling something different, something better... and it was better (not that I had recently smelled death or been to the header or sniffed an old sweat-stained shirt or whatever), it's just that what this rose delivered to my olfactory sense was so faint that I now--safely away from the dangers of tick and thorn--wonder what ever drove me to act so boldly. Or, one might say, so aggressively.
Which differs from the time I was slouched, slumped, brooding and ruminating and doing my best Debbie Downer impression for the benefit of no one really, unless there are hidden cameras in the wild, in the woods... yep, it was another "alone" time and I had plenty to complain about or so I thought but then I gradually found myself snapping out of it... a gradual snap, if that's possible... yes, I came about on those bad memories and just felt better for some reason, just quit thinking terrible thoughts and simply started thinking cheery ones. And there in front of me, there all the time really, growing there for, say, five or ten years was a plump, seven foot tall mint bush (though I sat near it for perhaps 20 minutes before realizing it had me under its spell), and I was in the middle of an aromatherapy session but didn't know it, and no one or no thing could possibly have orchestrated this experiment 'cause I was at least fifteen miles from the nearest outpost of civilization, and surrounding this mint bush where I just happened to be taking a break was the lack, the utter dearth of signs of any agricultural, horticultural, industrial or, let's say, touristy machinations of humans... sure, I could see some of the handiwork of birds and squirrels and chipmunks et al. doing their part, their duty, pecking at and scratching their environment, foraging and constructing nests and such... but nothing of the human variety. I mean to tell you I was out in the wild and this mint bush was wild. And it--a plant--threw me for a loop: it pulled me out of my funk, and hurled me into a better mood... it manipulated me into another place really, and it's not as if I wanted to be in a better mood either; I'm sure I coulda fugued all afternoon, well into the evening or later, complaining and complaining and complaining, complaining to myself (and the flitting hummingbirds) about how rough things were, my being "other-homed" at the time, like mentally-special people are sometimes called "other-abled" and people who own homes are called homeowners and renters are often referred to as apartment dwellers, well, I was other-homed then, which is to say I was in between living situations, sort of like living in my car, but without the car. In short, I felt as though I had much to bemoan. Ing about. (Now I look back on those days as some of the happiest ones of my life.) But this mint bush wouldn't let me moan and whine... not for too long anyway... sure, it let me spiral downward for a while, but eventually its aroma socked me in the nose, and sort of drugged my nose into a happy place, and soon dragged the rest of me there too. I was trying to be out of sorts, but this bush wouldn't let me.
While sniffing a rose yesterday this distant minty memory came into full bloom. Why I was sniffing this rose is found way way up there. In the upper left corner of your screen, no less.
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