Forget the Pheromones, Bring on the Chicken and Dumplings

dumplings-ck-521642-lCertain smells can make me cry. And I’m not talking trash that’s been sitting under the sink for too long.  The truth is, while some people are moved by commercials, I’m far more touched by scent.

The smell of sweet peas reminds me of my son’s birth when the neighbor brought over a huge armload of flowers from his garden.  Given that I was overwhelmed by hormones and lack of sleep, his simple kindness made me cry.   A whiff of chicken and dumplings with plenty of sage reminds me of my grandmother and, depending on my state of mind, it sometimes moves me to tears too.  I miss her still and I only use Ivory Liquid dish soap because the smell reminds me of her.

Here’s a piece of technical trivia: Our olfactory receptors are directly connected to the limbic system, the most ancient and primitive part of our brain, which also happens to be the seat of emotion. It’s no wonder smells bring up feelings, and those feelings will be different for every one of us.

For me:

The smell of the ocean is the smell of home.

The smell of diesel exhaust makes me smile. It reminds me of my first trip to England.

Wood smoke makes me nostalgic. It reminds me of camping with my kids when they were young.

A whiff of hairspray brings a wave of anxiety.

The smell of mandarin oranges is the anticipation of Christmas.

The smell of Earl Grey tea reminds me of my grandfather.

Licorice is the smell of freedom. It reminds me of ouzo and a beach in Greece.

The scent of chlorine takes me to childhood swimming lessons which makes me panicky.

The smell of rain makes me want to read.

The waxy smell of crayons brings an ‘anything’s possible’ feeling.

Corn dogs bring on a wave of nausea (don’t ask).

The scent of Love’s Baby Soft perfume takes me back to high school.

And the smell of anything baking – sweet, savoury, or savoury-sweet – makes me calm.

 

What smells do it for you?

The Sound of Silence

 

153157136 (1) I’ve been thinking about sound lately. The digital version of The Fox’s Kettle will available through iTunes any day now and it’s coming out with audio. I did the recording and the publisher mixed in a few sound effects too: coins jangling in a silk purse, bird song, a collective gasp, some wonderful music. It was great fun!

As much as I love sound, however, I also love silence. I realized that when my computer motherboard died a month ago. It was a noisy old thing but I got used to its thrum and groan as it struggled under old age and limited capacity. Now that it’s gone, my office is blissfully quiet. And I like it that way.

Only this morning – a lovely, sunny summer morning – it’s not quiet at all. I hear the two resident hummingbirds making their unique buzz-whistle-chip sound as they dive bomb the flower border in an effort to establish territory. That’s a sound I like.  But the bullet-like rhythm of an air gun as my neighbour gets a new roof put on his house . . .  the pounding on a set of drums as the teen in the house on the other side practices . . . the frustrated bray of the beagle that lives a few houses to the south and is alone yet again?  Not so much. I have work to do; I need to concentrate. Even with the window shut  (and I don’t want to shut the window; summer will be over soon enough) the sounds are loud enough to leach through.

It’s making me cranky. If my mother-in-law were here right now she’d be able to concentrate. She’s close to deaf and doesn’t wear a hearing aide. But that means she doesn’t hear the fire alarm going off in her building (a neighbour has to bang on the door to alert her) or the hummingbirds, and she didn’t hear the pigeon fly through her bedroom window last week either. She only noticed him when he walked across the floor in front of her (thankfully heading for the open patio door). She misses a lot. I wouldn’t like that.  In fact, when I stop to think about it, there are many things I’d miss hearing if I were deaf:

Laughter

Violins

A cork popping (such a happy sound)

Fireworks

Bacon sizzling

Wind chimes

Thunder

Crickets chirping

Toast jumping

A cat purring

Typing on a keyboard

Applause

Children giggling

A New Zealand accent (such a sexy sound)

Sirens

My kids saying I love you

Corn popping

The engine of a plane

Whistling

Birdsong at dawn

Church bells

The phone

The whoosh of skis on snow

Fizzy bubbles

Dog nails clicking on the floor

A fire cracking

The symphony

A bee buzzing

Wind rustling leaves

A heartbeat

My husband’s soft breath in the middle of the night

 

After a minute or two of thinking, my crankiness dissolved. And I opened the window wider.

 

Holding Hope in Your Hands

mindfulwriterIn a bookstore last week, I stumbled across a book I didn’t know I needed: The Mindful Writer ~ Noble Truths of the Writing Life by Dinty W. Moore.

I was away from home, trying to maintain some semblance of a writing life while helping family. It was a precarious juggling act and one with mixed results. There were glimmers of joy (my mother-in-law was improving; I scored some amazing dim sum at an Asian grocery store one afternoon) but there were challenges I couldn’t escape: a concrete hard bed, relentless rain, and – worst of all – a new manuscript that wouldn’t behave.

Never mind behave – the story was only embryonic but it was already on life support. The harder I worked, the less satisfied I became. Pinning this particular story down was like trying to catch a minnow by hand. Slippery, elusive and frustrating.

Before I left for home, I decided to stop at a bookstore and spend some time browsing. I’d probably miss a ferry because of this, and possibly even dinner, but I needed to be surrounded by books. I needed the physical reminder that stories do get started and finished, they do find readers, they do bring pleasure. Surfing an online bookstore wouldn’t cut it. I needed to smell the ink and flip the pages. I needed to hold hope in my hands.

Funny thing, after looking at the first few shelves of fiction – and reminding myself that some of these authors surely struggled at one point in their manuscripts too – I meandered into non-fiction. I checked out metaphysics, biographies, cookbooks, travel. And, as a matter of routine, I glanced at the section on writing. I didn’t expect to find anything (my library of writing books is vast; I don’t need more). But when I saw the title Mindful Writer I pulled it off the shelf.

A friend has been talking to me lately about mindfulness. About breathing. About staying present. About loving detachment. Her advice has concerned life circumstances rather than writing but I don’t believe in coincidences.

I opened the book to the quote on page 33: What crazies we writers are, our heads full of language like buckets of minnows standing in the moonlight on a dock. Hayden Carruth.

In his discourse under the quote, Dinty Moore says that the exact thought we have, the precise phrase or adjective we want, can be just as elusive as that minnow, just as frustrating to catch. We know what we want to say – all we have to do is say it. How hard can it be? Of course, he says, it’s often harder than we’d like it to be, and certainly harder than most non-writers would believe.

In case I needed more, in the intro Moore talks about the power of releasing control of a story, of letting the words and the characters take us in unexpected directions. “The less I grasped at my writing, the more it seemed to expand into areas that surprised and pleased not just me but the reader as well,” Moore says.

Needless to say, I bought the book. The Mindful Writer ~ Noble Truths of the Writing Life by Dinty W. Moore. A collection of thoughts and inspiration for the writer. Or as I like to think of it: hope in my hand.

The Steps We Take

step by stepI just finished reading Step by Step, A Pedestrian Memoir, by Lawrence Block. It’s a combination memoir, travel piece and journal of his years as a race walker. I’ve read Block forever (I loved his column in Writer’s Digest). He’s funny and insightful. I expected a great read and I got one. I especially enjoyed his recollection of his unlikely pilgrimage along the Santiago de Compostela in Spain.

As I read the book I was reminded again of that link between creativity and movement, especially walking. Author Brenda Ueland regularly walked up to 9 miles a day (she was a prolific writer and she lived to be a healthy 93). Thoreau would ramble for miles through the forest every day too. Author Barbara Samuel titled her blog after her love of walking (A Writer Afoot:http://www.barbarasamuel.com/barbarasblog  and she has spoken often of how important a regular walking habit is to her writing practice.

I walk several times a day with Team Sheltie, often with my partner or my son. It’s never a race walk. Depending on the friskiness of the dogs, it’s sometimes more of an amble. But it becomes a time for sharing confidences, or working through a story problem or hatching plans for the future. Or maybe simply a time to enjoy the changing seasons: the smell of lilacs in spring, wood smoke infused air in fall.

Author Julia Cameron calls walking a potent form of prayer. She says it leads us, a step at a time, and gives us a gentle path. Walking leads me, a step at a time, into my own creativity. Not every day perhaps, but often enough to keep me going back for more.
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Being Present, Take Two . . .

P1000911My January vow to live in the present has taken a beating this last while. I’m planning a new novel, expecting a revision letter soon on another and fielding enquiries about possible spring author talks, so I’m very much looking forward. Besides that, February isn’t the easiest month to endure. It’s cold and rainy here on the Island. Today, the wind is so bitter that people are bundled up in hats and scarves and furtively whispering about the possibility of snow. The birds have deserted the pond. Even the dogs don’t want to linger outside.

But being outside inevitably brings me back to the present. And with the snowdrops blooming around the neighbor’s tree, and a field of crocuses putting on a show just down the block, the present is a good place to be. Because, yes, even February has its charms. P1000918