TOUCH, FIFTH IN A SERIES OF SIX ESSAYS ON OUR SENSES...or how I found my way in the beginning.

How many times a day do you run your hands over a surface to gain information? If you tried to count you would loose track before the end of the first hour. Our skin is the largest organ we have. It defines us from the moment we are born, in fact before we are born.

Although we begin to develop nerves in our skin at about eight weeks in the gestation cycle, we do not actually begin to feel until around 28 weeks. When I say our skin defines us, I'm not talking about color or texture. I mean that the sense of touch gives us constant feedback 24/7, around the clock. It tells us when we're hot, when we've injured ourself, absolute necessity to survival. It brings us pleasure, tells us when the wind blows or rain falls. The feedback we take from our sense of touch never stops unless we've been injured and the connection through our spine is severed.

We know where we are in the world because of our ability to touch. And, like the sense of smell, it connects directly to our earliest memories. I remember my Mom wrapping me up in warm towels, right out of the dryer. She'd lay me against her shoulder and rub my back while she hummed to me. The feel of her hands, the warm towel and even the vibration from her humming made me feel completely loved and cared for.

The feel of my cat tucked under my chin at night, my dog snugged up to my back, are so important to me that I still have a cat that sleeps in the bed with us. If she isn't there, I have a hard time relaxing enough to sleep. And I always have a dog, always. A good part of the joy of having a dog is when she drapes herself across my lap or my feet. I love the feel of her silky fur. And every time that I've outlived one of my dogs, my last memory is always of their fur. It's how I say goodbye until we meet again, by running my hands over them gently one more time.

Without the constant feed back we get from touch, from the beginning of our lives, we would slowly waste away. We are hard wired for that stimulation. Touch shows us how to navigate through a complicated world, tells us how to suckle at our Mother's breast and how to swallow. We learn how to hold things, how to walk and how not to run in to things and injure ourselves. We learn pleasure and pain, hot and cold, pressure and release from our skin. A baby that is left alone for extended periods of time, even when well fed, dry and protected, will waste away without the feeling of someone holding them, rocking them, rubbing and patting their back. We are social creatures who crave the company of others and touch is our first sense that tells us we are not alone.

There are enumerable articles about the therapeutic benefits of a hug. When you hug someone, energy is exchanged. If you hug long enough your hearts will begin to synchronize. One of the first things I do with people who've come out to meet a horse for the first time is to show them how to run their hand down the neck and withers of a horse. And I show them how to find the pulse of a horse's heart by placing their hand just behind the left front leg ( always warning them not to do this without taking time to know the horse first, to "ask" permission to touch in such a sensitive area). Standing quietly beside a horse, feeling the heat given off by their body, the silk of their coat and the strong, slow beat of their heart is always a wonder. It's the way you hug a horse, with your hands as you run them over their body with a slow, steady pressure.

Close your eyes and move through the world, using your sense of touch to navigate. Feel with your feet, tapping your toes in small circles around you. Reach out and find the walls, furniture, fabrics, surfaces around you. Can you accurately describe an object using just your hands? How tall is it, wide, how heavy? Is it alive, moving on it's own? Does it have feathers, fur, smooth, hard glass or porcelain surfaces? Where are you in the room ( no fair peeking!) ?

The next time you sit down to a meal, close your eyes and reach out instead. And when you bring the food to your mouth, stop to feel the texture of the food. Take the time to enjoy your heightened senses. Touch your world and see with your finger tips. Feel the food against your teeth and tongue. Even the plainest meal becomes a sensory delight when you take the time to enjoy the textures of chewing, the feel against your lips of the glass when you drink. Slow down. 
Reach out and touch your world.

SOUND: 4TH IN A SERIES OF ESSAYS or How I wrote in silence with color.

Years ago, while out holiday shopping with my sons, we stopped in at a favorite restaurant to have lunch. At first I couldn't focus on what had changed. All we could hear was the sound track that always runs in the background at a good cafe and the sounds of a well run kitchen. The whole place was full of students and their teachers speaking with sign language.

It was a symphony of hands, faces and bodies swaying to an inner music that we weren't privy to. Their world was private, elegant, expressive. They were, every person there, dancers. One face would light up with laughter, another with political zealotry. It was the perfect showdown of body language and every one of them won the gold. 

Most of us live with sound in the background of our lives from the day we develop eardrums in the womb to the day we die. We hear our Mother's heartbeat next to us, the sound of her breathing and the blood of her life moving through her veins. That rhythm carries us through our life. We seek it in music, in the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves and grasses. It's there in the heartbeat of our first lover and in the gentle sounds our child makes. 

One of my favorite movies is AUGUST RUSH. It's about a boy separated from his parents at birth. Along his journey to find his parents he discovers his abilities as a musician, as a genius. When he finds his parents, through his music, he discovers that they're musicians too. They're separated by circumstances that every good story needs to make us laugh, cry, to taste anguish and loneliness, to hear the music in the light on a wall. I watch that movie every year when I need to remember that even the harshest words have their own terrible rhythm. Life is music even when you can't hear.

Not too many days ago I learned about a young artist named Christine Sun Kim. She paints sound and is profoundly deaf. She has never "heard" but paints sound that she feels with her body. Her paintings are quiet, elegant, and when I see her lines I hear the colors, taste the sounds that she feels. She seeks the meaning of sound in a world that is completely silent, for her. Except that it isn't! All of her other senses have become heightened in her need to experience the music that the rest of us take for granted. And when she paints she dances with her body, with her hands and with the interaction that she has with her chosen medium and the canvas. She makes that music that comes from inside, the quiet whisper that most of us put away as we grow older.

I have synesthesia. The dictionary defines synesthesia as noun

a sensation produced in one modality when a stimulus is applied to another modality, as when the hearing of a certain sound induces the visualization of a certain color. I see sound, hear colors, taste colors, feel certain music on my skin.

I had no idea I was different from other kids. I was an adult in college before I realized that certain sounds that tasted bitter, sweet or even made my teeth hurt was unusual. I'm an artist by profession. Like most of the artists I know, I juggle a lot of different balls at once. I illustrate, design graphics. I've been an architectural artist, an interior designer, a muralist, gallery artist and gallery owner. I sing a little, tell stories and focused on being a professional dancer at the beginning of my life. My synesthesia was part of that journey and still is. It's a gift to hear clouds or to see the colors of bird song.

I think that the only difference between me and other people is that I've kept and enhanced my abilities to be open to seeing sound, tasting color or feeling the heat of a certain red. Children are a blank slate when they're born. We have no boundaries, absorb everything we come in to contact with. We see every last detail. An ant crawling through the grass is an adventure to follow, all the way back to the home nest. A cloud is a bear, elephant or unicorn flying across the sky and it's so real it talks to you. As a child we have an unbound imagination where monsters live in the shadows of the closet and cars can talk. 

Picasso said, "All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist when he grows up." He spent his life trying to find the same joy in his work that he did as a child, the same abandon , use of line and space as a full and natural expression of his inner story.

When I paint I hear the sound of violins, the wind in the grass, the smell of my son's breath when he was a baby. When I listen to a concerto by Bach, Rachmaninov, or Brahms I feel the colors of the leaves when they fall from trees. 

Life is a symphony. If you open yourself, let all of the conventions society dictates, all of the worries of being an adult slip away, when you listen to the music ... Anything can happen! Go out and lay down in the grass and listen to the wind, birds and crickets, even the slight shush, shush sound the grass makes against your cheek. Listen.

Listen.

PS. If you scroll down the page you will find the first three essays on VISION, TASTE, SMELL.

MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR! or How a Seed Bomb Made My Day

It's April 2nd, my Mom's Birthday. She would have been 91 today. She died at much too young an age, only 50, and just months after her first grandchild was born. She loved flowers, especially daisies. My favorite story was when she told me that she stopped to pick daisies when she was in labor with me. My Mom, the cool, elegant, mathematician and chemist stopped to pick flowers! Amazed me when she told me then, still blows my circuits when I think about it now.

Every year since her death I've planted wild flowers, even in the thin years when we could hardly breath for lack of funds, I went out and found wildflowers along the ditches and harvested seeds. I carried them to another location and planted them. It's like reading my two favorite books (TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, and A WRINKLE IN TIME) every year. It's become a habit and my way of remembering her in a happy way, something that carries her memories onward and makes me smile when I go back and see flowers blooming where nothing but weeds or mud and gravel covered the earth. And I smile too. Guerrilla Gardening suits the fading hippy in me, the one who went out of my way to roll on, dance across and do flips on lawns that had DO NOT WALK signs on them. 

This year is no exception. In fact, I've ordered two pounds of wildflower seeds and another two pounds of marigolds and zinnias, flowering herbs and may order more too. Our bee populations all over the world and especially here in the USA are in trouble. Hives are collapsing and dying, most likely because of herbicides, pesticides, GMO crops and a general destruction of our wild areas. Without bees the world is probably in trouble too. They are responsible for pollination of a majority of our crops including nuts, fruit, grains and vegetables. 

Each year I've seen fewer bees. When we first moved out here the Russian Olive trees would start buzzing early, as soon as the tiny, sweet smelling flowers began to appear. And the Forsythia that I've planted as hedges would be covered in early bees, out foraging in the Spring. I've only seen two bees this year...TWO ! Even with all of the flowers we've planted and no chemicals on this land for twenty years, there are no bees. 

And then there are butterflies. We have so many butterflies out here that people come out to do counts, take photos and just enjoy. When they ask me how we attract so many I tell them to go home and throw away, taking them to hazardous recycling centers, ALL chemicals. Don't even clean your house with chemicals. Use vinegar and baking soda...cheap, easy, smells clean, all natural. NO chemicals in your lawns. Let the dandelions grow. Throw out handfuls of wild flower seeds in the blank areas of your gardens. Surround all of those boring bushes with wildflowers and flowering vines. And make sure that some of the seeds you plant are for milkweed plants too. Butterflies and monarchs need food sources. If you put out water sources for birds, put out smaller, more shallow water sources for your butterflies. 

In other words, go Au Natural! Stop planting all of those over fed exotic flowers and plant hollyhocks, marigolds, zinnias, black eyed susans, heirloom vegetables, fruits and flowers. And for heavens sake make it all organic! And never spray for ants or other bugs you consider a pest. There is, or there was, a balance in Nature. We are the culprits here folks, with our overfed, over watered un-natural emerald green lawns. NO MORE CHEMICALS. It's all pretty simple. 

I'm including a link to a video about how to make seed bombs. It's super easy, cheap and make great gifts. Kids would have fun making these too. If you don't have easy access to the clay, make paper mache with old newspapers by tearing them up in to small pieces, putting them in to a blender with a cup or two of hot water, let the paper water mixture sit for ten minutes then blend. It makes a nice thick mush that you can pour through an old kitchen towel to get excess water out of the mache by squeezing and draining, then you add the seeds and a bit of soil, mix with your hands and roll in to balls. Let them dry and VOILA!, seed bombs. 

Throw them out your car windows while driving down country roads and yell, " Make love, not war!" Well, OK, that's the old hippy talking again. But it does kind of make it fun when you do it. And when you drive down those country roads later in the Summer and see flowers blooming you can get out and take a selfie of yourself with your guerrilla sewn flowers and post it to Facebook and instagram. Kind of a 21st Century version of a Be In from the sixties, oh yeah!

And me? I'm throwing seeds everywhere this year to celebrate having a grandson and a granddaughter as well as two step grandchildren in this  world. I'm making my own seed bombs to send to them too, or at least their parents if they're more likely to eat the bombs than throw them. 

The flowers to the left here, just ready to bloom earlier last week? Those are from jonquils my Grandmother had in her gardens. I've been carrying some of them with me and planting them everywhere we've lived since John and I were married. I even planted some in Berlin, Germany when we lived there in 1972 and 1973. I snuck down to a local park early in the morning in the autumn of 1972, planted them close up to some bushes and walked back that Spring to see them flower. Ha! How many people do you know who did guerrilla gardening during the cold war in Berlin, Germany while living surrounded by a wall?! 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, dissident Guerrilla Gardener, thumbing my nose at DO NOT WALK signs, laughing at the way things go.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you, always. I wish you'd been here to sneak out and plant our seed bombs together. We would have had so much fun!

A CHANGE OF SCENERY OR HOW I GOT MY MOJO BACK

March 27,2015

I'm back and in the running again. I've been without a computer for two years. iPhones and iPads are a nice interim but have their limitations when it comes to writing a blog, at least for this slightly tech challenged artist. 

Have to say my thank you's first to Ryan, Ben and Lauren for getting me set up with all Apple products. Mucho gracias you three! I have no idea where all of this will take me but know where I want to go. How's that for vague? 

This first entry is going to be an experiment. New operating system, new language. And switching to a qwerty from a texting style is going to be interesting too. Been a while since I've actually typed. My form is a bit sloppy. 

Over the past two years I've changed course a couple of times. Originally I had planned to help set up and get some clinic/retreats going with a friend. We were going to combine equine and art therapy, of a sort. 

Neither of us is actually qualified to do either. Petra is  skilled in horsemanship as an instructor. I'm good with horses on the ground and a so so rider. 

I am an artist by trade. I've been a professional illustrator, gallery artist and gallery owner and curator, interior designer, muralist, teacher and story teller and photographer. My only claim to fame as an art therapist are informal sessions I've had here at home with friends and by myself while going through a slump or two.

We did do a one trial one day clinic in KC. It worked too. It was based on research that I did over the past two years on right brain/left brain function and the five senses, intuitive thinking and behavioral patterns. We had a fantastic time with six brave souls who were willing to participate. My ideas were definitely taking us in the right direction, literally, through a series of playful exercises using art, movement, story telling and interaction with horses on the ground. 

The process of setting these clinics up would have involved a great deal of expense, more overhead than I had to give to the project. And it would have meant a lot of travel time, something I am not willing to do at this stage in my life without knowing that I am more than breaking even. The idea, for me, is to eliminate debt and not to create it. 

After some number crunching and soul searching, listening to my inner voice (which had been yelling at me) I withdrew from the project. If I do decide to continue with my ideas further down the line it will be on my own. But for now it just isn't a feasible direction for me. 

However, I am not without ideas. During those two years of practice and research I began to work on a project I've wanted to complete for thirty years. I am going to pursue my Masters Fine Art. It won't be official. There will be no letters or numbers after my name, no records at a University. The cost for that would be prohibitive. Instead I am going to use my acquired skills over my lifetime as an artist, business owner and curator, teacher to do my own Master's show. It will probably take two years to complete as there are technical mountains to climb but that's about the time it takes to complete a Master's at University too. 

I'm going to use the previous two years of ideas and research to put my own show together. I'll keep a running dialog on the process here, as well as a second story line on my horsemanship. The two link together because this place we live in and the herd we live with are my muses. Whenever I'm stuck as an artist and story teller my horses ground me, inspire me and give me the dreams I need to go forward again.

And when I begin to get stuck in my horsemanship I'll draw out my worries, solve my issues and face my challenges on paper with paint, markers and pastels. 

I am writing the next chapter of my life here, in my studio and in my pasture and barn. 

This ought to be interesting! 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling and back on track

VISION : The World As I saw It, part three in a series

     " “When he shall die,

        Take him and cut him out in little stars,

        And he will make the face of heaven so fine

        That all the world will be in love with night

        And pay no worship to the garish sun.” 

― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Light, dark, vision. It permeates all cultures, all languages. Sight is our most developed sense, followed closely by hearing. The human's ability to see with binocular vision capable of seeing more than a million different colors has taken us from tree tops to the surface of the moon.

The eyes are connected to the brain through the optic nerve. The brain combines the input of our two eyes into a single three-dimensional image. In addition, even though the image on the retina is upside-down because of the focusing action of the lens, the brain compensates and provides the right-side-up perception. Vision is the process of deriving meaning from what is seen. It is a complex, learned and developed set of functions that involve a multitude of skills. 

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.   Plato

I am an artist. It isn't a chosen path. I think I was hard wired for it. I escaped in to a world of imagination, in my earliest memories, while watching clouds. For me they weren't white and puffy. They were every color of the rainbow. I saw an infinite range of blues and purples, reds, oranges, yellows and green. The grass that I lay in, while watching those clouds, had a line of light around the edge of every blade. The dirt was purple, green and blue and the trunk of the tree I leaned against was every shade of red and sienna. I still see the world that way but more because I practice that vision and not because it comes to me as easily as it did as a child. 

Professional artists are highly trained observers. They've spent years learning to observe the world around them in fine detail. They experience the world with the kind of focus that is closer to the ability of a child to see.

All" Others have seen what is and asked why. I have seen what could be and asked why not." Pablo Picasso

Picasso once told a journalist, during an interview, that he had spent his adult life, his career, trying to find his way back to the talent he had as a child, to draw. He was one of the greatest artists of his generation who's work was driven by the need to see as a child. 

A baby is an open book with pages, waiting to be filled. And in the beginning they see everything. They see with infinite detail, with no prejudice. Society has not imposed itself yet. Peer pressure or even the need to survive has not become part of the editing process. When we are very young, everything is fascinating, every detail is perfect. Ants crawling through their hidden world are an endless source for a child's imagination. The bit of fuzz or shiny button that a crawling baby picks up and tastes is as wonderful as the hair growing out of Grandpa's ear. There are no limits to the world when we see as a child.  

If there were one gift I could give to people it would be to revel in the excitement of the world with the clarity that a child sees, with all of the open unfiltered imagination and color that is the gift of vision.

TASTE : Carrots and Ice Cream, second in a series

Being eight had it's perks. It was 1959 and deep in to Summer. My Grandparents house was in the 1700 block of Kentucky street, in Lawrence, Kansas and it was hot. The asphalt on the street was beginning to bubble, would stick to your shoes if you didn't move fast enough. The sky was white with heat and the few clouds stood still in the metal dome of the sky, waiting. All we had to keep cool were metal fans in the windows and the shade under the trees.

Ding...ding...ding. That was the call of nirvana for all of the little kids in the area. It was the ice cream wagon. This one wasn't a truck like it was at home. This was a wagon pulled by two soft eyed draft horses who knew the route so well that the bored teenager driving them wrapped the reins around the brake and read a book between stops.

Grandma always had a dime for the ice cream cone and a bucket of water and carrots or apples for the horses. That was my job, carrying the water and carrots to the horses. It was how I earned my dime for my ice cream. 

The wagon always stopped one street over on Vermont street in the shade. I'd grab my little brother's hand and off we'd go, down the alley and across through the neighbor's drive. There they were, waiting and watching for me. They knew I had water for them, and carrots. I'd give the first one on the left his much needed drink, standing there in awe of his beautiful brown eye so close to mine, his mane tied up in small braids, leathers creaking while he drank.

The other kids were all around at the back of the wagon where the door was open and cold air poured out in a cloud, picking out their ice cold concoctions. But I was at the neighbor's water hose filling the bucket, ready to carry it back to the other horse, a perfect match with quiet, intelligent brown eyes. He waited so patiently, only calling a little while he watched. It was a long hot day for them and there were other kids along the route who carried water to them, but I was the one with carrots. They 
knew me, looked for me.

I'd stand there breaking the carrots in to pieces for them with my teeth, snap..snap! The carrots were grown by my Grandad so they were always fresh and sweet. I'd stand there chewing on the carrots, taking my own bites and pretending that I was tall, had four legs and deep ginger blonde hair and a white blaze down 
my nose. I was horse when I was 
with them. They would crunch their 
carrots up, blowing their lovely 
grassy breath in my face with big sighs and soft calls to me.

Those moments didn't last long but I never noticed. I was lost in their presence, falling in to their kind eyes and away in a magical place where I was with them every day, running with wind in my hair and ice cream cone flowers that gave forth chocolate and vanilla ice cream cones that didn't melt until I had them in my hand.

It was done, my chore and the focus of every Summer day that I was there. I'd stand there watching them walk down the street away from me, ice cream melting in my mouth and running down my 
arms. I'd catch every single creamy, melted drop before it ever hit the ground and watch them walk away, already dreaming about tomorrow when I would see them again.

The walk home was an adventure in well earned home made ice cream on a cookie cone, made by local Mennonites. I can still taste the cold, snappy carrots and smooth raw milk ice cream, see those lovely giants who did their job so willingly every day but Sunday. The smell and taste of carrots, well water and home made ice cream cones is so clear, so real that I can still hear the clop, clopping of their feet echoing down the long quiet lane and see that old, garish wagon, when I eat an ice cream cone and lick the drips off my arms.

The sense of taste is entwined with the sense of smell, the sounds of the seasons and colors of the light falling through the leaves of the ancient Elms that lined the streets, arching over the roads. When I see that late Summer light, hear the rough calls of cicadas and smell the carrots I cut for my own horses it always gives me a taste of ice cream melting on the back of my tongue, sliding down my throat and dripping, almost, from my elbow.

I can still taste the sounds of two ancient horses, carefully groomed and wearing harnesses that had shaped themselves perfectly to their broad shoulders and chests. I feel ice cream and cookies, see great hooves clopping and remember dreams of my eighth Summer and hear the light falling through 
the leaves quietly playing music that only I could hear.

Ice cream and cookie cones are still my favorite dessert. They lead me to the flavors of my childhood when time moved slow and the sun stood still in a white metal sky.



Sent from my iPad

A SENSE OF SMELL, number one in a series for The Child Within

It stopped me in my tracks. For just a moment it was 1959 and my Mom was there, giving me a hug and kiss and telling me to be good for my Nana. She was wearing a flower print Summer dress with high heels to match. Her hair was naturally curly, a glossy dark brown and the only makeup she wore was a bright red lipstick. Her skin was perfect, that fine grained English skin with a natural blush in her cheeks. Her eyes were clear green and her smile was perfect. I thought she looked like Snow White. And her perfume was Guerlain's Shalimar, a classic scent that always looked like the rich purples you see on the horizon when you look in to a forest. It was perfect for her; sophisticated, clear, clean, and a strange Zen combination of cool and warm.

And then I was back, standing on a corner downtown waiting for the light to change and a woman, who had just passed me leaving a wake of Shalimar as she turned the corner. I never saw her face but, for just a few steps, I did follow her. I wanted that crystal clear memory back, of my beautiful, young Mother dressed and ready to go to a party, excitement bringing up the color in her face and a smile that was only for me.

Our sense of smell, also known as olfaction or olfactics, starts in the nose with cells that are similar to the sensory cells of an invertebrate ( bugs!) antennae . The odorants molecules bind to the olfactory receptors, coming together at the glomerulus, a structure that connects directly to the brain. Each receptor detects a feature of the molecule giving us a " description " of the odor. Input from two nostrils, known as binocular rivalry, allows the brain to create complex maps or scent images. Odor information is stored in long-term memory and has strong connections to emotional memory. This is possibly due to the olfactory system's close anatomical ties to the limbic system and hippocampus, areas of the brain that have long been known to be involved in emotion and place memory, respectively. (Definition from Wikipedia)

In my case, since I have a mild sinesthesia, I sometimes see certain odors as colors or hear musical notes. When I have a memory come to me from a scent as powerful as my Mother's perfume, I remember with all of my faculties. It's like small windows in time, putting me in my child within's shoes and being there, a kind of time travel. I am 8 years old with none of the adult issues or worries. At the same time I am aware of the memory and my present self, here in the twenty first century. When this happens, it
always confuses me for a moment, bringing me
to a full stop while I reorient myself.

Scent is one of our common denominators, connecting everything. When we can not see or hear, we can smell. Our sense of smell can be trained. In experiments comparing the ability to smell between  blind participants and the sighted, the scientists discovered that they were, inadvertently, training all of the participants to detect smaller and smaller amounts of the odorant chemicals . 

“Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived.”  Helen Keller

 As children all of our faculties are an open slate, a blank page, waiting to have our history written. But in experiments done with new born children, when the new mother's breast on one side was washed and the other left alone, 22 of 30 babies turned to the unwashed breast spontaneously. We are genetically prepared to recognize our Mother from our first moments of breath. 

It was also found that young women have a more acutely developed sense of smell and are able to detect the scent of their own children on objects that they have touched when the biological father can not. We are bonded through our sense of smell and the genetic code that allows us to identify our children or parents even when sight and sound are inhibited.

When I bake chocolate chip cookies I see my Mother's kitchen and hear her whistling to one of her favorite Doris Day songs on the radio. And, now, I see my sons as hungry little boys, drawn inside by the smell of cookies, dirty hands and grubby, sweet smiles waiting for their cookies and cold glasses of milk. 

And now, when I bake muffins in my son's kitchen, I see my Mom when she burned her fingers on a muffin tin and flipped the muffins all the way across the kitchen. And I see my oldest son sitting at the breakfast table, telling us he had just enlisted for the Navy. All of this memory overload happens while my Grandson plays with his beloved red fire trucks and comes to me to watch while I spoon the batter in to the muffin cups and I see my daughter in law stop to kiss my son good morning.

Without our sense of smell, our connection to our past, our present and our community and world would be tenuous and dim. Our ability to sense chemicals in complicated combinations is our oldest brush, wielding the power to give us the paint we need to create the canvas of our lives. For just one short moment I traveled in time and was able to tell my Mom, " I love you!" one more time because she favored Shalimar perfume.

Sent from my iPad