Some years ago I resolved never to make any more New Year’s Resolutions and guess what? I haven’t!
And I have felt so much better for it.
Oh my, what a prompt. Set me off on a long journey of aromas.
I wandered back in time, ambling around the garden remembering the different flowers, then sauntering along the country lanes recalling all the different hedgerow blossoms and scented verges.
Which led to the evocative aromas of the Scottish Highlands. The smell of moist peat, bracken and ling merging with the heat of a warm sunny day. It is a smell that reaches so deeply inside, you really have to experience it to believe its effect.
Then onto that most heavenly musty moist mix of all sorts of smells blended together as a consequence of a shower of rain in the middle of summer. Whenever it happens, my world stops, wherever I am. I am gripped by the experience and indulge fully in the moment.
I have always been very sensitive to smell – a curse and a blessing!
I know when certain people are thinking about me as I become aware of the smell I associate with them. It comes across as strong as if I was with them in person.
For years after my grandma died I kept smelling rice pudding cooking, immediately I was transported back to the kitchen. Then my mind would join in and add the smell of the kitchen and the personal aroma of grandma.
My mother reappeared with the smell of cooked tomatoes, something we both loved and probably the only thing we ever shared. I have never quite mastered the exact taste when I make them, probably on account of being unable bring myself to add the excessive amount of butter she used to cook them in.
I simply adore the scent of the lilac which transports me back to grandma’s front garden with its giant lilac bush in the corner. As a child I was known for sticking my nose into every flower to investigate its scent.
But my all-time favourite has to be the May blossom, so captivatingly beautiful at this time of year. Her heady scent so invasive, I can smell her with the car windows closed. She evokes so many joyful memories of warmer days and even warmer rainy days. Each time I smell her, the world stops for a moment. And another cherished memory is born.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Smell You Later.”
Most people who currently know me have no idea that I was wild when I was younger. I did everything at break-neck speed. For me slow meant old. I had to get wherever I was going yesterday. I was full of life and mischief, with boundless energy.
I used to run as fast as my legs would take me, cutting corners on country lanes to shorten the journey time to wherever I was going. I was usually a lot faster going home for fear of being grounded.
When I started using a bicycle I would pedal that as fast as I could too.
Later on when I got my first car, which was ancient as my dad wouldn’t let me buy anything modern, I can remember driving down a steep hill, my foot flat to the floor, overtaking everyone in sight. As I passed them I glanced over my shoulder before I moved back into the inside lane and caught a glimpse of the driver looking at me aghast. I must have looked a rare sight as you didn’t see cars that old travelling quickly.
I wasn’t allowed to have a motorbike but when I turned 18, I sold my car and bought one, much to my parent’s horror. Needless to say, I wrung its neck everywhere I went.
I only fell off once, well when I was moving! I seemed to fall off regularly when I was stationary. Something to do with not being able to perform in front of a crowd.
The one time I fell off moving was down our driveway. I always used to arrive like a maniac, probably to annoy my mother who was always determined to bring a halt to any form of fun. This particular day it backfired on me. My dad had been mixing concrete and there was a residue of sand outside the back door. I came along like a bat out of hell, locked up all wheels, the bike when down and me with it as we slid past the back door and into the garage. Makes me laugh just thinking about it. It must have looked like something from a cartoon strip.
I can picture it now, low flying wayward daughter, manic mother clad in pinny (apron), bounding out of the kitchen door ranting at me. It hurt like hell (I only had office quality trousers on) and the last thing I needed was a violent earbashing. After that I always wore thick jeans and bought a bigger, faster bike!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma.”
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Baggage Check.”
I ran the idea through the channels. Nope. Not a jot.
I reran it.
We all have complicated histories. Hmmm? Yes and No.
Depends upon your perspective.
When was the last time your past experiences informed a major decision you’ve made?
Gee can’t remember.
If every moment is different and in that moment I am different too, then why would I apply what I did then to now? Unless it was something simple like (thinking, give me time …).
Whilst looking for ideas I came across this lovely quote.
“Everyone comes with baggage. Find someone who loves you enough to help you unpack.” Unknown.
No fun in having a suitcase if it’s empty is it?
No point in having one at all unless you’re intending filling it?
They say it takes all sorts to make a world. Well I’ve definitely seen 3 of them. Sorts that is. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I never would have believed it.
There I sat, outside the village supermarket, on a wooden bench, under the shade of an old beech tree, happily munching away on my salad sandwich people watching as usual.
A big sign had been erected over the trolley park and as I began to read it, three people, one after the other, three people walked into a bar that had been placed across the trolley park to prevent access.
I’m sorry I couldn’t contain my laughter.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fill In the Blank.”
I like the idea. Wish it were that simple. But it would be just a shade of an overview. Of course, it would be really helpful if I could remember half of the songs I have loved over the decades. Never did have a good memory for names; I guess they didn’t have that much of an impact on me.
What I like in this moment may be completely the opposite in the next. Ask me the same question tomorrow and the answer would probably be quite different.
Every now and then I have a nostalgia trip. I wonder what might have been. I allow myself to indulge in memories. I taste the joy, the fun, the freedom. I know that is only part of the picture but it’s a fun ride for a while.
I go through phases where I awake in the morning with a song running through my head. It will stay all day and sometimes for days on end. Quite often there is some deep meaning within the words. When the penny finally drops, the song goes away.
Other times, someone may mention a word or a phrase. Take this morning, as I walked through my hallway, I noticed a tiny pin prick of a hole in the heavy curtains covering the doorway. The word lodged ‘hole’. Doomed, I was doomed to the repetitive song of ‘there’s a hole in my bucket’! Lasted up until lunch time. I’d forgotten about that until now. Hope I haven’t triggered its repeat cycle again.
As I write this the only song that comes to mind is, You’ll Never Walk Alone by Gerry and The Pacemakers. I have no affinity with the football club that has adopted it but I can see why they did. I find it deeply moving and the strength of inner power it generates never ceases to amaze me.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Mix Tape.”
I’m in the zone a lot, well ‘my zone’ that is. Everything I do I seem to lose myself in it. I have little or no sense of time these days. In fact, if you put me in a situation where I have to meet a deadline, I can feel the wings stiffening up.
I developed the ability to lose myself, (though I didn’t call it that, I called it being present), because there were so many chores I had to do that I loathed that I simply had to find a way to carry them out and appreciate them.
So I began being present in the moment, just noticing how I was doing the task, what it felt like, how it smelled (beautiful laundry brought in from hanging outside on a warm day) for instance.
When I chop vegetables it has become almost therapeutic. My focus is entirely on the task, meticulously working through the vegetables, noticing their textures, colours and smells as I enjoy the moment.
I didn’t plan it this way, but all these things have become a form of relaxation and strangely enough, I no longer experience them as a chore.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Zone.”