Rosemary Fueled Reverie
It’s raining in a way that means business.
Water is pouring from the sky, as if it’s in a hurry to bring back the sunshine. Yesterday gave so few clouds, I was skeptical about the weather app’s storm prediction. But the technology was fully correct—I drove Chris to set this morning because his car is acting up and the streets were soaked with water. My 2006 Prius held on, swimming through intersections as the windshield wipers beat across the slanted glass. In the midst of it all Joey had to be walked and we headed out in spite of the downpour, her little frame drenched in minutes.
It’s dawning on me that we’ve reached another week, in which no birthday of mine is present. The week following a birthday feels like a long exhale. It’s not a lull, but a beat before the song unfurls.
In front of me sits a rosemary candle. Whoever crafted this candle really knows their stuff. It smells as if I took a fistful of the herby twigs and held them close to my face, closer still, until their pointed dark green leaves tickled my forehead. Tiny light purple flowers dot the sprig, giving a sweet note. Bits of soil still clinging to spindly roots hit the back of my throat, rounding out the scent.
I’m transported to an era years ago, when my mom ate raw rosemary. She said it quelled her nausea and she consumed it nonstop, carrying around a baggie with fresh pieces. Finding good rosemary in grocery stores is a gamble, you get 5 twigs in an expensive plastic container. She ate 5 rosemary sprigs every couple hours. Instead of draining the bank, my mom discovered a couple bushes around my parent’s apartment. Like most things of this nature, the rosemary search expanded into a near constant family activity.
We’d drive slowly around the wealthiest parts of Santa Monica—close yet so far from where my parents live, looking for overgrown rosemary bushes. I wonder if homeowners ever saw us pull up to the curb or watched my tiny mom approach the unsuspecting plant with scissors. Through the window they’d see her crouch in front of the shrub, carefully cutting off a few select pieces. Before they could figure out our scheme we’d be gone, my old red truck clumsily departing the scene.
If they did see us, no one cared. I’m actually surprised more people aren’t harvesting rosemary in Los Angeles. If you look for it, you might be surprised by how much there is.
Anyway here I am sitting at my desk which is technically our dining table but we mostly eat on the couch, all carried away by the smell of rosemary.
I’ve always had a keen sense of smell, just like my mom. I was reminded of this last month when I got off the plane in London at Gatwick Airport, totally out of it. I’d been tossed about by food poisoning, unable to consume anything but coconut water and a spoonful of yogurt for 24 hours. Chris and I had planned to hop over to London during a couple of his rare free days when we were in Europe. He had a meeting that took some effort to get, so instead of canceling the trip and staying in Barcelona to recover, I insisted we both go to London. Was I out of my mind? Yes. Getting on the plane was kind of an ordeal, as was getting through passports once we landed. Chris got his passport approved before me and I called across the maze of weary travelers “go on without me!” knowing he’d be late for his meeting if he waited another minute. He took off and I rolled my suitcase closer to the front of the passport line. Sweating bullets, ghostly pale under my mask, I explained I was in London to “see friends” while fumbling for my return ticket information in gmail.
Once I escaped the terrifying gaze of the border patrol agent, I found a convenience store in the airport (I think called Boots? What could be more British?) and bought a bottle of coconut water. At that point I felt entirely unsure of how to get to the hotel but didn’t want to be in a $100 cab for an hour, especially while feeling so sick. Before I could figure out the mystery of the train system—it’s actually very easy but I was on the wrong floor—I decided to get some fresh air. As soon as I stumbled through the automatic doors, I was hit with a wall of diesel, perpetually damp cigarettes and a hint of rolling green hills. It was the exact same smell I encountered 12 years ago, when I arrived in London with a group of theatre kids from my high school. I haven’t experienced that smell in over a decade and yet it overtook me, grounded me in place while melding time together to create an unexpected familiarity. I sat on a concrete cube, head spinning with memories.
Smell holds so much for us, but it remains a great mystery. We don’t expect it to be a unifying factor, but it does so much more than just enrich our experience of this life. Dogs are being trained to smell cancer, a Scottish woman has the ability to smell Parkinson's years before it sets in. A hyperactive olfactory system can be a blessing and a curse.
Smell seems to be the sense closest to our emotions. When an aroma takes over, it washes you in feeling. It summons memories and dips you in the experience all over again. Just as emotions can have physical reverberations, the scent of something can set off headaches or soothe your nerves.
This intangible element is not received identically by anyone. And we don’t have the language to communicate the differences. We accept that so readily, yet we hold our complex visual observations and mental perceptions of the world to another standard all together.
A passing scent is not awarded the same gravity of a thought, but their ephemeral nature is the same. The thought/emotion cycle is sneaky, it pretends to be part of your world. It suggests that a thought is more permanent just because it rises from the expanse of the interior. But perhaps it is us that holds onto thoughts to make them linger, whether consciously or unconsciously visiting the mental patterns over and over again.
Our sense of smell reminds us that everything is fleeting. To keep a scent on hand we must bottle it or solidify it before lighting a flame to bring it back from the void of memory.
Outside my window the storm has passed and the sun is back, dissipating water from the drenched surfaces with predictable magic. The rain may make a comeback, but for now the sky is more blue than gray.
Soon I’ll take Joey for her evening walk and we’ll both take in the smell of Los Angeles after a rainstorm. Pavement, oil slicks, earth and Spring’s soggy flowers. A brief relief from the smog, reminding us of fresh air’s true potential.
Before we go I’ll blow out my candle and let the memories recede into the corners of my mind.
That’s all for today, see you next week.
xx
James