Category: Uncategorized

Saffron comes from the handpicked stigmas of crocuses. If you have ever used it in a recipe, you know the ritualistic pleasure of unwrapping the expensive crimson threads from their protective packaging, then dissolving them in a bit of water to create a colorful potion that gives the dish a delectable, complex flavor. 

Scent, the empress of evoking memory and emotion, can cause swooning, longing, joy, disgust, illness. In no rush to be anywhere, scent often lingers, sometimes heady like a lover’s cologne, lilacs in springtime, evergreen, or at times unpleasantly potent like the stench of decay, smoke from fire, a skunk in the road. 

The soul soars to what is music to our ears—a song, a voice, the sound of laughter, ocean waves, waterfalls, the clink of glasses. It withers in pain from the assault of noise pollution—leaf blowers, honking horns, screeching tires, raised voices. Our reality is painted by the images and colors we see. Dreams are more vivid and memorable when a shock of color highlights the stage. 

Out of habit or choice we can unconsciously ignore or willfully shut down our senses forgetting how much they feed us. A very sick friend surprised me when she said, “It’s nice to be touched again.” Her medical care required more touch than she had experienced in a long time.

We can be robbed of our senses through illness or accident. Lack of taste and smell are key symptoms for many who have had COVID-19. The pandemic has reduced our ability to give a hug or a peck on the cheek, a handshake, to travel. Much of our interaction is by necessity through phones and computer screens, a blessing to have at least that.

“Come to your senses” suggests returning to a proper state of mind. As we witness what is unfolding and try to quell anxiety with hope, our senses can help maintain equilibrium. They viscerally ground us in the here and now.

Sniff a favorite spice, listen to music that lifts or soothes, savor a favorite dish, meditate on a flowing river, and if you can’t be with someone, give yourself a hug, pet a dog or a cat, take a warm bath. Come to your senses.

One of my uncle’s used to repeat some of his phrases, a diction tic that was endearing. Several years ago, driving my mom and I around San Francisco, he said to her, “Every day something new, right Mary?” And before she had a chance to respond, “Every day something new, right Mary?” I think about that often, because it still makes me smile, and because the simple truth of the statement applies, well, every day.

Over the years, I’ve walked the woods near work more times than I can count. I’ve been in them in all seasons, sometimes almost daily for weeks at a time. Recently, on a moody, gray autumn day, I sought those woods mid-morning to ground me, to bring me back to the present.

I had been in them at first morning light less than 24 hours before. In the short time since, the ground of the clifftop had become filled with tripping hazards, acorns tossed about like marbles on the floor, the walking path freshly blanketed with newly fallen leaves that hid some of the jutting stones. I was forced to pay attention to each step, slowing my pace more than I liked. Deep in the woods, the reckless wind, barely a whisper the previous day, rubbed two trees together, playing them like out of tune string instruments accompanied by a maraca rhythm of rustling leaves.

I entered the woods with a heart and mind as restless as the wind. Regardless of the wisdom of Rilke’s words, it can be hard to love and live the questions now, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart. Back at my desk, a few hours later, the rains came. The river that shone with glittering sunlight earlier was a blurry slow-moving slate gray, the George Washington Bridge a watermark of itself. And nothing was any clearer in my head or heart, but it no longer mattered. Every day there is something new, every hour, every minute.

Every year or so, a friend and I go on a writing retreat. We like to be near the water in a peaceful, reflective setting. This year we found a quaint house on a small part of the bay where osprey and heron regularly do flybys and the water serves as a mirror for tall leafy trees in the morning.

Prior to setting out, I attempted to re-read the most recent version of my work-in-progress, so I could hit the ground running. A hundred pages in, it was clear that there was a reason I’d stayed away from my child for so long. He was rambling and incoherent! And I felt powerless to help. My brain was in the deep freeze.

At lunch on about the third day, I told my friend I couldn’t figure out the fix. I thought I should abandon ship. She thought for a minute and then offered a suggestion that would never have occurred to me, one that provided near instant brain thaw. But was it instant?

When I shared this experience later with another friend, she told me about the three-day effect, a term coined by cognitive neuroscientist David Strayer to describe what happens to the brain after we’re immersed in nature for three days. It rests and reboots, increasing creativity and boosting problem-solving capability by as much as 40 percent.

While three days may be the Cadillac reboot experience, as little as 15 minutes in the woods can have profound effects on us, reducing cortisol and increasing overall well-being. Increasing the time in nature to 45 minutes can improve cognitive performance. But the effects go even further than that. Florence Williams traveled the world working with nature neuroscientists to find out the reasons why. She details those findings in her book, The Nature Fix: Why Nature Makes Us Happier, Healthier and More Creative. Wallace J. Nichols explores similar effects of water in his book, Blue Mind: The Surprising Science that Shows How Being Near, In, On, or Under Water Can Make You Happier, Healthier, More Connected, and Better at What You Do.

How lovely to be tended to by Mother Nature in this way. In fact, taking in nature in any way available can bring powerful restorative benefits to our brains. So yes, take a hike, or find a seat with a view.