The scent of change
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised when raking out a stack of dead leaves that the winter wind had cornered in a spot behind my studio that I became curious to know about the scent of decaying leaves and a certain sweetness to it; or why, when down in the paddock where the donkey Thunder calls home the earthy smell also adds a comfortable atmosphere to it. Our imagination interprets manure for what it is yet our olfactory senses, our smell intuit, sometimes reminds us of other places, of other times. Scent awareness is more closely linked to memory than any other sensation.
Beaubien, Conrad. Birds on a Wire. Watercolour. 2022.
In autumn when the leaves fall they exhale all sorts of gases related to glucose, the food for the trees and plants that is produced via photosynthesis throughout the warmer months. It’s an irony that as winter approaches instead of adding warmer coats, trees and plants shed extra layers. Woodsy, moist, smoky aromas combined with declining light are harbingers of season change and even with our eyes closed and wanting to ignore, our bodies know the truth.
Hard to imagine more spiritually enriching moments than walking with Thunder as the sun stirs in the tips of tall grasses that blanket the wetlands beyond. It’s as if the sun itself holds out an open hand gifting us with a tender bouquet of fragrance just for the simple pleasure of deciphering the makeup of smells. We trek the route, Thunder and me in quieted space lightly charged with footsteps of the curious onto hard gravelled surface. His four feet touch ground but two at a time. His rhyme very much as mine as we saunter in the early morning. I dig my fingers into the coarse hairs of his mane to acknowledge his company. I know he’s content, I see it in his eyes. Thunder is as unbothered as I am, heartened to march as a duo with the breath of life. I also know Thunder recognizes scent with heightened powers just like his hearing. Donkeys possess attuned awareness which is a means of survival set within their genes.
But this morning I know he takes in the air, adrift with the scent of blossoming peonies from afar, lilac from nearby and the opening buds on the ancient apple trees that border the M trail. It’s a curious scent, a stew of smells that play inner songs of emotion calling up past and present memories. The breeze shifts slightly as the earth warms, the updraft now telling us that somewhere, someone is in field with a manure spreader laying out composted nutrients like nitrogen and potassium, returning to the soil organic structure that helps with water retention, soil erosion and well being.
So then comes the word geosmin, a word I’m told by my biology in- the- know friend that, originating in the east, geosmin means earth smell. It relates to soil-dwelling bacteria which thrive in soil when it’s damp and warm and as it dries releases the musky smells along the lines of how, before and after rains, moisture in the air helps odour molecules travel.
Thunder and I decide on a pause so he can take in the spring grass and reach into a sumac bush and harvest a sumac cone or two of tasty berries. Come to think, right under our feet where grass stems push up from the soil and awakening roots, and also just over there where a colony of ants are house cleaning and like the earthworms that turn their fine grain casts back into the soil, all of it is part of the scent banquet of this time of year. I think Thunder understands, at least that’s what I read from that curious look on his face.
