I just noticed how nice the air smells. I think it is the smell of orange blossoms from outside the school gate. The wind is bringing the sweet flowery smell up the hill. I can hear the creek flowing. It is the sound of a hundred little crashing splashes overlapping into a constant white noise. I thought to write a thousand, but I feel the creek is small to be thrashing that much. The rock I’m sitting on is cold, but my cheeks are warm. As I write this, a wind is blowing across my face as if to cool it down. I am grateful for all this sweetness. The wind silently moves the leaves in the trees in a way that the trees don’t move so much as breathe, change.
I don’t often appreciate things this way, but I wish I did. For some reason, I can only see the things in front of my face when I’m forced to consciously decide to. So many things in our modern lives are made to tune things out, and when the smothering noise fades, it’s easier to stuff our ears with cotton or pick up cymbals than to process the unpredictable or unpleasant.

Picture Credit: The Editorial Board of the University Society Boys and Girls Bookshelf (New York, NY: The University Society, 1920)


You’ve got nothing on me for a while.

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