Scenting

Spring came all at once, and with it the scent of spring, rising out of the forest in the early morning.

 

Nor was mine the only soul quickened by the freshness breathing through the trees and across the waters.

To scent is to catch the trail of something, to be quickened and enlivened, to be pierced to the marrow by desire. It is the feeling of being on to something. What is it you desire? What, in the grand scheme of things, are you after?

The animals feel it, too. Spring and the present silence of human creatures in this place have brought them out in greater boldness than I've ever seen. Every one of them knows what they are after, no two alike in their scenting down the pathways of the heart.

I feel it, too. Certain wild aromas can catch me off guard, recalling to me at once the terrific vastness of the world, its depth and strange, untamed beauty: cedars at dusk, or pine needles at midday. The scent of wood smoke, or of rain.

There are humbler beauties to be found, too. After a long winter, no small unfolding of delight is too tiny to be noticed by the attentive hunter.

These small intimations of beauty lift me up. They help me catch the wind of high and far-off things, and at the same time they root me in the presence and possibility of what is.

Year after year they ask the same questions of me: have you rushed down the roads of life, hurrying away the seasons, always looking ahead to the next? Or have you stopped to linger, now and then? Have you bent down beside the trail long enough to find the hidden jewel in the mire?

When little wonders such as these are treasured, one may become wealthy very quickly indeed.

At the close of day, it's a comfort to think that there may be more wealth in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in our philosophy.

Dusk falls, and with it the scents and soft airs of dusk. Wherever we are, night breathes its riches into our deepest imaginings, and we sleep.