Another winter is upon us; I have gone much quieter these days, thinking. The garden work is done; music and books beckon. And- I’m trying to hone a rusty sense. This need to ‘sharpen’ developed in 2010 when I lived next to Helen’s Wood, the forest in England that was part of my deceased parents’ countryside cottage, which, at the time, had no electronic conveniences at all. (A complete restoration was necessary after a devastating flood.) I’d learned to be very comfortable with silence, and with my own company. Birdsong would pour into the cottage’s bedroom window on cool April mornings, and in late evenings. Often a nightingale would sing in the deepening twilight; I knew then what it meant to be enchanted. There I was, sharing space with no one, with only stars to light the evening, listening to this heavenly sound. Tears often crawled down my cheeks. The experience was –unearthly.
Here in Traverse City I am much more aware of the click of toenailed paws on cement, the different sounds cars make as they trundle along our brick street, the little moans and groans elderly houses emit as they settle.
Early this morning, when it was still very dark, I flicked on the porch light and went out the front door to sample the air. A small cadre of cats peeked around the porch corner at me; they’d been bunking on the swing, and looked surprised to see me out there at that outrageous hour. Soundlessly they flowed as a unit to the stairs and faded into the mist, like wraiths. Velvet-soft padded feet were utterly silent on the smooth floorboards. One cat, though, deliberately brushed against my pant leg, leaving its scent, marking me. I felt claimed.
One day I wandered to the Lake Michigan beach on a peaceful Sunday mid-morning. An older man with dark glasses and a white cane sat alone on a bench, facing the calm bay. As I paused near him to admire the view, he said, quietly, “Good morning, young lady.” Startled, I stumbled out a polite response, then impulsively asked him how he’d known I was female (and young? Ha! But I didn’t challenge that).
“Elementary, my dear,” he replied, smiling. “I heard you breathing, and measured the distance from your face to the ground. You’re short...and I’d say your hair’s about 3 inches long; if it were longer I’d hear it brushing your jacket. Air moving through varying hair lengths sounds subtly different.
You favor sneakers, aren’t wearing perfume, and your pants are cotton.
Plus, your stride on the grass was light, so you’re probably younger, and not heavy.”
Intrigued, I asked to sit by him. He’d been blind most of his life. Early on he’d begun to develop and nurture skills- sensitivities, as he called them. He knew countless perfumes and after-shave lotions, and could identify which friend or family member was approaching, not only by the rhythm of their walk, but also by their natural body-scent. “My grandchildren try to sneak up on me, but I always know…”
He grinned. “I’m pretty darn good at recognizing lies, too. Voices subtly change; people shift uncomfortably, or turn their heads away, directing sound elsewhere. Sighted people, except maybe for some talented detectives, have largely lost that knack. People believe what they see; I believe what I hear, and smell. Liars emit sound-cues, and a distinct odor, too…
“I have a friend whose dog is learning to detect accelerants. Once I went with him to a training session and picked the right box; Tom was amazed. He thought, half-seriously, that I should get a job with the fire department’s arson unit. I finally confessed I’d chosen the right one because his breathing changed as we passed it. We had a good laugh…”
I envied his skill; this man’s sensory world was huge!
I’ve decided to concentrate much more on these sorts of subtle cues. Bryn-dog, our ten-month-old labradoodle pup, constantly samples scented air, inhaling its essence, analyzing, savoring.
She’ll be my guide…
Here in Traverse City I am much more aware of the click of toenailed paws on cement, the different sounds cars make as they trundle along our brick street, the little moans and groans elderly houses emit as they settle.
Early this morning, when it was still very dark, I flicked on the porch light and went out the front door to sample the air. A small cadre of cats peeked around the porch corner at me; they’d been bunking on the swing, and looked surprised to see me out there at that outrageous hour. Soundlessly they flowed as a unit to the stairs and faded into the mist, like wraiths. Velvet-soft padded feet were utterly silent on the smooth floorboards. One cat, though, deliberately brushed against my pant leg, leaving its scent, marking me. I felt claimed.
One day I wandered to the Lake Michigan beach on a peaceful Sunday mid-morning. An older man with dark glasses and a white cane sat alone on a bench, facing the calm bay. As I paused near him to admire the view, he said, quietly, “Good morning, young lady.” Startled, I stumbled out a polite response, then impulsively asked him how he’d known I was female (and young? Ha! But I didn’t challenge that).
“Elementary, my dear,” he replied, smiling. “I heard you breathing, and measured the distance from your face to the ground. You’re short...and I’d say your hair’s about 3 inches long; if it were longer I’d hear it brushing your jacket. Air moving through varying hair lengths sounds subtly different.
You favor sneakers, aren’t wearing perfume, and your pants are cotton.
Plus, your stride on the grass was light, so you’re probably younger, and not heavy.”
Intrigued, I asked to sit by him. He’d been blind most of his life. Early on he’d begun to develop and nurture skills- sensitivities, as he called them. He knew countless perfumes and after-shave lotions, and could identify which friend or family member was approaching, not only by the rhythm of their walk, but also by their natural body-scent. “My grandchildren try to sneak up on me, but I always know…”
He grinned. “I’m pretty darn good at recognizing lies, too. Voices subtly change; people shift uncomfortably, or turn their heads away, directing sound elsewhere. Sighted people, except maybe for some talented detectives, have largely lost that knack. People believe what they see; I believe what I hear, and smell. Liars emit sound-cues, and a distinct odor, too…
“I have a friend whose dog is learning to detect accelerants. Once I went with him to a training session and picked the right box; Tom was amazed. He thought, half-seriously, that I should get a job with the fire department’s arson unit. I finally confessed I’d chosen the right one because his breathing changed as we passed it. We had a good laugh…”
I envied his skill; this man’s sensory world was huge!
I’ve decided to concentrate much more on these sorts of subtle cues. Bryn-dog, our ten-month-old labradoodle pup, constantly samples scented air, inhaling its essence, analyzing, savoring.
She’ll be my guide…