Mental Rehearsal

You perhaps are already familiar with the concept of "mental rehearsal," wherein performers practice by dancing/playing/acting a piece entirely in their head. The concept first gelled for me as a bona fide practice when I heard Yo-Yo Ma explain in an interview that he spent so much time travelling, he had very little time with his cello outside of his performances. Therefore, he used his time on airplanes to mentally practice, going over the intricacies of a piece, imagining fingerings, bowings, phrasings--not just mechanically, but how his body would execute the performance, what he would be thinking, what he was trying to say.

Dancers can do the same, as can actors, surgeons, athletes. When it comes to the body executing a performance, practice makes better...and mental imagery counts as practice. Which is on my mind today, because I miss my sniffer, and have been attempting a little mental rehearsal of the olfactory kind.

What scents lend themselves to rehearsal? Here are a few that my imagination has visited in the past few days. Not necessarily because they are favorites, but because I realize they generate strong and clear imagined physical responses.

The bubbly aldehydes of Chanel No. 5 and Arpege. The upper reaches of my nose actually open up a bit (okay, they try), because when I recall what I would smell, my body remembers how those bubbles of No.5 go right to the top of the inside of my nose and hang there. And hang, and hang. Whereas in Arpege, there's a quick mid-entry period, a zip to the top, and a settling of the bubbles, slowly descending.

The low in my nose, deep in my throat edibility of a gourmand like Ambre Naguile. Which connects me to simply low & sweet and nearly tastable leather or comfort scents, like PG L'Ombre Fauve, Lancome Cuir de Lancome.

Then there are scents that move around, like Hermes 24, Fauborg, which threatens to bubble like an aldehyde (I can feel the vibrations beginning), then settles into a veneer with a rumble underneath (kind of like the way a comfort scent feels, but with a bubbly brook somewhere in the distance).

It dawns on me that this hasn't been a mental "rehearsal" so much as a mental review; I am attempting to recapture, not rehearsing for improvement. Nostalgia embodied, perhaps? Since I was pretty much trying to recapture how I remembered things feeling, as well as smelling, perhaps this is ultimately an opening of the door onto the practice room before the performance is ready. And ultimately, practicing what? Isn't it the perfume that communicates? Or does the way my body works with it count as part of the message?

I recall the soprano in Ann Patchett's Bel Canto making the comment that she never allowed people to see/hear her practice. Would that I had been so wise...nonetheless, thanks for indulging me.

If you've got time for a longer read, there's a nice piece on mental rehearsal and "physical genius" here (a 1999 article from The New Yorker, found on gladwell.com).

Thick as a Brick

That would be me, the implied subject in the title.

There are bricks out in my garden.  Salvage.  I'm going to incorporate them into a path I've been wanting to build.  Nope, they are not treated, they are standard masonry.  Yes, I know the net effect on their lifetime in the dirt (and wet, and freeze).

To make matters worse, I am not going to prepare any screed to lay those bricks into.  (Screed in my blog?  You decide.)  They are simply going to rest within the dirt, in a pattern I used at my last house.  Each pattern will create a landing point, at regular intervals, to guide you through the garden.  And to help keep you from stepping on the plants you're not supposed to step on.

The bricks were a gift, and I find myself incredibly grateful to have them.  The fact that I accepted them is a tangible representation of me finally settling into this "new" house of ours (I've been here over three years now).  We moved from the city to this suburb by choice, and based on the circumstances, it was the right thing to do--yet incredibly difficult for me.  On the surface, the switch might appear to be a slam dunk:  I left behind a 100+ year old house that was in need of work, offered a myriad of challenges (hmm, is that CLOTH wiring behind that lath? could this pipe really go nowhere? two closets TOTAL?) and oddities (gas pipes capped but still protruding from bedroom walls; niche for your block of ice; degree of slope in the upstairs hall that offered a launch for wheeled toys).  I cursed some, but enjoyed most; that house and its neighbors became a part of my identity.

That yard reflected my new and growing interest in gardening, from bone dry novice to a moderately experienced gardener with a Master Gardner course under her belt.  After 10 years, that yard went from a square of grass with some squared off bridal wreath spirea to the home of a moon garden, vegetable garden, "seasons" border, rescues from neighbors, transplants from grandparents, experiments successful and not.  Abandoned bricks from remodeling projects in the neighborhood became the edges for raised beds, or "steppers" for a path.  Rescue plants from local construction projects blended with "hand me down" plants from my grandparents. Eventually, I designed a small patio and path that actually got installed "properly," with screed and tumbled belgian block pavers.  After nearly a decade of work and learning, it was really coming together.

Then we moved.

And life was different.  The children, one of whom was born in the old house, required different kinds of attention.  My new job required attention, period.  My hours at my not-the-parenting-job increased.  I waited the recommended year to watch what came up in the yard.  I tried to learn the bones of the new yard to respect what worked and make plans for what would work better.  I spent a fair amount of my free time helping a non-profit near and dear to my heart. Other challenges.  And the garden waited more than a year.  

At dinner a couple of weeks ago, magic words:  "We have bricks.  Do you want them?"

I actually paused before I said "yes."  I was thinking practically.  I didn't realize what a gift they would be.

I need to write our new friends a note, to express just how special their old bricks have turned out to be.  As the summer winds down, they gave me an inspiration that helps me face its close: a reconnection to who I once was, and a sense of who I might be.  Because it's not just that the garden is going to look better when this project is done.  No matter when the brick project is actually done, I already feel better.

Sometimes a path connects more beginnings and ends than you can see.