Tempus Fugit (but not from A to B)

That there is the hyacinth I introduced you to a few weeks ago.  This picture was taken today, March 8.  It started popping the flower stalk a few days ago, and every time a new one of those flower "bubbles" opens, a fresh burst of hyacinth smell gently wafts out.  Not far, mind you, but I'm more than happy to bring my nose to the vase.

It's particularly pleasant to be able to do so after nearly a week of scent-free living.  Well, seeing as one can't really live scent-free, let's call it "scent-avoidant" living.  As in, steering clear of purposely applied fragrances, and known tummy rumblers like the TJ's chili my spouse is so fond of, certain fried foods, and pet incidents.

My own child and his variation of The Thing That Passed Through?  Well, I'm a parent.  Can't really avoid that.

Anyway, time moves on.  Time.  As in "Time is the thing that keeps everything from happening at once," which someone posted on Facebook today.  Or as in the thing you must endure to finally experience the smell of a hyacinth.  The thing that heals all wounds.  The thing that allows you to get a glimpse of how Mitsouko could be beautiful.  The thing that has etched my face with charming character when I smile or puzzle to comprehend something.  The thing the boy wanted to see fly when he threw his alarm clock out the window.

It's been a week since I've written here.  Not my intent.

***
Yesterday was Pulaski Day in Chicago and portions of its environs.  Growing up in Detroit, I was aware of the contributions of one Taddeus Kosciuszko, because there is a big honking stature of him charging on horseback there.  Wikipedia tells me that "in Poland, every major town has a street or square named for him."  An engineer who became friends with Jefferson, rebuilt forts, was entrusted by Washington to rebuild West Point, and served the USA for seven years, Kosciuszko ultimately dedicated his estate for purchasing the freedom of slaves.  Kosciuszko was difficult to spell, but easy to become a fan of.

I moved to Chicago, and learned schools and city offices closed because of another Polish national who fought in the Revolutionary War, Casimir Pulaski.  What with no spelling challenge and free time to share with friends, it took me a while to motivate and dig up just what Pulaski did to merit such recognition.

At the oversimplified expense of a guy who seems to have served our country nobly, I've picked up that he was a Polish noble who fought the Russians who then came over here and took a hit of grapeshot.

And therefore shares company with the pirate known as Black Bart.

The mind reels at the potential for local political humor, but I'm going to bring it back to perfume.  Or at least smelling.  Believe it or not.

**

So, thanks to Not Black Bart Pulaski, much of my local universe has the day off.  Including Younger Son.  I decide that after last week -- a Black Week in our health indeed -- we would be well served to get fresh air and stroll the grounds of the Botanic Garden.  The fact that we are at the 42nd parallel, more or less, and that winter and spring are still playing a mean game of chicken does not daunt me.  Time to move.  Time to find that evidence of spring's inevitable arrival I saw during the near 50ºF outburst last Friday.

It was near freezing.  And terribly grey.  So the air was fresh, but pretty pictures were hard to come by.  As was evidence of the impending turn of the earth.  Time, more time, required.

We slogged forth, nonetheless.

It was too cold to catch a whiff of that wonderful humus and dirt smell that a certain kind of spring day carries.  Too cold even to smell the kind of moist air that says "spring."  So we walked, and took pictures, and I spent a little time observing the thing that garden landscapers know:  Nature doesn't work in boxes, and neither should you.  Amorphous shapes, curves...phi.

There was something really quite wonderful about remembering that.  Because I had just "lost" a week of time.  And was feeling a little lost myself as a result.  Usually I'm pretty good at rolling with it.  But this was a day when I really, really, really, could have used a dose of spring.  I thought.

What I was given was the reminder that when given time, Nature works in contours, not straight edges.  And that ended up being being a fine gift indeed.

Now I'll show you the snowdrops.  

Because I remembered that, when given the choice, I don't go for the straight edges anyway.  I remember that, as I've been saying, spring will come, but you've got to give it time.  So the snowdrops were a delight, but it was important to remember time and contours first.

Tomorrow, back to perfume.  Marina and I are going to give some thoughts on L'Accord (Code 119).  And it will be just about the right moment to follow the curve back to sniffery.

Meanwhile, I'm still poring over garden catalogs.  Going to pick out a grapevine to plant.  You know--so that every time I see a bunch hanging, I can nod to Black Bart and Casimir.  

all photos are author's own

Twists in the weather

Our local meteorologist is off being a storm chaser.  He's found cluster cells in Oklahoma.  He's excited...probably extra so because it seems his group came this|close to being hit by a tornado.

Further north here, we're simply dealing with a return to chilly with threats of frost overnight.  People are muttering, but it's not unexpected for this time of year.  It *is* a bit discombobulating, because we just went through one of our warmest Aprils on record, ever.

In the garden, this means pulling out the covers for everything you put in knowing it was early but thinking you'd give it a go anyway.  A most foolish behavior when one is past the "fool me once, fool me twice" series of blame.  And yet...like a siren, the soil called, and tomatoes begged "please," and would-be gardeners across the region said, aw, okay...

No correlation between this brand of gardener and Cubs fan has been investigated.

Anyway, the tomatoes have been in for a couple of weeks, and thanks to dutiful gauzing at night, they still look healthy.  But I do feel like the little hairs on the leaves are on end, sometimes, wondering if one of these nights I'll be too tired, or gone, or the rain will have begun early and it seems inhospitable and pointless to go out and cover them now...

It was cold enough last night to make a fire in the pit a necessary accessory to a gathering of friends outdoors.  And so we did.

In the past five days, I have seen sun kissed days that invite bare skin, played with new babies, watched seedlings emerge.  I have tracked storm clouds as they squooshed to my piece of sky, felt temperatures drop twenty degrees, added layers for protection, and witnessed friends say goodbye to beloved family members or brace themselves for the inevitable.

The soil has started to yield, and the soil continues to receive.

Spring is in full swing.  Still.

In my wearings and doings, this is the time of year that will take even old hands by surprise.  Paper calendar and solar day and trends in temperature all begin to lull you into believing the turn is full.  But the season still holds potential for sharp surprises.  Do you choose to be prepared, or to just deal when/if one rears up?

Ah, be prepared.  Sweaters are easy.  On and off.  I love sweaters.  They provide such comfort if called upon, but also a sense of happy looking forward if it is time to discard them.  You'll read about "sweater scents," perfumes that either provide that same sense of enveloping comfort that a cozy sweater does, or that seem to evoke the texture and complement the softest concept of cashmere.

Today is a chilly day.  The heat is on.  The sweater is out.  I've looked beyond some of my sweater scents, though (they vary: Chene; Attrape Coueur; Jolie Madame) and gone right to luscious.  Because I can, thanks to the weather.  And because I want a hit of depths to contrast with the Bel Respiro I wore the other day.  I want to mark the contours of this season.

Feminite du Bois, I think I love you.

I dared take it out today.  I actually held my breath a little bit before I sprayed.  It could be too much--a danger any time of year, but more so now.  After all, I had just learned to find happiness in a lily of the valley soliflore, had inhaled the gateway drug to galbanum that is Bel Respiro for the first time this season, had started playing with "warmer weather" scents.  Had kept in touch with the darker earthier side with Silences, yes, but also started eyeing citrus scents.

Yet here I am, all plummy.

On me, Feminite du Bois gets all warm and sweetened animalic.  The plum note hits thick, but is carried by a honeyed vaguely woody 'did somebody lace this with castoreum?' viscous but not suffocating aura. And I mean aura...it both hovers close above and emanates from the skin to which it has been applied.  It is almost Too Much...but never crosses that line.  For me.  It is decadent, in a way that isn't wanton, but that plays with the edges of excess and yet absolutely knows what it is about and appreciates every lush element.  Nothing wasted, but man, that bag is packed full.

For a lot of this hemisphere (northern, I mean), the transition into spring is pretty much done.  Here, Mother Nature is not done reminding us that it's not that she's fickle, it's that she has power.  You can ride the waves, or you can get pummeled by them.

I've got shorts, shirts, jeans, sweat pants, sweat shirts, camisoles for layering beneath shirts beneath jackets.  I've got Bel Respiro, Silences, Bois des Iles, Tabac Aurea, Fleur de Narcisse, Bois Blond, Gap Grass, Visa, Diorissimo, Vol de Nuit, Grin, Arpege, all ready for the vagaries of spring.

Somewhere, between my favorite cozy puffy Shetland sweater and my elegant fits just right cashmere sweater, somewhere beyond the fluctuations, an outlier, is this Feminite du Bois.

It's rainy, and cold, and I'm both eager to see the developments of this spring, and mourning a few losses.

Me and FdB are staying in today.  We're fine.  I'll be out again tomorrow.

Scents that sing "spring"...

So, here's the image that all of the participants in today's joint blog project were given for today's post:

Julie Andrews dancing in a field of mountain wildflowers.  An iconic moment of visceral bliss.  Puts a smile on your face, right?  Welcome. Glad you stopped by.  Take another sip of your current beverage.  And then step into my spring, and how it sings.


Here is the image I was ready to go with when the concept of "spring" came to mind:

To me, spring--as those of you who stop by on a regular basis know--is all about things rumbling in the dirt, a stirring to life, a difficult and messy and beautiful process that is all about energy bumping heads with rest and bringing color and smells back into the world.  Worms squirming around in the dirt are all about that.  They turn and aerate the soil, fertilizing it along the way.  They wriggle out of the soil when it rains, providing yet another reminder that the snow is gone and a new season has begun.  They provide a sort of endless fascination for kids and grownups, who might be entranced or repulsed but are somehow always compelled to take a look.  They move under the soil and attract the attention of the returned birds, who cock their heads sideways and give a little "knock, knock" to the ground to get the worms to come to the surface, then yank them up like some sort of stop-action spaghetti slurping.

Worms.  Dirt.  That's just the start of it.

 Things start pushing up out of the ground.  Green emerges from muck, even as the detritus of the last cycle of life continues to litter (and eventually nourish) the ground.  Fresh energy, alongside stasis.  From a bland landscape of hard frozen texture and monotonous color, rumblings begin.

I love this moment, when you can be like a forest creature and put your nose up to the air and start smelling changes in the air.  Even the breeze smells and feels different.  It could be a misty grey day, or it could be one of those suddenly brilliant sunny days when you are reminded that the sun can actually cast a warm light, and not just the sharp white light of winter.

Once you get enough of that light, changes come.

Early life pops out, and you can feel things starting to hum with potential energy.  

It is this crazy conflagration of clinging chill and insistent warmth, of final rest and yawping birth, of messy sludge and impossible blooms, that sings spring to me.  It is difficult, it is easy.  You can jump in and be part of it, or you can passively observe.  But it's gonna happen--a proposition that seems questionable in the early going, but eventually becomes undeniable.

☃  ☁ ☀ ☼ ☺
What fragrances help sing this process?  Ones that either echo the whole big mess, or that pull out elements of the orchestration.

An example of the whole orchestration:  Niki Saint Phalle.  It's all in there, the dirt, the herbal bitterness, the lift, the knowing that if you stick it through, you'll have a drydown that is "interesting" if you come in at the end, but absolutely beautiful if you went through the pain of its development.

Examples of elements of the orchestration:  The easy entry here is Diorissimo.  Lily of the Valley hasn't arrived here yet; that is a note that sings toward the end of the spring symphony.  But it is powerful, and so uniquely recognizable that its call has entranced many a wearer.  The wink-wink nod-nod entry is CBIHP Black March, because it sounds the note of dirt.  If I'm in a picky mood, I point out that in my nose it is the smell of potting soil, and not of humus rich earth dirt.  But I'm okay with that.  I like hearing this particular voice, which coincides with the gardener's activity of starting seeds and potting up outdoor plants.

Then there are the Impressionist versions of the symphony, which capture the mood, the experience, even suggestions of particular voices, without being so direct.  This year, Temps d'une Fete has been getting a lot of chatter.  And deservedly so.  When I found this last spring, I found myself wanting to twirl around like Julie Andrews up there.  Oh, green goodness that knows how to balance a sweet floral lift and a raspy sort of something that makes sure the potion isn't cloying going down.

In this spirit, I offer you a down and dirty (could there be any other?) short list of scents that sing spring.  Please share what's not here that you'd add, or how you'd change things around.  I might come back and mess with it myself.

Isolated voices/notes
Diorissimo
Coty Muguet
Bel Respiro
AA Herba Fresca
Black March
Wild Hunt
Violets & Rainwater (Liz Zorn)
Fleur de Narcisse

Orchestration
Silences
Niki Saint Phalle
No. 19
Grin (Ayala Moriel)
Bois Blond  --note: this is a shorter piece, played by chamber orchestra

Impressionist 
Le Temps d'une Fete
Chamade
Green Oakmoss (Liz Zorn)
Un Matin d'Orage

Happy spring, everybody.  Thanks for spending a little of it here.

Now that you are done, you might like to set a spell with the other bloggers participating in today's project.  They are:

Katie Puckrik Smells  |  Perfume Shrine  |  The Non Blonde  |  I Smell Therefore I Am  |  Notes from the Ledge  |  Scent Hive  |  Savvy Thinker  |  Roxana's Illuminated Journal  |  Perfume in Progress  |  All I Am A Redhead  |  Ambre Gris  |  Olfactarama  |  A Rose Beyond the Thames  |  Smelly Blog 

first image a still from The Sound of Music; second image from the Input to the Garden blog; all other images the author's own

Spring on tap

Must have been magic.  Roxana contacts me last night to let me know Greenwitch is now available to sample.  I've been curious to try that since she first tempted us with a quick reference to it in the depth of winter (followed by a full post explaining her methodology).

Then I head out for a brief foray and hear the first birds of spring at night...

...and wake up this morning to knowing, just knowing...sure enough; the beds are ready.  I clear away leaves, cut down the perennials, and *as I am working* some daffodils poke up.  The soil is the right warm; it smells fantastic.

I spend the day working with decomposing material, clearing it away, saying a little thank you for how it protected the live things during this incredible winter.  I get a home project done.  I finally shower...thinking, of course, that a decision is coming up...

...have been egged on by perfume pals and weather to make the leap...

...thinking...thinking...

...and after mentioning doors #1 and #2, I pick door #3.

En Passant.

And it has been beautiful.  I remembered just how beautiful shortly after spritzing (it is a bit odd straight off).  And the best part has been how it has haunted me these 5-7 hours since...it famously leaves the wrist after a couple of hours...but it isn't really gone.  It apparates in the air just around you, time and again, for hours.  You can't put your nose to it...it's gone...but yet, it comes back to you.  Beckoning?  No, not quite.  Nearly embracing.  More like a little visit.  And gone again.  

Perfect.  Like glimpses of the spring to come.  (And, which will go again.)  A bit of a ronde, a dance mimicking the entry of the season.

Today's beautiful weather will not last.  But it will be back.  More and more so.  As such, a reverse of En Passant, which slowly comes back less and less.  

What a great cross-fade.