Smell this.

My friend has a habit of sticking her nose into other peoples’ flowers.

I wonder if my childhood included a face-plant into poison ivy or inhaling a bee along with a daisy, but when it comes to the natural world, I tend to look and not touch. But…I am charmed/fascinated when my friend does.

Most of the time, she carries herself like a dignified person. Elegant, even. Then, we’ll be strolling next to a garden or walking dogs along a leafy path and before you know it, she’s plucking some sprig or bud and shoving it under my nose and saying “smell this.” 

I do, and almost always, it smells like (her word) heaven.

Her bliss is evident. Audible. And even though I have yet to spontaneously snort espied flora like top-shelf coke (something she and I know a bit about from our similarly incautious youth) I watch her and think, damn, that’s the ticket. None of the slow Zen meander, the stop to smell the roses. To the attuned, nature is demanding and irresistible; see me, feel me, and yes, smell me.

It’s working. I’ve begun to feel the stirrings of the compulsion to plunge schnoz-first into whatever blooming thing presents itself, even when my friend is not around.

Heaven.