Whispers in Pure Concentration

Lord, protect my family.

Universe, keep me at my humblest and therefore wisest.

Lord, make me fast and accurate.In my anger and in my restlessness, let me respond quickly and make a calm assessment.

Universe, I am one with you.

Lord, forgive us and let us learn.

The Forgotten Among the Senses

In the convergence, in the transactions of our noses with the world, we yield a subtle yet powerful perception. Smells, however, are harder to store in the compartments of memory. Smells are rarely celebrated and cherished. Our eyes have pictures and a wide array of art or visuals. Our ears have music, and our taste buds has gone from salty, sweet, bitter or sour to the explorations of molecular gastronomy. But there are no gadgets or even art and too few sciences that aid our noses the way our eyes and auditory canals are given an additional sense of urgency and importance.

Taken for granted, smells are the most underrated of all the senses. There are also, too few scents, and an even fewer emphasis on scents.

I've often divulged how I've developed an addiction to the smell of books. I enjoy the smell of a book often as equally as I read its contents. More important than our sense of touch, we are more deeply acquainted with a book through its smell. It defines it as an object, lingering not just words but through its smell - the worldliness it has contracted. How it grows, and even what were you like at the time you read it. Does it smell of cigarettes, of a floral soap, of a bookmark, of coffee, the ephemeral nature of its inevitable oldness or of mold? And this maybe the reason why some of our new technology does not work for me. I’m turned off by generic smell, or its absence of an aqcuired and unique property. More than the characters in the book, the smell gives it an unseen character of its own.

Now that I've got a point or two established around the forgotten among the senses, I say what I want to say. I don't want to look at my life now. I want to sniff how my life is like now.

It's obvious what my favorite scent is among the prevailing scents of my life. It's how my six-month old son smells. We can take all sorts of pictures of him, but we cannot trap all these exact smells and put it in a bottle. It will never be the same again: this current smell of coming home. So here it is now: the candid smell portrait in free association.

Burt's Bees apricot baby oil before he takes a bath. The soaps that stay in the fabric of his clothes and what my nose absorbs when I kiss his tummy: Perwoll for babies, Perla white bar. The cream we thinly apply on his skin for diaper rashes or skin allergies: Desitin, Indigo Jar of Hope. The smell of his shampoo on his hair and body wash on his skin: Chicco and Top to Toe. The neutral smell of his refuse (as he is still exclusively just having his mother's breastmilk, no solids). His vomit. The milk that remains on the corners of is mouth, the spilled milk on his clothing. And lastly, the most elusive, almost indiscernible and sweepingly beautiful smell: his breath. It is a distinct, pleasurable smell.

His breath has the smell of life and clarity, of someone who drank something so potent. It smelled of my truth. The smell that told me, not only is the little one alive, the little one has a soul.

I sniff deeply. If only I could wear this scent.

The Family Shoe Haiku

a new pair of shoes
to move our feet, our voices
it's a perfect fit