Last night, as I opened the door for a cat, the scent of jasmine flooded over me. The jasmine in my yard is no longer in bloom. From what exotic garden, on what unearthly breeze, did this fragrance rise to inform the mundane night with visions of silken harems and starlit desert silenced by bubbling fountains and inviting walls?
And today, the air seemed filled for a moment with the rich odor of that manure which, in my childhood, my father would spread on our suburban lawn. I would water it then, and let the stream from the garden hose pour down over me, and the dense musty smell of the lawn would rise to mingle with the smell of the dampened rock walls and pungent eucalyptus resin warmed by early summer sunlight which, caught in droplets of water, would make evanescent miniature rainbows to contrast with green plush grass and blue unwritten page of sky.
What brings these transports to leave me breathless and wondering like some sentiment-drenched sophomore in unrequited love with the world?