The strawberry jam simmers away in the kitchen, filling the whole house with its delightful sweetness.
It’s quiet; so quiet that I slept past the time that I had intended. Although I’ve woken in the late morning, the only sound I hear is the singing of a lone bird. Even the sun is shrouded in cotton today – its own type of quiet. I’ve just returned from a walk. I expected to see neighbors enjoying their holiday, possibly nursing hangovers on their front steps, driving to the market. Instead, I see almost no one, hear almost nothing. Children are not playing with their new toys and bikes today, no one is mowing their front yards and only one neighbor is using the day to defrock his house of lights. Today, the sounds are few, yet I notice the smells. The ground smells fecund and earthy from the recent rains. The air is filled with the perfume of fires in fireplaces. On certain corners, I catch heady whiffs of roasting meat – at first, my head says, “lamb”, but thinking of my neighborhood, I realize it’s most likely goat. Is a roasted goat a New Year’s tradition? I don’t know.
Today is not what I would expect for New Year’s Day, but, then again, it’s a new year…and anything is possible.
When I’m driving home from yoga, there is this point on the Freeway where the air is redolent with the sweet perfume of vanilla and the rich essence of cinnamon commingled into a cloud of heavenly goodness. This snickerdoodle-scented bliss lasts only for a few moments and then it’s gone. It makes me smile every time I drive passed. The factory that emits this odiferous wonderland of scent makes cookies. I think that if we scented the world like cookies then no one would ever have a bad day again. Pure happiness under a vanilla sky.