What a disappearing scent showed me

I enjoy moving through the day with the scent I put on in the morning. Smell allows me to inhabit a parallel world, where each fragrance is linked to a feeling or a memory. Fresh lime keeps me alert. Wood grounds me. A soft trace of vanilla takes me back to a joyful gathering with friends.

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My scents are fantasies that become tangible through smell. That is why it feels like a small loss when, after a while, I no longer notice the scent I applied. It is still there, but it has disappeared for me.

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I read that once our energy-efficient brain has identified a smell as harmless, there is no longer any need to register it. No matter how much willpower I summon, I cannot bring the perfume back.

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Something similar happened while recording a podcast based on a text I had written about how my thoughts tend to run ahead of me. My mind was already on the next sentence while I was still speaking the previous one. I would skip words so that what I said became completely incoherent. Oscar, the sound engineer—patient and good-humoured—and I laughed at how I was unintentionally demonstrating exactly what I was describing.

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But even being aware of it did not change anything. We had to record several sentences more than once. The following piece, about my desire for moments of surprise, went without a single error.

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Both events revealed how limited my sense of agency is. I want to smell the scent that is still present, I want to speak more slowly but no matter how hard I try, I cannot. My brain decides when I smell and when I don’t, when I speak quickly and when I slow down—just as my heart beats by itself.

 

Understanding why I can no longer smell my Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet has made me realise how little control I actually have. I expected this insight to make me feel powerless or frustrated. Instead, it brought relief. I can let go of the constant effort of monitoring everything, an effort that consumes energy and offers little in return. That need for control has introduced a rigidity into my life that interferes with experiencing things as they are.

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I will try to lean back a little, to resist the impulse to intervene and allow for things to unfold freely.  Although, knowing myself, I won't be able to suppress a little nudge here and there.