I thought the scent emanated from some kind of high desert flower, since the first time I smelled it, I was in Taos, NM. Last week, however, the buttery spring goodness wafted to me from the site of a future daycare center in Sheridan, WY.

I want to say it’s sweetgrass, or sweet clover, but every time I try to identify the source, all I see is “plants.” I am far from a botanist, folks.

A year from now, that site will probably smell like used diapers. For now, though, whatever-it-is brings to mind sunshine and mountain biking and my first novel, which stinks, too, but in its own special way. 

I feel lucky to be able to smell nature at all. The mid-June aromas of NYC (aka rotting trash) can’t hold a nostril to country living. Which is, of course, why successful city dwellers have country estates. Never having achieved that level of success, I smelled a lot of rotting trash throughout seven summers in Brooklyn.

It’s nice to be able to appreciate weeds, if that’s what they are, while I’m stuck behind a desk. Today I came into the office despite my best intentions and my nose was given a gift. The rest of my senses may be dulled while I answer phones for eight hours, but my sense of smell is giving me high-fives.

You never know where the gifts will come from.

I could certainly choose to see everything in my life that way…

…or I could figure out what that smell is coming from, so I can dig the damn plant up and bring it home to enjoy all day long. And let the office phone ring and ring and ring….