Since last weekend, we've had the beautiful autumn days that have their own term in Japanese: akibare, a word that suggests a deep blue cloudless sky, clear, cool air and warm sunshine. The waxing moon is already high in the sky by late afternoon, an ethereal presence in an azure sea. And then the dusk sets it aglow.
The persimmon trees are losing their leaves and keeping their fruit--a shock of orange in the browns and yellows of the countryside. The smell of kinmokusei (sweet osmanthus) blossom is also a shock. Cycling or walking, the scent suddenly envelops you from over a garden wall. My companion sniffs the sweet autumn fragrance, and I the rank odor of toilets.
For years I've thought that the October countryside somehow smelled of outhouses. It was only last fall that the shy, plain kinmokusei blossom was pointed out to me. Why did it seem odiferous rather than delightful? The answer was in the local household supply store with its rows of kinmokusei-scented bathroom air freshener.
This year I'm working hard to reverse my Pavlovian conditioning. Drinking in the yellow flowers, I'm beginning to smell the ripe peaches and apricots there, leaving unsavory olfactory associations behind.
Nose buried deep in
kinmokusei; restoring
sweetness to its source
--Julian
