The smell of fall(en) leaves

November 2nd, 2023

The top layer is deceptive — after two days of sunshine, it is dry and crisp and light and falls to pieces with the slightest touch. But underneath, all the fallen leaves are wet and slimy. They stick to gloves and to the rake and to the ground. And they smell of rot, they smell of decay, they smell of withering lifespan, they smell of matter breaking down into elements and particles.

This was the real smell, the smell that hit my nose and olfactory receptors with such strength of awfulness that I had to stop and walk away from my work raking leaves in the garden. Perversly, I smelled my gloves again and again the smell of natural rot hit me hard. I went back to work anyway, understanding that there was something more than just the slimness of the smell. It was a long-forgotten smell, a smell that I had to experience before doing yard or garden work in the fall after leaves had fallen and it rained for two weeks straight. Today, for reasons unknown, that smell was at the forefront of my work preparing the garden for winter.

And I kept repeating it. Every once in a while I would lift my hand and smell my gloves, or smell my hoodie to get another hit of the raw rotting decay to get my perverse fix. The smell was still awful, but I noticed something organic in it. The whole world goes to rot and decay before the slumber of the upcoming winter. But that rot and decay are in reality only building blocks of life, of life that will be reborn in a few months. And the more rot and decay in the fall, then there will be more nutrients for the whole of nature in the spring.

I am sure there is a good parable just waiting to be constructed from the story above — you know, with reference to humankind — how death and decay sustain and nurture the future generations and nothing goes to waste in the process. I’ll leave it for some other time…