Details in The Fabric

Author's Note: Sorry if this is a rambling post -- I am overtired and these are the things I think about when I need a nap ...

There are moments that I wish I could bottle and keep. 

One of them, as I may have mentioned, is the smell of rain in the summer. There's nothing better than that smell, and it is so fleeting -- it's as though the earth has opened up and released a sigh. I love that smell. 

Another? The sound of snow falling. I don't know how to describe that sound, but it's one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. It's not silence, exactly. It's the embodiment of ... hushed. When I stand outside and it is snowing gently (not blizzarding, which is a different sound altogether), I feel like I know how it would be to live inside a whisper. There's really nothing like it.

I love the feeling of being at the beach and burrowing my feet into the sand, to feel the contrast of the hot top layer of sand and the cooler sand underneath at the same time.

As I write this, I wonder if gloriousness is magnified by transience? Do things become more special when they are temporary? And if that is so, then I wonder what that says about me, that my favorite things are not bright copper kettles and warm wollen mittens, but are instead things that I cannot hold on to because they exist only as brief sensory experiences and are then gone.

Of course, now I think: by writing them, I am keeping them, sort of. So perhaps I have bottled them in a sense.