The Hum of Petals
The smell of dry earth after a long drought is a sharp, metallic sweetness that sticks to the back of the throat. It is the scent of waiting. When I walk through tall, unruly grass, the stems brush against my shins with a dry, papery friction, a sound like thousands of tiny pages turning at once. There is a specific vibration in the air when the sun is high and the wind is thin—a hum that isn’t heard by the ears, but felt in the marrow of the bones. It is the feeling of being small, of being a single pulse in a vast, breathing expanse of color. We spend our lives trying to stand tall, to be rigid, to be seen, yet there is a profound, quiet relief in simply swaying. To let the wind decide the direction of your head, to let the light settle on your skin like a warm, heavy blanket. When was the last time you let the world move you, rather than trying to move through it?
Harry Ravelo has captured this exact surrender in his beautiful image titled Cosmo Field. The way the light rests upon the blooms feels like that same warm, heavy blanket I remember. Does this quiet field make you want to stand still and simply breathe?
