Another day, another sensory-being mindful walk. I don't get these so often now - my sensory-being* is usually shared, which is wonderful in its own way - so being given nearly half an hour to myself with the instruction/agreement to use it for a mindful wander was a relished treat.
And the fact that I could take up that opportunity in autumn is not taken for granted. My brain was in a place where I could lose myself in the moment where often I tend to either become overwhelmed because of associations and memories, or to avoid or dissociate for fear of that happening.
So anyway, off I toddled on my mindful wander. My feet found a spiky floor that they enjoyed feeling through my shoes, and then some benches that are pleasant to stand on. However my attention wasn't drawn after that by the Wander Path (oh pants, it looks like I still haven't written a post about that to link to!) like it often is - most times some sight or texture will invite me in to linger but none did. I didn't push it, just wandered on, waiting to see. It was the scent of the fir trees in the end that called me, but what it called me to was a helicopter - the kind that you used to spin in the wind as a child; sycamore seeds.
And so I was lost to the world for a good five or ten minutes, first feeling the flat sides between my fingers - still and moving - the veins of the seed pod making gentle ridges beneath my skin. Inspecting it closely, drawn into the visual pattern, then turning it sideways and seeing the pale, smooth line it made against the backdrop of fallen leaves on the path below, feeling that line between my thumb and index finger, smooth yet sharp, curving round infinitely. The bump of the seed at the end in contrast. Then deeply breathing in to see whether it had a scent of its own: not the sniff you do when you think you want to smell something, or you want to demonstrate that you are smelling, but the deep slow inhale through the nose that allows your sensory receptors to really do their job to the full. Helicopters have a scent. Then I have to say I was thinking about as many senses as possible and did have to find out if it had a taste too, so I did lick the helicopter. I felt the patterns from earlier on my tongue. I became more deeply acquainted with the helicopter, understanding more of its being with every new aspect I experienced and the longer I spent on each. I went back to smelling, and one side smelt stronger than the other. The first side smelt stronger after I licked it - maybe one side smelt stronger because I had licked it more? It felt different between my fingers from when it was dry. I held it up to the breeze, watched it spin to the ground and it was gone. My moment finished, it passed on to its own next moment; the fleeting crossing of our paths stretched out by my curiosity and a suspended moment in time.
*sensory-being explained here by Jo Grace of The Sensory Projects, where I first encountered the concept. Or search my previous posts for my own witterings on the subject and how it overlaps with mindfulness - you can start here.
