A Walker in the Suburbs

Last night in class we talked about the senses and how sight has stolen the show in our modern, western world. The move from an oral culture to a print one is partially responsible. But there are many other explanations — our art, our sanitation, our world views. The philosopher Descartes not only said “I think therefore I am” but also “I shall now close my eyes, I shall stop my ears, I shall call away all my senses.”

In other times and cultures, people swam in a richer sensory stew. There were drums and bells, cooking fires and open sewers. Would we want to go back? I doubt it. And yet I found myself lingering over a passage in a book about village bells, learning how they were cast by itinerant bell-makers in a community and each had its own unique sound, how they bound people to their places.

The more specialized the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures of a place, the more likely they are to embed themselves in us. When I think about growing up in Lexington, Kentucky, one of the richest memories is the aroma of curing tobacco wafting from the auction barns near the university. It’s an odor that has been banished, along with much of the burley tobacco market. Good for our health? Absolutely. But the eradication of sensory richness may not be so good for our souls.

(_{A garden gate in Lexington. Step inside and smell the cut grass. )}