Every day, when I wake, I take a deep breath of the clean air of my homeland, smell the peculiar, idiosyncratic scent of the Australian bush that even here, on the outskirts of town, floats through the rooms of my apartment.
It’s not a nose-twitching, follow that smell type of scent. It’s not fragrant, like stepping into a garden, or odoriferous, like a tropical forest. It doesn’t smell of eucalyptus, or wattle. or tea tree oil. Here, in this particular piece of paradise, it’s the scent of clean. it’s a little astringent, herby almost, and fills me with a gladness I wasn’t expecting. Every morning, and several times a day I smell it, consciously let it drift through me, like regarding a painting or a piece of the landscape, and dread the day I take it for granted and smell it no more.
So many interpretations of clean.