I don't have impeccable hearing, at least so I've been told. I'm quite near-sighted; my contacts are -3.50 and it seems that this is a stronger prescription than most have. I am the last to smell something, if at all.
Preferring Introversion and iNtuition only make me less aware of my senses. Since I'm more often oriented toward what's in my mind that what's around me because I prefer "I", I am less attune to my physical environment. Meg told me one time that she liked some of the household decor items that were for sale at Ralphs, and I had no idea what she was talking about. She said the items are always sitting at the front of the store so you're facing them when you're at the register. I looked next time I was there and was floored; I'd never noticed them. And because I prefer iNtuition over Sensing, I use and rely on my senses much less than some others. Mary always notices if a floor is slanted or if there is a gassy smell or if you can hear the waves crashing at a property; I have to feel, smell, or listen a second or third time.
But the past couple weeks I've been trying to focus on fully Sensing my environment. Tonight is our last night in our house. I'm all about beautiful surroundings, more than most I know. But I don't always stop to take in the physicalness of it. For a couple weeks I have been careful to pause on my way from the car to the door, inhaling the fragrant air and salty smell of our hill by the Mesa. I've made time to just sit and stare out at the view from my window, taking in every light and tree and rooftop and hill I can see from our perch. I've walked outside at night and paused, to feel the particular mixture of ocean breeze, Santa Ana winds, and clean clear air that stirs up around our Crestline.
It is instinctive to me, and probably to most, to intentionally take in our surroundings as we leave something for the last time. I did that before I graduated from Westmont. I didn't really get to do it before we left our beloved house on the west side that caught fire a year ago, and I felt the lack of closure, as we hurriedly packed our things among the muck and soot. For me (and again, likely many others) it is also instinctive to focus my senses on any new environment that I am entering for a significant time. Like a cat circling around someone, taking them in, adjusting to the sight and sound of someone, before it allows itself to be pet.
I haven't yet spent a night at the studio, but I've been visiting there for a few days now, slowly moving things in. When I get out of the car I do a 180, to fully take in the Riviera view. I walk slowly along the landscaped stepping stones, memorizing their placement to prepare for future late dark nights. I've run my hands along the bathroom tile, feeling their freshly cleaned coolness. I pause as I lock the door to leave, trying my best to take in the scent of the hundreds of roses planted all around. This is my new home, and I want my senses to know it.
