The Sensory Life: Come Back to Your Senses
I have been thinking a lot about our senses lately.
Not in the way we usually talk about them.
Not as something to optimize, stimulate, or improve.
Just our senses.
The simple, ancient things our bodies have been doing long before wellness became an industry.
Touching.
Smelling.
Tasting.
Hearing.
Seeing.
Feeling heat and cold.
We spend so much of our lives inside our heads that I sometimes wonder if we've forgotten what it feels like to actually be inside our bodies.
We wake up and immediately look at a screen.
We eat while answering emails.
We walk while listening to something.
We shower while thinking about what comes next.
We drive while talking on the phone.
We sit down to rest and somehow end up scrolling.
Even our quiet moments have become occupied.
And yet, our bodies are constantly asking us to notice.
The warmth of the sun on your face.
The smell of something growing in the garden.
The texture of oil between your palms.
The taste of an herb you've just crushed.
The sound of wind moving through the trees.
The coolness of water against your skin.
The softness of your child's hair.
The feel of bare feet against the earth.
Maybe this is another way of talking about wellness.
Not as something we need to achieve.
But as something we can experience.
Touch
There is a reason I care so much about the texture of skincare.
Texture changes the experience.
A thick balm feels different from a silky oil.
A cool mist feels different from warm water.
A grainy herb feels different between your fingertips than it does sitting inside a glass jar.
When I make something for BFree, I don't only think about what it is going to do.
I think about what it is going to feel like.
Because our skin is not simply a surface.
It is one of our largest sensory organs.
And sometimes the act of caring for ourselves begins before a product has done anything at all.
It begins with the moment we touch our own skin.
Maybe that is why I don't believe skincare should feel clinical all the time.
There can be pleasure in it.
There can be slowness.
There can be a moment where you actually notice yourself.
Smell
Smell has a strange relationship with memory.
One little scent can transport you somewhere you haven't thought about in twenty years.
A particular perfume.
Orange peel.
Fresh dirt.
Rosemary between your fingers.
The smell of rain.
Someone's old house.
Your mother's lotion.
A wood-burning stove.
The scent of sunscreen on a summer afternoon.
We don't always choose the memories that come back to us.
Sometimes our bodies remember before our minds do.
This is one of the reasons I love working with herbs.
Plants have personalities.
They have distinct aromas, textures, colors, and histories.
When you make something slowly with plants, you begin to recognize them differently.
You stop thinking of rosemary as simply "rosemary."
You notice how it smells when you crush it.
How it changes when warmed.
How it smells on your hands hours later.
The sensory experience becomes part of knowing the plant.
Taste
Taste brings us into the present almost immediately.
You can't really taste something without being there for it.
This is one reason I love growing herbs.
There is something wonderful about walking outside, picking something that is growing in the ground, bringing it inside, washing it, crushing it, steeping it, and tasting what you've just gathered.
It turns food and herbs into experiences rather than ingredients.
A little ginger.
A little clove.
Fresh mint.
Rosemary.
Something bitter.
Something sweet.
Something unexpectedly spicy.
Taste reminds us that nourishment doesn't have to be complicated.
Sometimes it is simply about paying attention.
Sound
The desert has taught me a lot about sound.
Or perhaps more accurately, it has taught me about silence.
When you come from a place where there is always something happening...cars, people, music, notifications, appliances, conversations. Silence can feel almost unnatural.
Out here, I hear things I used to miss.
Wind.
Birds.
The occasional vehicle in the distance.
The rooster next door announcing that morning has arrived.
The sound of my own footsteps.
There is a particular kind of quiet that makes you realize how noisy your life has been.
And maybe silence doesn't need to be productive either.
It doesn't have to become meditation.
It doesn't have to be part of a morning routine.
Sometimes silence can simply be silence.
And perhaps that is enough.
Sight
I think we have become accustomed to looking without seeing.
We photograph everything.
We scroll past thousands of images.
We watch beautiful places through screens.
We save inspiration for later.
But how often do we actually stop and look?
Look at the strange shape of a tree.
Look at the way sunlight moves across a wall.
Look at the color of an herb drying on a table.
Look at your own hands.
Look at the face of someone you love.
Look at the moon.
Look at the tiny imperfections in something handmade.
Living in the desert has made this especially difficult to ignore.
There is so much beauty here that doesn't announce itself.
A dried plant.
A rock.
A shadow.
A rusty piece of metal.
A cactus growing where it seemingly shouldn't.
The landscape is not polished.
And somehow, that makes it more beautiful.
Temperature
There is something deeply primal about temperature.
The first cool side of the pillow.
Warm water over your hands.
The heat of the sun on your shoulders.
Cold water on your face.
A warm cup held between your palms.
The heat of the desert.
The coolness of evening.
Our bodies are constantly responding to temperature, even when we aren't consciously thinking about it.
And I think this is another reason I love making skincare that can be experienced.
Sometimes Flower Dew comes straight from the shelf.
Sometimes I put it in the refrigerator.
That cool mist against warm desert skin is an entirely different experience.
The product hasn't changed.
The experience has.
And that distinction matters to me.
Your Body Is Not a Machine
This may be the part of modern wellness that I struggle with most.
We are constantly being encouraged to optimize ourselves.
Optimize your sleep.
Optimize your morning.
Optimize your hormones.
Optimize your productivity.
Optimize your skin.
Optimize your body.
Optimize your diet.
Optimize your entire life.
And underneath all of it is sometimes the quiet suggestion that who you are right now isn't quite good enough.
I don't want BFree to contribute to that feeling.
I don't think your body is a machine that needs to be constantly adjusted.
I think your body is something you live inside.
Something you experience.
Something that carries your memories.
Something that changes.
Something that ages.
Something that feels.
Something that needs attention, but also deserves appreciation.
Maybe caring for ourselves doesn't always have to mean fixing something.
Maybe sometimes it means noticing.
Notice how your skin feels after washing your face.
Notice what smells make you happy.
Notice what foods make you feel nourished.
Notice the sounds that calm you.
Notice the temperature of the morning air.
Notice the colors around you.
Notice what your hands are touching.
Notice yourself.
A Sensory Life
I don't think we need another complicated wellness routine.
I think we might need to come back to our senses.
To touch things.
To smell flowers.
To taste what we're growing.
To listen to silence.
To look at ordinary things long enough for them to become beautiful.
To feel the sun.
To notice water.
To put our hands on our own skin with care.
To experience our lives instead of constantly trying to improve them.
This is what I mean when I think about The Sensory Life.
It isn't a program.
It isn't a challenge.
It isn't something you can buy.
It is simply an invitation to come back.
Back to your body.
Back to the earth.
Back to the small things.
Back to the parts of life that don't need to be optimized to be meaningful.
Because maybe wellness was never supposed to be about becoming a better machine.
Maybe it was always about becoming more present for the life we already have.
