“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”
This philosophical thought, curiously written by Oscar Wilde, has sat in my mind since I read it.
He’s not wrong; what do therapists teach their anxious patients? To locate five things they can see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. The senses are healing. He knew that.
I know that, too.
Every night, and every morning, I sit in my bed and study everything around me. I often find myself gazing at the texture of my walls. The bumps and water stains on my ceiling remind me of home. It’s comforting.
In the texture of my walls, I recall giants from the Rockies standing high above me on late-night drives. They would creak and stretch towards me, and I would spook and shake, but I still felt safe under the watch of their massive, rocky reach.
In the grooves of my ceiling, I reminisce in the memory of the Snake River. I remember the hissing of the water and the deep chime that sounded when a fish would jump. The river was alive with pebbles and rapids, and I knew comfort in it.
I see the West in my walls; that might be why it’s hard to look away.
Thoughtless droning in the air floods my mind once I finally shut my eyes, looking away from the yellow perimeter of my room. It’s buzzing—like a fly, but not quite—it’s the electric whine of a 10-year-old tv.
My focus shifts to the noisy silence behind me. I know words and pictures are collaged above my head, but I don’t see them. Not now—my eyes are closed. Still, I hear the giggles in the memory of a false prom night; I listen to the chatter of 15 teenage girls sitting on my living room floor. The sounds are only a recollection. A screen of black sits in front of my eyes.
The darkness doesn’t bother me; I feel accompanied by the sound of speechless pictures.
Tuning out the sounds of my past and the sights of my present, I take a deep breath. The familiar smell of lemon and orange fills my head; I burned incense earlier, didn’t I? No: it’s the tea I prepared a few minutes ago.
I relax my shoulders and pick up my gray, cracking mug. A sip of relief comes to me as I inhale the warm, energetic scent of the leaves. The water swirls beneath my nose, synchronized with the wandering thoughts in my mind. I focus on the tea, and my overthinking clears.
I set my cup away. Clink. My favorite, lovely sound. Leaning back on my outstretched hands, I sink back into my bedsheets. They’re soft and welcoming; they remind me of my late cat. He was a dancer—he twirled beneath my chin and wrapped his ribbon-like tail around my arms. I smile in remembrance of how calming it was to scratch his head.
The senses are healing; I pay attention to mine all the time. I count the beads on my bracelet, and I trace the zipper on my jacket. I suppose that’s why Wilde’s words are so intriguing to me: I constantly, and unintentionally, apply his philosophy.
Still, I wonder about his words; I wonder how cured my soul can truly be.
