Yesterday, as I biked past the Seawolf Bakery on my way home from the gym I was hit, as I often am when I pass this spot in the evenings, with the rich intoxicating scent of yeasty, rising cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon rolls that aren’t quite cinnamon rolls yet. The smell filled the street. It was inescapable—so all-encompassing that that brief interstitial space, an unassuming stretch of street and sidewalk, became a place. The place where the scent of tomorrow’s cinnamon rolls balloons into a full-bodied experience. The place where this small ephemeral thing—nothing more than a particular collection of molecules in the air—can be found and savored, at about 7:30PM each evening.

But as I rode past, it occurred to me that the experience was two things. I felt a sense of pleasure in savoring the scent—and yet the pleasure was dulled by a yearning. I knew what the scent alluded to and it seemed to tease me. It conjured thoughts of those tall doughy rolls; the satisfying way that they softly tear apart, the chewy centermost fold drenched in cinnamon. The yearning made me disappointed. I wanted to eat one and I didn’t have one. I noticed the disappointment crowding out the pleasure.

What if I could just enjoy the scent for what it was? Savor it as an experience all its own? If I was not so intimately acquainted with the source of smell, I don’t think it would be so laden with yearning. I can’t un-know the connection between the scent and the cinnamon roll but perhaps I can still choose how I experience it. Perhaps I can choose to let the pleasure exist without wanting for more. I think that lies in cultivating a fuller awareness of the present and a sense of gratitude.