Imprinting Memories

Preparing to leave a place requires more than simply packing

I’m sitting under the Japanese Maple in the garden behind my apartment. We’re in the thick of fall and yet the maple’s thatch barely burns red. Ombre leaves shake red to green as the breeze bustles down its shank. The remains of the flower garden surround me. Blue Lyme Grass with stalks of dried feathers stand at attention. The moon flower bush that presented us with those one-night-only performances all summer, dropped now; its branches akimbo, weighed down by their seed clusters. Still other plants desiccated, like the Chrysanthemum heads sagging, stems brittle and unbending. Across the garden, a statue of a young girl, her dress flapped up and head listing to the side protects the few pots that still manage to hold blooms. A petunia and hibiscus, both jewel-toned, glint amongst their crispier sisters. The hibiscus even managed to prime a new pod. But the real stunner of the garden, the stand out survivor, hides in the corner – the Rosemary bush.  I snap off a sprig, put it to my nose and inhale deeply.  

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We’ve  lived in this 1920’s duplex for two and a half years now. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived, with eleven foot ceilings, plaster moldings and huge light filled windows that reflect the outside’s massive trees and brick lined street.  It’s our last fall here and I want to soak in it, luxuriate in the light, in the colors, in the space.  We won’t be able to afford the place much longer. Like a child’s treat, we knew it wouldn’t last. Even so, if I build the fires, bake the bread, spray my perfume and hold the rosemary from the garden up to my nose, this apartment and its memory will grow all the sweeter. Smell is our strongest sense of memory.

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As I hover over the bush and inhale the rosemary, a memory cracks open; a child’s book with illustrations of plants that open like an advent calendar.  Sitting behind the illustrations of blooms and stalks, paper scarred by where we dug in with our nails, forcing the smell to alchemize. Once satisfied we’d done the job, we hugged the book to our faces, squinching our noses desperate to inhale the scent. The smell of rosemary, like this bush, must’ve been the most resilient, as I think all the flowers eventually took on its soapy aroma. Everything fades, but perhaps if I cut away some rosemary, I can bring more than memory with me. 

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What are your most vivid memories that include smell? Maybe your grandma’s kitchen or the smell of stale cigarettes in your first car. Smell is the most nostalgic sense. It can invoke tears of joy or violent retching. We feel what we take in through our noses with our whole bodies.

The way you enjoy music, or art or good food, today I encourage you to smell something that creates a vivid memory.

Last summer Bill and I had the opportunity to spend a day at the Palace at Versailles. It was a rainy cold day and we were packed in like sardines. Not particularly pleasant, but I was not complaining. It was extraordinary, particularly the gardens. In the citrus garden we slowly walked, stopping at each box and smelling the leaves. At one point I couldn’t help myself, I broke off a sprig of white flowers from a towering Lemon Verbena and snuck it into my pocket. I can still smell the bright lemon flower.

As we come into the season of advent there’s so many smells we can luxuriate in. Pay attention. Look for the invisible gifts.

Be well friends,

Kelley