Springtime is probably the season most associated with
smell, that powerful G-d-given sense which we rarely
acknowledge.
Of all the five senses with which Hashem endowed us, I think
the sense of smell is the most powerful. Otherwise, how is it
that one tiny, almost imperceptible whiff of some elusive
aroma can send us hurtling back in time to a scene our memory
hasn't dredged up in, perhaps, years.
The delicious scent of freshly mown grass, for instance,
always transports me back to lazy Sunday afternoons in my
childhood. I can again feel the rough bark of our big oak
tree against my back, feel the luxuriant blades of warm grass
between my exploring fingers.
The sounds which the odors evoke are distinct too: the roar
of lawnmowers, the crash of a screen door, the raucous
creeking of crickets. Amazing, really, these sweet, forgotten
memories, borne aloft on a fresh meadow scent.
Another fragrance, with simply magical powers, is that of a
fresh pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove. How benign
that golden broth appears, yet how powerfully evocative its
tantalizing aroma and warm vapors. Each Friday morning, while
I was still in bed, my mother would rise early to begin her
Shabbos preparations. Before I was actually conscious of
having woken up, I would be aware of a delicious, rich smell,
laden with my mother's love and devotion, and a hint of the
upcoming Shabbos. The smell enfolded me securely in waves of
heady chicken-soup-scented warmth. Security in a smell.
Even today, when I prepare my own pot of Shabbos soup and set
it bubbling merrily on the stove, I can close my eyes and
instantly travel back in time. I can feel myself enveloped in
the warm cocoon of a mother's love. Is this what my children
will feel in years to come?
How instantaneous that association between scent and
recollection. I need only sniff some wet wool and there I am
in the crisp snow, bemittened, shaping chunky snowmen and
fluffy snowballs, coming inside only long enough to peel off
my soggy mittens and down a quick cup of steaming cocoa --
another smell with childhood associations. And how about
popcorn, anyone? What memories does that smell conjure up to
the reader?
A whiff of Crayola crayons and Elmer's glue causes me to shed
the years, and I can see myself happily laboring over my
giant Pinocchio coloring book, all 64 luscious shades of
crayons conveniently boxed at my side in descending rainbow
gradation, like fans in the bleachers of a ballpark.
Smells need not evoke childhood memories to be satisfying.
How about the yeasty smell of fresh challa baking, or
a treat of yeast cake on a cold day when baking is an excuse
to light the oven and feel cozy?
Then, again, what could be more fragrant than great lavender
clusters of lilacs, perfuming the air with their sweetness,
or yellow and white jasmine?
And each motzoai Shabbos as I appreciatively inhale
the aromatic cloves of the havdola besomim, I am
reminded of a poignant fact. Our sense of smell, that awesome
gift from Hashem, is no mere physical ability, but a
spiritual power that connects us with our very soul.
