THE SCENT OF MEMORY: AROMA, PRESENCE, AND THE SMALL RITUALS THAT ANCHOR A DAY
Scent does not merely remind us of the past. Sometimes, for a few seconds, it reinstalls us there…There are doorways that do not look like doorways. A song can be one. A recipe can be one. A hallway can be one. But scent may be the strangest doorway of all, because it does not knock politely on the front door of memory. It slides in sideways. Before we have named it or analyzed it, aroma has already reached something ancient and emotional inside us.
This is not only poetic. The olfactory system has unusually direct access to brain regions involved in emotion and memory, including the amygdala and hippocampus. Researchers call this the “Proust phenomenon,” after Marcel Proust’s famous description of memory flooding back through taste and smell. A fragrance can return us to a grandmother’s kitchen, a school hallway, a hospital room, a childhood home, or a person we have not seen in decades.
I experienced this years ago in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, when I worked for Rabbi Jacob J. Hecht. Rabbi Hecht was a man of remarkable stature: dignified, commanding, impeccably dressed, and unmistakably unique. He also wore a particular cologne. Whether I sat near him or farther down the conference table, that aroma filled the his long, regal room. It became part of the atmosphere, almost part of the architecture.
Years after his passing, I was walking down Kingston Avenue when that same scent suddenly drifted through the air. Someone nearby must have been wearing the same cologne. Instantly, I was no longer simply walking down the street. I was back in Rabbi Hecht’s office: the table, the room, the gravitas, the feeling of being near a person of stature. All of it returned through scent. This is the quiet power of aroma. It can attach itself to person, place, ritual, and state. It can become a sensory bookmark in the nervous system.
That is part of why I use aromatherapy, though modestly. Essential oils are not fairy godmothers in little glass bottles. They are concentrated plant compounds and should be treated with respect. But used thoughtfully, they can support rhythm, regulation, mood, and transition. I use lavender at night, eucalyptus in the morning shower, and citrus occasionally in my office.
Lavender is part of my bedtime ritual. It is not “sleep in a bottle,” and I do not present it as a miracle. Sleep is an ecosystem: darkness, coolness, routine, lowered stimulation, supplements when appropriate, morning light exposure, and emotional settling. Lavender is one gentle cue among many. It whispers to the nervous system, “The day is done.”
Eucalyptus, by contrast, belongs to morning. A few drops on the far shower wall, released by steam, create a bright, sharp, wakeful atmosphere. Lavender says, “Rest.” Eucalyptus says, “Where are your shoes?” Still, eucalyptus is powerful and should never be swallowed or used carelessly.
Citrus is my office aroma for rare days when I need brightness without the jitters. Lemon, orange, tangerine, or grapefruit can offer a clean sensory nudge: begin again.
In Torah life, this makes deep sense. We are not disembodied minds. We sanctify time through objects, sounds, tastes, smells, and rhythms: Kiddush wine, Havdalah spices, Shabbos candles, challah beneath its cover. Chazal teach that fragrance uniquely benefits the soul. Smell is threshold language.
Lavender becomes a threshold into sleep. Eucalyptus, into morning. Citrus, into renewed focus. Aroma is not a promise. It is a practice. Used safely and wisely, it can help the nervous system remember where it is, what time it is, and what it is being invited to do next. One breath, and there we are again.
Read a more in-depth SUBSTACK article HERE
With Gratitude,
Rus Devorah
