The Beauty of a Scent

      This past Holy Saturday Dad walked in from a shopping trip with one lily and a bag of groceries. I was disappointed and asked if the lilies were really expensive this year. Dad said yeah, we could only afford one, and I nodded sadly. We were to have the pleasure or smelling only one lily plant this year.
      Then he came in a couple of minutes later with two more! I couldn't believe it!
      It isn't just their pearly white color and soft symmetrical shape that make lilies one of the most beautiful flowers. It is that amazing fantastic smell, that seems to fill your mind with thoughts of peace and tranquillity. A smell that betokens hope and puts a smile on your face.
      One could even argue that the smell of any flower is really more important than the look, at least for the classics. Yes, all flowers are beautiful, but it is the ones that smell that have become famous. In the words of Shakespeare: "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." There is something mysterious about the scent of a flower. It seems to come from nowhere, yet it permeates everywhere.
      Scents have long been known to be extremely helpful in creating memories. We can recall a scent from pretty much anywhere. If one has smelt it before he will recognize it, even if he cannot place the memory exactly. Just the other day my Mom came downstairs ready to go out. The smell of her perfume immediately brought me back to my childhood. She has had that same perfume my whole life. It brought me back to dozens of special occasions when she would come out of her room all dressed up, and the scent of her perfume would make me smile and get excited. I love that smell. It means comfort to me. Perhaps if she had never worn it, if I smelled in a store without the background of my memory, I would hate it. Who knows? Smells are embedded in our memories.
       This subject was brought to my mind now, in May, because it is the month of the lilacs. Our property grows literally dozens of bushes, and just yesterday, Mom brought in a big bunch and put them in a vase on the table. The house is filled with their glorious scent. Though there are some people who dislike the scent of a lily, I have never met anyone who sneered at a lilac's smell. It is sweet, but not sickening, aromatic, but not overwhelming, subtle, but not fleeting. The lilac is truly the queen of may-time for us.
       These reflections, as well as a recent stint of conversation with an artist friend of the family, led me to the question: can a scent be called beautiful? Usually men speak of beauty in reference to art, and as existing in a material thing. We normally sense beauty through sight, whether in a piece of art, another human being, or nature, or through pure ideas, like when we say that someone has a beautiful character. In that case, we use powers of communication and reason to decide. But what about smell? Does it fall in one of these categories? I have always stood by the definition that beauty is the harmony of order. And I suppose it is in the order of nature that a flower smells. But the smell itself, the actual sensation of smelling, is that something beautiful? We can see beauty. Can we smell beauty? One could argue that a smell is beautiful because it is in nature's order to come from that thing. But what about artificial smells? Are they then out of the category?
        And then there is the problem of the smell that is distasteful, but still part of nature. Mold for instance, is a perfectly natural thing, especially in something like cheese. But there are few who find it pleasant to smell. Or sweat, to go slightly grosser. Again, it is perfectly natural, but not usually considered a pleasant smell. Notice, we usually refer to smells as pleasant or not, not beautiful.
       So it seems nature can't automatically make a smell beautiful. But some scents do partake in that harmony of order that is universally appealing. Some scents are good, others bad, for most people. On the other hand, like in art, there is something very subjective in perceiving what is a pleasant smell. Memories and past experiences will play a big hand in that.
      Well perhaps more contemplation will unshroud this mystery, but in the meantime, it is an interesting and intriguing question.

A Day of Hail and Sun

Softly the heads of flowers poke

From underneath the soggy ground.

They do not fear the March time smoke

Or springtime rains; they make no sound.

The buds on trees are white and red,

The grassy shoots are green and bright,

The newborn fawns and rabbits tread

With gentle paws, hidden from sight.

Yet on occasion, from the trees,

They venture forth with cautious glance.

The gardens and the orchards please

Their eager mouths: they take their chance!

Then just as quick, with urgent hops

To shaded grove they scanter back:

To gather up their first young crops

The men have come with pail and sack.

But we have jumped ahead of time!

Tis not midsummer yet, I think!

The sun has not prolonged her climb

Nor yet have buds had their first blink.

The hail and sun trade places still,

While gray clouds gather and disperse.

The sunset streaks across the hill

And golden rays the trees immerse.

From their deep dens coyotes cry

And elk wander over the field.

As darkness mingles with the sky,

Grandly the full moon is revealed.

So spring’s soft night engulfs this land

Of simple homes, of one small town;

Offers her sweet, nurturing hand

To birth again what men have sown.

By Sophie Saurette

Reflection; 3rd Week of Lent

His sorrows are immense; they reach beyond
The mind of man to deep within Divine
Realities. God takes the sinner's bond
Upon Himself -offers His Son, the fine
Of man's eternal bliss. What cold, hard hearts
Who pass Him by, unnoticed on the road
To Calvary! Surely their conscience smarts
Who still insist in sin! But no! They goad
Each others' souls to greater depths. Meantime
His tears fall unavailing on the the ground
Of Olivet. One other heart, sublime
In its pure love, one with His pain, is found:
His Mother, to whose hurt the sea's abyss
Is but a raindrop -one, small, ocean's kiss.

Ash Wednesday

I cannot write of things sublime,
Of Heaven and Christ, and God's good love.
I cannot speak out of the time
Of earth's good seasons, marvels true.
I saw a streak of painted light
Of palest pink and yellow hue
Along the very edge of sight
Where sky meets hill and slips from view.
The day was one of gloom and ash;
E'en so my heart was light and free;
And when I saw that muted flash,
I wished I could forever be
So well content as in that glimpse
Of Beauty, which at once can turn
The hardest soul, the meanest sin-
All whom repentance, wish to learn.

So did Ash Wednesday lay its head
To blessed sleep. So did I rest-
Yet not in fear, not in regret. Instead
With prayers to stand the test
Which God this Lent for me sees fit.
Only his grace can soothe men's hearts,
Keep fast their souls from deep despair.
In time of Lent His love imparts
Sweet peace to those in sorrowful pain.
But precious few observe this fast
And often at its end decline;
Their goodly habits do not last
And worldly pleasures greater shine.
Yes Lent will cease to be quite soon
Just like the streak of light I saw.
Though it seem bitter, painful, long,
When it desists the darkness comes,
Like night upon that painted sky,
Blots virtues out, undoes their work.

What wisdom then, to yearly hold
These solemn days of penitence,
So that, with mind strengthened and bold
The Easter feast we honor well.
Now I must end, imperfect rhyme
Though it may be. I have my cross
To gladly bear on Calvary's climb.
In the Communion of the Saints
Catholics all enjoin their prayers!
All for His glory! Amen!


(Thanks for reading. Written by Sophie Saurette)

A Sonnet

Written: Quinquagesima Sunday, February 7th, 2016


It started out a day of glorious sun
All brilliant, blue, with not a cloud in sight.
Leftover ice, in patches, has begun
To shine, but not to melt. You know the light
Will not last; and now it is dark. All piled
Upon themselves the clouds look flat, all grey,
As steel or lead: they promise a spring, mild
And full of content. But for now they stay,
For days, and even weeks. Perchance they pour
Some bounty on the swelling ground below;
Or even in March days, on nature's floor
Lay down an unexpected gift of snow.
Oh, for the days of winter into spring!
No time but this so urges me to sing!

For Pat Hebert; passed away January 9th 11:17 am

It is as if she would not let us cry;
All peaceful seems the air in that small room-
The very atoms stand. My eyes are dry
For seconds few. No morbid fear of doom
For she who, in her death, uplifts these walls
Whose ruddy hue does Jesus' Passion show.
No, she, in bliss, now wanders Heaven's halls.
Her days, so fruitful, numbered in the snow,
Gave so much joy. Her spirit with us there,
Allowed only for love on its last day-
No anger, fear, or rage; now I can dare.
God knows our time, and that is why we pray.
Her kindness filled our house and lawn, our hearts;
This winter day her soul to Heaven starts.


( A sonnet by Sophie Saurette )

What Child is This?

What Child is this Whose limbs so small
Are resting on the hay?
What gentle kiss on His mean shawl
Does Mother Mary lay?
Whence comes this star so big and bright
By golden rays encased?
In field not far, at dead of night,
It bid the shepherds haste.

What shepherds these who are so called
To witness Jesus' birth?
They bend their knees in prayer enthralled,
Before the King of Earth.

A marvel great they all did see
On that first Christmas night.
In lowly state, from Jesse's tree,
No pomp for Him, no might,
Is Jesus born all hidden still,
From those who know Him not.
His wraps are torn, by His own will
From rags with soil and spot.

Some short days hence from lands far East
Three wise-men will appear.
In gilded tents, they rest and feast.
But Lo! They now draw near.

They do not know that their rich gifts
Foretell this Child's fate.
Amid the snow His joy uplifts,
But mockery and hate
Await the Child  Whose limbs so slight
Still shiver in the cold.
What babe so mild, lies here in sight
Of Kings and cattle bold?