The Forgotten Scent — The Art for Awareness

Lavender, like memory— faded, fragrant, and faithful.

In a world that often forgets its elders, scent becomes a quiet protest...

It bypasses logic and lands in the heart.

It does not ask to be remembered—it simply remains.

As an art therapist and mindful poetic curator, I’ve witnessed how memory frays with time. Words slip away. Names dissolve. But scent—scent stays. It anchors us to who we were, even when we can no longer say it aloud.

Lavender tucked into linen.

Thyme steeped in broth.

Orange peel simmering in a winter kitchen.

These are not just aromas. They are emotional transmissions.

In my Koöko Fleurs sessions, I often begin with scent. Not to stimulate, but to soothe. A sachet of dried herbs becomes a portal. A folded cloth, a ceremony. A cup of tea, a return.

Across cultures, scent has long been used to preserve identity. In ancestral rituals, it marks transitions. In healing traditions, it calms the nervous system. In memory care, it reconnects the body to the past.

And so, I offer this poem—not as decoration, but as a scroll of remembrance:

She no longer remembers the story, but the scent remains. Lavender, like memory— faded, fragrant, and faithful.

It begins with a scent.

Not sprayed from a bottle, not worn for allure—

but rising from a drawer.

Lavender tucked into linen.

Thyme steeped in broth.

A whisper of orange peel in a winter kitchen.

Memory does not always live in language.

Sometimes it lives in the nose.

In the soft ache of a forgotten perfume.

In the sharp comfort of eucalyptus.

In the quiet grief of mothballs and dust.

For elders, memory is not always linear.

It frays. It loops. It disappears.

But scent remains.

It bypasses logic and lands in the heart.

It reminds the body of what the mind forgot.

She no longer remembers the name of her village.

But she remembers the smell of its bread.

He cannot recall his childhood address.

But he knows the scent of his mother’s coat.

To honor elder memory is to honor the senses.

To create rituals that do not rely on words.

To offer healing through texture, scent, and gesture.

The artist becomes a gatherer.

She collects dried herbs, worn fabrics, old recipes.

She does not archive them—she activates them.

She creates sachets of remembrance.

She steeps stories into steam.

She folds linens like lullabies.

This is not nostalgia—it is care.

It is a protest against forgetting.

It is a ritual of presence.

The forgotten scent is not lost.

It is waiting.

In the drawer.

In the steam.

In the soil.

So when memory fades,

Return to the senses.

Let scent be the storyteller.

Let texture be the anchor.

Let ritual be the bridge.

This is not nostalgia. It is care.

To honor elder memory is to honor the senses.

To create rituals that do not rely on words.

To offer healing through texture, scent, and gesture.

Memory Practice

I invite you to make your own sachet of remembrance.

Fill it with herbs your grandmother used.

Fold it into a linen she once touched.

Place it in a drawer you open often.

Let it speak when memory cannot.

Let your art be aromatic.

Let your healing be tactile.

Let your awareness be felt.