Great love stories are told and retold throughout the ages, carrying medicine for healing hearts. When we hear them, we become the story. They are ours.And they are shared. We are swept up in the flow of them as they wash over us. They intoxicate us, impregnate us, inviting our souls to birth their sweet songs.
Love cannot be put in a ledger, counted and sorted like currency, or weighed on a scale. Pros and cons won’t do. Logic doesn’t live in the heart. And love doesn’t live in the head, but in every sense we have. Carried within fresh bread, my mother’s perfume, and an open rose, love dwells within a scent that memory carries so well.
It was love that made her heart burst wide open. With food in her belly, and wine on her lips, Mary gives the most intimate of gifts to her friend. The love that pooled into her heart would not be dammed. It coursed through every vein, spilling onto the floor. She kneels, pouring out a years wages worth of perfume upon the young rabbi’s feet, and wipes them with her hair.* Boldly surrendering to the sweetness of the moment, she openly shows her love to the one who had given them all so much. Those who bore witness on that day, covered their mouths and hearts in amazement. A story forever lodged within their senses.
The memory of love is embalmed within every fragrance that steals us, that weakens our knees, waters our eyes, or makes us blush. Gratitude and devotion have a signature that we all can sense. Come and see what love looks like.
