The Day Dr. Love Showed Up

Not your typical day at the winery

In 1984, I was the Hospitality Director at the Mirassou Winery in San Jose. It was a great job. Life-changing, actually. I loved pairing wines with meals, welcoming guests, and introducing people to what made wine so special. I thought I understood hospitality. I thought I understood connection.

I was just beginning to—and in the perfect place to learn.

One day, one of our VPs told me a VIP would be visiting. She said he taught a class at UCLA. A class about love. I had never heard of him. She said people called him “Dr. Love,” and I remember thinking that sounded a little ridiculous. But I showed up at 11 a.m. sharp to host the tour, lunch, and tasting. I had selected the wines myself and worked with our chef to prepare something memorable.

As usual, I went out front to welcome the group. I expected to shake some hands, say a few polite things, and move on with the tour.

That is not what happened.

I was introduced to a man named Dr. Leo. I reached out politely to shake his hand.

He stepped in and hugged me.

This was not a quick hello. It wasn’t even the kind of awkward, friendly hug Californians sometimes offer.

This was something else.

It was a full-bodied, soul-level embrace. The kind of hug you’d give someone who had been lost in a war. Someone you thought was gone forever. Someone whose return makes you believe in something again.

I had never experienced anything like that from a stranger.

Leo Buscaglia, as I later learned, was an author and speaker who dedicated his life to love. Not romantic love. Not vague or fluffy love. Actual love. Human connection. Presence. Recognition. Gratitude. All of it.

We did the tour. Then a brief tasting. Then on to lunch at the Heritage House. Our chef, Peggy, had worked hard to prepare a beautiful meal. I introduced her to Leo.

She got a hug.

So did her team.

And again, not polite hugs. These were sacred acknowledgments. He made each person feel seen. Valued. Celebrated. Not for what they’d accomplished—but for who they were.

A couple hours later, we made our way back across the compound to the winery. That’s when I saw something I will never forget.

Everyone—every single employee from the tasting room, the offices, the admin building—had gathered outside.

And they were standing in line.

Waiting to be hugged.

One person said, “I heard about your hugs and I needed to see for myself.”

I’ve seen standing ovations. I’ve seen people line up for autographs. I’ve seen people go quiet in the presence of someone famous or powerful.

But I had never seen this. Not before. Not since.

This man arrived without a lecture. Without a book to sell. Without any demand for attention.

He simply was love.

He gave it away freely. Consistently. Without apology or hesitation. And it changed the atmosphere. It rewired the room. It invited people to remember something they had forgotten about themselves—and about others.

I’ve been thinking about that day a lot lately.

Maybe because I’ve been struggling to communicate the message I care about most. That appreciation, gratitude, and presence aren’t luxuries. They’re essentials. That wine, when approached with intention, can be more than a commodity. It can be a teacher. A tool for connection. A way of paying attention.

An invitation to practice love.

But sometimes I feel like I’m shouting into the wind.

Then I remember Dr. Buscaglia. And how his message didn’t need to be shouted. It didn’t even need to be spoken. It just needed to be lived.

And it was contagious.

That’s what I’m trying to build here. A small, human place. A practice. A space where we pay attention to the moment. Where we look someone in the eye and remember they matter. Where a glass of wine isn’t about anything but presence and generosity.

I often wonder if a love for wine comes before appreciation—or if people who naturally appreciate are drawn to wine. All I know is that appreciation, gratitude, and wine all live in the same space.

Thank you for being here. For reading. For feeling.

If this resonates, please share it with someone who needs it.

Let’s build something contagious.