Candied cranberries & romancing rosemary create a fairytale crown for the gingerbread cake.
I gush in astonishment at her culinary creativity. The Eve now glistens with gingerbread scented daydreams & reaffirms the gift that is given when we honor the playful flow of our own magic-making, our unique inspired creations hold the power to uplift, beautify, circle us closer in reverence, calm, a sense of belonging.
Meditations on belonging swirl with the snowfall. I write quick love notes through texts. And I call. I want more phone calls in the New Year. A man who is like my second grandfather answers, tells me there’s cornbread in the oven & shares that he cries during holiday movies. He & I are both Geminis, & I too adore cornbread & cry easily in films, & we meet each other there — in that heart space radiating connection along invisible telephone lines.
Also on the Eve, before the telephone call & reveal of cake, there’s a breakfast table from childhood. After a pancake soaked in syrup, he lists his loved ones who have passed. I listen to my grandmother’s name, to family members vaguely known or never met. My grandfather is shy of 100 by a five years, he repeats this often, & so of course there are memories of people loved & not present physically at the Christmas Eve breakfast table.
And we let the sadness have a room at the table, & we let the gingerbread cake sit there too. I’m learning to let the people I love feel what they need to feel without thinking I need to fix, or entertain, or make them feel better or differently. Let the moment hold what it holds, & let there be cake, snowflakes & a present of presence wherever you may be.