My healing tastes of buttermilk biscuits.
On New Year’s Eve, I celebrate my past year’s journey by baking a fresh, homemade batch.
Hot. Plump. Scrumptious.
I no longer need the recipe book. I know the recipe by heart now. I even add a few of my own unique twists. I create from my sensing body.
I thank Mama Earth for each ingredient, float prayers of gratitude to the web of people who helped these ingredients land here in this mixing bowl.
Slowing down … coming home to my sensuality, to my own lush and radiant magic of self-mothering are the star ingredients in my biscuit-making.
My faith in the year ahead, in the unraveling to become, can be seen in the flour dusting my fingers.
My belief in myself is fortified by the delightful arrangement of the steaming biscuits on the dainty floral plate.
I am gifting myself a breakfast of beauty. I need beauty like I need water.
I am gifting myself a breakfast of warmth. I need heat like I need the warmth of unconditional love, the basking blaze of affectionate attentiveness.
I am gifting myself a breakfast that daily – and through sensual play – breaks the internal iciness that has kept me frozen … frozen out of my body, frozen out of my instincts, frozen out of my capacity to receive.
My healing tastes of buttermilk biscuits.
The coming home to the inner child, the little girl who learned to fawn and people-please to bullies to stay safe, who for many reasons could not run so she remained frozen in place but self-protected by checking out, numbing out, disassociating … she has been met, so gently, and with warm embraces from the woman I am now. I am the woman who can meet, mother, love my inner child. She is safe with me. I have her. She is wisdom, innocence, and truth.
The biscuits are a sign, a symbol, a breakfast ritual between my inner-child and who I am today. The biscuits are proof that there has been a healing. I never had any interest in cooking. I checked out when presented with an oven, and grocery runs felt like an energy-sucking chore. I use to just write it off that I was more of the perfect party guest than a dinner hostess … but that was just an iciness that needed to be thawed.
Liberating my inner child, recalibrating my nervous system, re-centering myself in the blissful empowerment of my womb, sparked a spontaneous desire to make biscuits and nurtured a confidence that I can indeed make those biscuits.
The ice is melting.
I am blooming here in winter. And the blooming is in enjoying, feeling, experiencing my life.
Blooming biscuits. Biscuits that bloom in revelations and reflections of my year so far with this spirit-word.
(I choose a word, a spirit-word, on my birthday eve, which feels more fitting for me than on the New Year.)
And as I savor these blooming biscuits (which are actually very fluffy!), I sense the winter wisdom in the air and beneath my feet.
We are winter. We are in the season of winter. We are in the season of rest, renewal, dreaming into being. Our intentions can incubate. Our actions nourished by the sacred stillness of the pause.
I can bloom in winter.
I can bloom in the deep non-doing, in the spaciousness, in the rest.
My dreams can bloom into fruition, in the alignment of spring, when they have received the fullest support of nutrients and clarity on how to unfold, grow, and shine.
I can lean back and be in my body, be in my life, and this beingness, this showing up of presence is all that is needed so when the golden opportunity arises, when that unexpected and true desire to bake flickers into sudden awareness, I have the energetic attentiveness, the embodied connection, to respond with YES.
Bake the biscuits.
Let day-to-day life bloom in a beauty that enlivens your animated aliveness.
Let the healing that is a homecoming to what has always been wholeness be scrumptious, joyous, flour-sprinkled playfulness.
Let the winter of our lives break any lingering pace of fastness.
Let the winter of our 2023 do its work for us so it can gift us with something soul-aligned and utterly delicious.
Here’s to a New Year of savoring goodness and surprising ourselves with the simple pleasures …
like homemade biscuits.