My Christmas cactus is in bloom. Pretty and pink on my kitchen windowsill, it is a spark of joy in the dark and early morning as I wait for the Keurig to do its very important work.
I saw something that explained, based on the shape, the difference between Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter cactuses. Maybe it’s right, maybe it’s not. It doesn’t matter. I’m less interested in the label than I am the delight I derive in watching it flower.
I consider grabbing my camera when the light is right later and taking some photos, but I probably won’t. I’m in the season of writing, trying to wrap up this book, and temporarily set some things aside in favor of the work. Photography is one of those things. I miss the mindfulness of the practice but will return to it in good time. I’ve learned not to try to do everything at once. It’s okay.
In quiet solitude, I examine the flowers through a different eye as the coffeemaker coughs out my morning elixir. Then I turn and take warm soy milk from the microwave, froth it, and pour it over the coffee. Perfection. Feasts for my eyes and my palate to begin the day.
I’ll look through my archives and choose other pink petals to accompany this short post. You’ll have to imagine the Christmas (or Thanksgiving) cactus blooms for now.