In the enchanting glow of tree lights and the nostalgia-laden hum of Christmas carols, I find myself enveloped in the warmth of memories, with my mother's spirit embracing me most tenderly during this magical season. Christmas was her time to shine, and the air still carries echoes of her laughter and the rustle of wrapping paper.

Before dawn tiptoes into the room, I retreat to the antique desk, a relic that my father and I restored together. A soft glow emanates from the lights of the Christmas tree, casting a gentle ambiance on my quiet morning ritual. There, by the flickering lights, I open my journal and find solace.

In the delicate stillness, I light a candle in my mother's cherished porcelain ashtray. The golden bird, poised on the edge of a pink blush bloom, is almost too beautiful for lipstick-stained cigarettes but, of course, perfect for my mother. It's a treasure which sits this morning next to a small porcelain cup adorned with a whimsical rabbit—a token from my adventures in Japan many moons ago.

Dried rose petals, a tender reminder of fleeting beauty, float gracefully in the velvety darkness of ceremonial chocolate, crafted with care by Guatemalan women and prepared by me each morning with intention and reverence for the subtle plant medicine and female lineage. The air is infused with the rich aroma, creating a delicate dance of scents and memories. I am transported to the heart of the holiday season, surrounded by the essence of love, tradition, and the enduring spirit of my mother.