It wasn’t a grand moment.
It was butter.
Melting.
A gentle hiss rising as it kissed the hot pan.
The batter followed like a quiet exhale — slow, certain, unapologetically thick.
I stood barefoot in my December kitchen,
no socks, no rush, no need.
Just skin meeting stone, warm from within.
The pancake began to form itself, and I knew exactly when to flip it.
No timer. No thought. Just knowing.
That’s what presence does.
It makes life taste like pancakes.
It curls at the edges and tells you,
“Now.”
It lets the body hum,
lets the breath deepen,
lets the eyes soften.
And I could have written website copy.
I could have finished a new section or outlined a tool.
But the body didn’t want that.
The body wanted to dance.
The body wanted to flirt with the steam from the kettle
and kiss the cinnamon through the air.
So we danced,
me and the moment,
me and the body,
me and the barefoot kitchen floor.
Not to escape creation.
But because this was creation.
Right here.
A December moment that needed no improving.
No adjusting.
No website to prove it was real.
Just a pancake,
a kiss of butter,
and the warmth of knowing I am home