A Christmas Time Devotional

Time moves differently now for me. There is no urgency. Nothing screaming to be done.

The phone no longer buzzes with obligation.

I am free. And for the first time in my life, I feel it fully.

Time behaves differently in free space. It stretches and softens. It becomes something I can play with rather than race against. I can speed it up by falling into a project, letting hours disappear inside creative flow. Or I can slow it down by sipping coffee and watching squirrels jump from tree to tree.

This next cycle, I intend to slow it further. Almost like Miss Havisham stopping the clocks. Not frozen in grief, but suspended in presence. A moment held long enough to absorb what is here without rushing toward what comes next.

If time sat beside me this morning, it would feel relaxed. Willing. Ready to move at my pace. Less like a taskmaster, more like a dance partner waiting for my lead.

My house is more than a home. It is a pod of energy.

It has a heart downstairs where I create all day, and a mind-body upstairs where I rest. Every morning I tend this pod. I tend its atmosphere the way one tends a fire or a garden.

As a child, I used to want to live in Jeannie’s bottle from I Dream of Jeannie. Round. Enclosed. Filled with plush pillows and soft light. A protected interior made for dreaming. That image lives at the core of how I want my home to feel. A shell. A sanctuary. A place where I don’t need armor.

My outward intensity has lessened so much that I sometimes wonder if I can still summon the energy to act in the world the way I once did. I have changed. I am no longer living in survival mode, and that shift has altered everything.

Removing myself from rooms where I was carrying all the light was key. It still is. I no longer want to be the strong one, the radiant one, the one holding everything together. I will not shine unless it is for myself.

The realization that I am allowed to fill my glass first, without guilt or explanation, has been the most freeing discovery of all.

I notice now when I begin to put my armor on. I feel it in my body before my mind catches up. And I ask myself: Who am I preparing to defend myself against? Who requires this version of me just to exist in conversation?

I am no longer interested in those rooms.

At the center of my home stands my bauble tree. It is my world-axis. It moves with the seasons, displaying ornaments like moments made visible. Each sphere feels born from the creative atmosphere itself, adorned on the tree of my inner center.

Color is how I understand myself.

Every creation begins with a question: What color is the vibe? What objects carry it? What season does it belong to? How does it move through the body emotionally, sensorially, physically?

The seasons matter more to me than anything else. This tree, standing through them all, is how I’ve grounded my life and my work. It represents receptivity. It revolves. It changes. It holds inspiration without demanding output.

Today I bask in its red and white glow. I watch the lights flicker and scatter across the room. I let myself admire the end of a season that was full, heartfelt, and seen.

And gently, without rushing, I make space for the next muse to begin finding her way toward me.

I do not rush the turning of this season. I let it steep. I let it teach me what only stillness can say.

Happiest of Holy Days.