I fried the spices in butter, waking up their flavor, then removed them so their essence remained, leaving space for the arrival of the fruit.

Cranberries first, sizzling in the hot fat. Then the diced apples and a splash of cider. A handful of sugar and a pinch of salt. Patience. Bubbling liquid softening the fruit, dissolving some and leaving others’ shapes intact. Not long after, the compote was done.

We ate it for breakfast on my husband Caleb’s homemade waffles, the brightness of the compote a vivid bite with each soft square. I would nap later, but for the moment, I felt awake to winter, to how far I could see now that nearly all the leaves had fallen. Awake to the first snow, rushing outside to catch flakes on our tongues. Leo, now thirteen, wrote “I <3 YOU” in the fresh-fallen powder on our back porch and made his first snowballs of the season. Awake to the horizon the morning after the storm, clouds sitting low, apricot light glowing from beneath making it look like the sun was rising in the south rather than the east. Awake to the river later that day, roiling like an ocean in the storm’s windy aftermath.

Awake to my dreams, scribbled in my journal in the dark mornings. Awake to wanting to stay inside and listen to the rain wash the snow away. I don’t feel like interacting with other people much right now, but when I do, I’m awake to the possibilities of what can happen. I check in with the staff at the Food Pantry where I volunteer, and learning of the need for cereals and snacks in advance of kids being home for the holidays, put the word out to our volunteer coordinators. The next day, something wakes up in my heart when I learn that an anonymous donor had an Instacart delivery made to the Pantry with the very items we were seeking, just in time.

Awakening is a process; awake, a state. I feel all of it: how far I've come, the infinite choices ahead of me, and the wonder of being in the glow right here.