This is a ritual of apology.

1. An apology to myself for faltering and being swept by the waves.

2. An apology to my closest for retreating within, hiding and plotting, carving quiet spaces in the dark for respite.

   And

3. An apology to the world for abandoning it, for refusing to write its continuation, out of spite for what it had done to me.

To begin the ritual of apology, you must ensure a shawl of quiet and warm has settled around your shoulders like a comfortable weight, holding you down and close, reassuring. Collect the various required ingredients, without giving thought to the how or what or why or can questions that bubble inside you:

½ cup Shortening

Acknowledge that retrieving to the safety inside yourself, inside your space during turmoil is acceptable, important, crucial for your survival.

½ cup Butter

Acknowledge that the retrieve should have been followed by pulling your closest even closer, blending their flame with yours, warming your fire until you can sustain it yourself.

Acknowledge that our incapability of doing so hurts us more in the long term.

Acknowledge that you are constantly learning and growing, and as the recipe changes, so should you.

1 cup Fine Sugar

Reminisce on how far you have come.

Think back to the time before the cottage by the river, to the time before the flood and the waves pounding on your door, to the time before your mother knocked asking-

"Beta, are you okay?"

"open the door"

"please open the door?"

Think back to the time when you first stood up against the sea and felt the wave recede away from you into the horizon. Those times will come again.

Just because your flame feels low and your body is damp and cold does not diminish what you have accomplished so far.

2 tbsp of vanilla essence

Close your eyes and imagine the field just off the east side of the river.

In the summer, it’s filled with lilies. Clustered red, pink, white, yellow, they paint the air with their scent. Can you feel the soft petals brushing against your face as you lay among them? Can you remember the serenity of watching the clouds transform in front of your eyes?

Your own personal field of magic.

2 ½ cup flour

Remind yourself that everyone is built of stuff. Soft stuff, strong stuff, cement-like stuff, cloud-like stuff. All stuff or stuffing, stuffed into the corners of our bodies, giving us structure and shape.

Remind yourself of the stuff you are made of:

The pages of books that replenish your soul over and over.

The words on love letters from people long gone, fuelling your desire to love and be loved.

The rocks of mountains you have conquered, climbing fist over foot, moving to the sound of encouraging shouts.

The soft filling of eclairs shared over the dinner table, exchanged with laughs and sticky fingers too busy holding and cherishing to be wiped clean.

The shouts of your closest, close only in physical proximity now, ringing loud and clear in your ears, like a mantra, repeating phrases until they are carved into you like a permanent tattoo you never wanted.

1 egg

Acknowledge that it is okay to break. It is okay to retreat. It is okay to deny help or never ask for it. It is okay to refuse the world its words ever again.

It is okay as long as you promise to create yourself anew out of the broken pieces.

Promise yourself this. You owe yourself this much.

The ingredients sit on the counter like soldiers, waiting for battle. The ritual of apology is gentler than a battle, though the aim is the same: to win and conquer. I am writing and creating to win trust and conquer hearts, win love and conquer souls, win joy and happiness and bliss and conquer myself for myself.

First, the shortening, the butter, and the sugar.

The air around you, with your face held close to the mixing bowl, is enveloped in the sickly sweet smell of acknowledgement. The past, present, and future come together to accept your apology, accept your penance for retreating and hiding. Mounds of yellowy soft form, inviting promise and magic to be intermingled.

Add the egg and the vanilla essence.

The air will turn even sweeter, almost the scent of the field of lilies but not quite that. Streaks of red-brown blend and blend and blend until the mounds of yellowy soft turn into cottony concrete peaks.

Sift the flour.

Sift it even if there is no need to sift it. Sift it even if you’re sure that there is nothing hiding among the white specks. Sift it through and through, through the smallest strainer you can find, slowly watching the crystals settle comfortably into one another. Take care to go slow, take care of the stuff. This is the structure of your apology. You must sift your love and penance and request into it, tenderly.

Gently bring together-

the structure of your apology with the sweet cottony concrete peaks.

Form a sticky dough-

that smooths easily as you roll it in your hands and coats them in a layer of sweet butter. On a baking sheet with barely a whisper of grease on it,

pipe the dough-

into the shape of your apology. Make them plenty or the same.

Use a bag or a press and spritz-

your apology in place,

roughly 1-inch apart from one another.

Add chocolate or jam or sprinkles or dried fruit-

to flavour your apology further.

Bake at 350° celsius until

a hint of brown blush is beginning to creep up the sides. Take care not to disturb them until they are cool.

Wrap them in parchment, tie it with a ribbon, and gift it to yourself, to your closest, and to the world.

The aftermath of this ritual has dried the cottage (by the river). The floorboards warm with the heat of the over feel supportive under my feet. The scent of fresh spritz cookies wafts happily around the space, exploring its new home with bounding energy.

In the end, acknowledge that the ritual of the apology is just that - a ritual.

Like combing your hair before dusting powder on your face. Like watering the plants everyday. Like praying before a meal, grateful.

Acknowledge that the ritual can and must and should change,

just like the recipe, and

just like you.