Epiphany, January 6, did not hold much meaning for me growing up. As a child, it was the day by which the tree had to be taken down and decorations put away, a pretty sad day in my world. It was also the day after my father’s birthday, what seemed a footnote to the holiday season, poor guy.
But when I lived in France, the father-to-be of my child introduced me to the tradition of what in fact is the feast of the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles, as represented by the Magi. Or, the Feast of the Three Kings. Beginning around New Years all the French pastry shops have galettes des rois, a flaky, buttery, frangipane-filled puff pastry into which is baked a fève–in humble origins a dried bean, now a tiny adorable porcelain figurine. Whoever gets the fève will have good luck in the new year, and also gets to wear the crown that comes with.
Unable to resist anything combining puff pastry, frangipane, fève and crown I quickly became a fan. I loved that there was something to look forward to post-New Year let down, a real 12 Days of Christmas culmination. Perhaps in the vein of nothing is an accident, our child would be born on New Year’s Day, thus further attaching me to this time period; ever since, events of some import seem to occur in my life throughout.
This year, my father turned 90 on the 5th. We convened on the 3rd for a family dinner in Saratoga in a snow and ice storm, through which I drove coming and going, stubborn as I am. There were relatives from as far as Halifax and Dallas, the eldest my father’s 93-year old sister, in good form and ever gracious. My son, not speaking to me, was there; he’d turned 27 on the 1st, and hung with his 33- and 23-year old cousins. The friend who accompanied me as well as cousins Scarlett and Jorge (Dallas and Indianapolis) offered support through the evening, as I performed to the best of my ability, attempting to do it with grace, the role I’ve been given.
Jorge gave an eloquent, pitch perfect to my ear toast in which he spoke of the vagaries of life and families– his own has known great heartbreak and division– and that love, in the end, trumps all. We can only hope my boy is not too lost to hear.
By the 6th I had the flu, from which I’m only now emerging: interlude in flu major. I haven’t had the flu since my first winter in Paris, 1987, the year of being introduced to les galettes. This year, the second day I was sick Charlie Hebdo was attacked, and January in Paris felt very close.
Galette-like, Epiphany 2015 has a lot of layers of meaning for me, many still to be uncovered. So far, it is about needing to stop, completely, eradicate toxins internal and external, and reassess. Where to put my energy, where can I place trust. It is also about the unexpected appearance of love in persons from far away (familiar, hmm)–and some pretty close to home. And, about the honoring of a landmark in a life, a life that led to a few of our own.
Epiphany is about love and light and truth being revealed within the heart of winter. This idea has come up against some pretty stiff challenges in my personal life lately, not least this holiday season. But fresh off my 12 days of flu, I’ll wager my fève and put my money with Jorge: love does–it will–in the end trump all.