There are memories that settle inside us like small lights that never go out.
Moments from another life that keep breathing quietly in a corner of the heart.
And every autumn, when the world rushes toward Black Friday and endless noise, I inevitably return to one of those memories.
Many years ago, before becoming a mother, when I travelled often for work and the world felt wide and open, I was lucky enough to experience two Thanksgivings in a row.
Two moments so different that they still move me today.
The first was in Quebec.
A warm, family Thanksgiving, with a feeling very close to our own Christmas: a full table, simple gestures, that sense of belonging even when you’re far from home.
It felt like receiving a gentle hug in an unfamiliar place.
The second… was in New York.
Alone, working, in a city that never slows down.
That holiday morning I decided to walk — just walk — and somehow found myself entering a church in Harlem, right in the middle of a gospel service.
I was the only white person in a room full of voice, skin and soul.
And there, wrapped in a song that still gives me goosebumps, I ended up held tightly by a huge, sweet man, both of us crying with an emotion that had no name.
After the service, we went out to deliver food to people living on the streets.
For hours, that Thanksgiving became exactly that: community, humanity, sharing.
And when everything was done, I walked to Central Park.
There, among trees and cold air, I processed everything I had lived:
the surprise, the gratitude, the deep feeling of simply belonging — no questions, no filters, no prejudices.
That day I made a decision:
as long as I could, I would celebrate Thanksgiving in my own way.
Not for the tradition, but for the feeling:
gratitude, sharing, recognising myself in others and letting others recognise themselves in me.
And every year, when this moment comes, the memory returns.
And I sit, look at the resting earth, and give thanks.
Because the land teaches me too.
While Black Friday emails fill my inbox and the world races ahead, nature speaks of something else:
of roots resting, of seeds waiting, of rhythms that can’t be rushed.
Thanksgiving taught me gratitude.
The field has taught me patience.
And Christmas reminds me that the light always returns, even when the days are short and cold.
So this year, here at Flox, I want to honour a different kind of Christmas:
a slower one, quieter, closer.
A Christmas of small gestures, of bouquets that smell of life, of tables big enough for every emotion.
A Christmas that feels a little more like that day in New York:
where no one asks “Where are you from?”,
but instead, “Are you hungry? Are you alright? Sit with us.”
This is what I wish for the end of the year.
And perhaps it’s what I wish to share with you too:
a little calm, a little light, a little truth.
If these words reached you in any way, I like to imagine that somewhere on the map we are walking under the same sunset.
Thank you for walking with me, even if only with your eyes and your heart.
Susanna
