It’s a cinnamon sort of day. Cold and rainy outside, with a hard-dancing wind. Cozy inside, squashed cushions and piles of dishes in the sink saying it’s a day for warmth and imperfection. I grind a little cinnamon as a dark dusting on the creamy yogurt cheese I’ve layered on a toasted pancake ( this morning’s leftover non-gluten strawberry banana) and sniff. I smile. The edges of a grey mood drift away into the distance. In my imagination, I taste the layered sweetness of a lifetime of fragrant comfort foods – oatmeal with cinnamon, Bobi’s cinnamon rolls, hot apple pie, and yes, the classic cinnamon toast. And in my head, the bass line of Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl” thumps a fitting soundtrack. Reassuring. Doubts, creative and otherwise, fade. Breathing, smelling, tasting, and remembering come to the fore. A week of overwhelm slides into the past and I find myself glowing with gentle gratitude. Nothing quite like a cinnamon sort of day.