making bread, still
I’ve been making bread, reminding myself of release, patience, the importance of yielding to each other, to life as it rises beneath our fists. Even the dough must exhale a little in order to make things turn out right. It’s all a matter of balance.
More or less.
It’s intuitive, all the books say. You’ve got to learn to listen, to read with your hands the changes, the messages that are right there on your fingertips. The bread will tell you what to do if you’re careful, attentive.
A poem by Robert Louis Stephenson
Fairy Bread
Come up here, O dusty feet!
Here is fairy bread to eat.
Here in my retiring room,
Children, you may dine
On the golden smell of broom
And the shade of pine;
And when you have eaten well,
Fairy stories hear and tell.
