Tuesday, February 2, 2010


It's cold outside. Yes, this is part of February, I know, and I continue to stare in wonder outside as the snow begins to fall again. As a Texan-transplant, the snow still maintains a sense of magic for me. It isn't layers of ice, deceptively clear enough to lure you into an assured walk, only to fall hard on your hip or face. That is here, certainly, but it is surrounded by this...snow. I have been feeling kind of melancholy in the midst of all of it, though I'm not entirely sure why. I have been so tired that I work myself into a bit of insomnia. This morning, upon waking at four-thirty and tossing for an hour-and-a-half, I decided to head downstairs and bake a loaf of bread. I realized I could finish a loaf before class started at 10:30, and I went to work on a cinnamon-swirl loaf. I shared a loaf with a friend who has a birthday tomorrow, and realized once again how much a certain part of me longs to be in the kitchen. In the midst of kneading a sourdough this afternoon, I realized I was learning how to react to the bread. It sounds odd, I know, but I have found a remarkable connection with the process of baking bread, with feeling the soft dough form under my hands, as I work with it, and it responds to me. Bread, with all of its simplicity, is remarkably complex. I'm not sure what it is, but in the midst of the cold, majestic frozen flakes that fall outside, I found myself at home in the snugness of my kitchen, as my love slept soundly upstairs. I joined her there shortly after putting the dough out for its first rising, to catch an hour of long-sought after sleep and rested in the soft smell of flour on my shirt and the feeling of arms wrapped unconsciously and lovingly around me. It was the best sleep I'd had in days...

I'm too tired to write more now, and am slipping into sleep even as I write.

Peace and Grace

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