I'm just standing in a doorway

The whir, whir of the blade rotating in its circles and the warmth of the cup of water and olive oil as it slowly drizzled into the mixture. All so simple, so elemental. Why does it matter, why does it matter, but it does. It forms a ball, the ball goes in a bowl, it is covered. Let it be; it rises. One firm push, and then let it rest. The technical word is, in fact, resting. It's a living thing, this.

It's not a good use of time, but it's the owning of time. It's the making of time. It's the claiming of time. Let it rise, let it rest.

I remarked, oh so many months ago, "I want to learn to bake bread."

He said, "It's pretty hard."

And that's when I knew we didn't know each other anymore.

Someone else said. "It's been a long time. I'd love to hear what you've been up to."

Would you really, I thought? I don't think you would. And how to explain? How to explain that I am sometimes most at peace when I have my fingers in the airy, risen dough? How to explain that I live like this now- I make some effort, and then I pause. I let it rest, see what happens. And if it seems to have worked, I proceed. And if it hasn't, there are new experiments ahead. Why does it mater, why does it matter, but it does. Life takes a form. You let it be. It rises or it fails to rise, and you adjust accordingly. Is there really any point in explaining this?