This morning, after the kids were at school and I had walked the dog, I started bread dough.
There was a time not so long ago, but also not in the recent past, when Fatty declared that I needed to bake more bread. Mind you, this was not a declaration of his love of freshly baked bread, although I think he does enjoy it. Nor was it a testament to my baking skills – he doesn't like a lot of sweets. He said that I am happier when I am baking bread.
Truth be told, I was taken aback. It's not that I don't like to bake – I do find it very enjoyable, although my waistline does not. I just didn't see it. I didn't see the happier when baking scenario. But his words weighed on my mind, and still sometimes do. Bread? Really? After awhile of pondering how baking bread could possibly be making me happier, I had the revelation. The bread baking was just another way of making. It was the making that was producing happiness.
I need to make.
So today because I had things that I had to do while the kids were at school and I knew that after they were home, I would not have time, I did my making early. I mixed the water with the yeast and the salt and slowly stirred in the flour. I let rise on the counter for 3 hours before baking a loaf for dinner. We ate it with soup and it was delicious.
The making does not happen everyday. I don't want you to think that my life is perfect and each day goes swimmingly. This is not the case. Life happens here, too. But when those little pockets of time appear, I grab them. I might sew, I might crochet, I might simply make dinner. My making doesn't need to be a huge project, although sometimes that is really nice. A few stitches in fabric does wonders for my outlook and puts a smile on my face. What I require is some ingredients or materials, a little time and my hands. With just those things, I can make.
And it's knowing that I need the making that is making all the difference.