Lately I’ve been aimlessly wandering around the world of the third trimester, trying to navigate where I’m headed and determine what self-imposed  expectations are going to be met within these next few precious weeks.  Looking forward, reaching toward the everstretching finish line, trying to run when it’s getting tough to even walk these days.

Time to slooooooowww it down.

And there’s no greater exercise in stillness than making bread by hand.  No relying on the Kitchen Aid, no rapid rise yeast, just a counter full of ingredients and these two hands.

You just can’t rush the process.  It’s an all day event, just right for a blooming belly that is quickly forcing more and more limitations.  A blissful baby that is announcing her place in this tribe.  A bummed out mama who feels like a wild horse who’s finally been broken.

Hands plunging into a medley of stickiness, stopping to wait while tired eyes decipher new directions.  Again.  And again.  Distracted by the keen interest displayed by a tiny boy sitting nearby on his sturdy wooden throne.

Fretting about how this mass of flour and water will come together:   Will it turn out ok?  What if this recipe is horrible?   Will my oven catch on fire when I spray water inside to steam the dough?  Will the heat recover quickly enough?  Will it rise?  Will it rise enough?  Will the seeds burn?

Stop.  Knead.  Listen.

Listen as the dough performs its magic, its ancient secret of binding the single parts into the sum of the whole.  Listen as it suddenly grooves into its new form, effortlessly, immediately.  All by the work of these two hands.  Slowly.  No rush.  Right here, right now.

Everything is going to be just fine.

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