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 I woke up early this morning, this third day of Kwanzaa, when collective work and responsibility is the principle driving our actions and decided heartedly that I was not going to jump into my usual Monday work.

This is my usual day when I pop in a load of towels, sip some coffee, and have a moment before the hustle and bustle of the week takes over the quiet still of a very dark New England morning.

Yesterday, while my son was getting ready to go back to Boston, I decided a think.




So I baked bread.

Well, am baking bread, biscuits, to be exact.

The yeast was sat out for a 24 hour hold and was met with the other ingredients around 5:30am.

After everything was set and the dough resting, I went back to sip some coffee and write. 

Writing by hand soothes me and reminds me. I am connected in a different way and attentive, so I gave myself some time to be present with just me. 

My library has near floor-to-ceiling windows and my favorite blue leather chair. I sat here, the sky was still nearly pitch black, the first inkling of indigo did not emerge until almost an hour later. The house was quiet, it is holiday break.

It was calm. Noiseless. Busy-less. 

The moment called for me to just be present with what she was giving me.

An hour later, the dough was ready to be separated and rolled to buns. By then, the shades of blue beckoned us to be alert.

After separating the dough and forming it for the baking pan, I popped it into the over and considered how many of my mothers did this morning ritual. It was by now, almost 9am. My house was no longer quiet quiet, the first moves and noises of still-on-holiday-break began to happen.

So, I baked biscuits.

And my daughter is taking a morning run.

And my husband is downstairs working, the pandemic altering everything.

We settle into a new kind of being, in these times when time seems to be all we have and yet, none of what we have.

I'm on holiday break for my work and wrapped my vacation around it so I could be present with my daughter home from college. 

One of the gifts of doing that is that I have slowed down, to look at all the books in my library, to put up artwork, to feel this house in my new state. And to bake bread, to be. And consider how much I want to seal this in memory and never take for granted the opportunity for quiet.


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