Grateful For The Making

Bread in the making, and the making in me.

There is a moment in breadmaking that feels almost electric - the dough alive, stretching and folding in my hands, the sleeves of my coat dusted with flour. It is equal parts science and instinct, something measured and something guessed.

Bread isn't romantic in this stage. It's sticky, resistant, demanding. But this is where it begins to take on strength. This is where a loose gathering of flour and water becomes something with shape, something with a future.

I've come to love this part - not just the finished loaf with a golden crust, but the feel of the dough in my hands, warm and restless. It reminds me that creation is often messy before it is beautiful, that everything worth keeping asks for patience and touch.

In these small, ordinary moments - the sleeves rolled, hand pressing into dough - I see most clearly the life I'm building. Bread - like me - not perfect, not polished, but alive. Grateful for the making.