Bread in through the looking glass.

Early this morning the two of us baked together. I wrapped him to my chest and prepared the dough, talking him through each step, letting him sift the flour and salt through his fingers.

I showed him the dough as it changed form throughout the day, at first rough and sticky, then smooth and pillowy. I baked it as he slept. Tomorrow we will cut into the loaf and I will hand him a thick, buttered slice.

I made this sourdough starter sometime in late spring or early summer of 2017. For days I left the window open to introduce as much wild yeast as possible, and now I often joke that the starter consists mostly of construction dust. It has survived multiple bouts of neglect, turning soupy and sour and grey-tinged in the fridge as I struggled through months of loss, uncertainty, quiet exhaustion.

Two years ago today we learned that I had miscarried what would have been our first child. It was completely devastating, and the beginning of a fundamental shift in the way I understood the world.

I learned the bounds of my control. I learned how to let that go, and how to live in the terrifying, vulnerable, and powerful realm of uncertainty. I learned the salve of authentic friendship and community, which came only after discovering how to trust in others and to believe that I am worthy of their help. I kept showing up, and learned that sometimes when that was all I could muster, it was enough. I learned that everyone is going through something, and therefore taught myself to be more compassionate toward others, more lenient with their limitations. I learned that gratitude and grief can coexist, that one does not have to negate the other. And I learned that I will fail epically and often at each of these things, but that that’s okay as long as I’m still trying.

And I made sourdough.

Last updated September 22, 2019