The world is heavy in my hands today.
Inside my ring of mountains and outside, there are things that I cannot change, problems I cannot solve.
The world is heavy in my hands today.
So, I take a breath. I wash my hands, scrub under my nails, and knead bread dough.
I place the dough in a bowl to rise.
I shape a round loaf and place it in a cast iron pan, slice a thin ribbon across the top, and let it rise again.
This is an old ritual, an old memory.
My grandmother’s grandmother did this in another world, at another time.
I did not have to be taught this skill. My bones have known this since before I remember.
This is how I remind myself of the infinite truth of humanity: we are who we are because we bake bread and we bandage wounds and we share blankets for warmth. We are human because of our paintings and poems and how we work together as a community to care for and love each other. We are human.
I choose to embrace our beauty.
I choose to hold the heaviness close and to feel it, and to pour my fatigue and hurt and rage into my muscles, turning and pushing and kneading the dough until it is smooth and I am at ease.
The world is heavy in my hands today, and I am baking bread.
Originally posted on Facebook on February 24, 2022.