I’m kneading bread dough in the kitchen, on that damn warped board that has the crack in it. It’s shimmying all over the place, and I’m thinking about how I really should have replaced it already. About how you told me I needed better tools.
I’m caught up thinking about a quiet cabin in the woods, watching snow fall in feathery flakes, kneading dough on a real butcher block that’s made for such things, at the proper height and with plenty of room. There’s venison stew just beginning to bubble softly on a grate over the fire. The dog, big and furry, is stretched out full-length in front of it, baking his belly and snoring gently. I need to muck out the sheep stalls after I finish this, and spin the wool from the lamb’s last shearing, so I can replace those awful mittens of yours. The last patching is wearing out already, and they aren’t doing you any good. Your hands on my shoulders feel cold when you come inside.
I’m warmed by thoughts of being tucked up for winter in the calm and the still.
What is nostalgia for things that haven’t happened? Things that won’t happen? Wistfulness, I suppose.
Sometimes I wonder, if the noise of our combined madness hadn’t drowned out everything else, if this would be where we left things. Doesn’t matter though, because this is where it is.
This is the year of letting go. The year of releasing everything.
I shaped the dough and put it back into the bowl. I washed my hands. I let go.
Wistful music to read by…https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GUE3E9w-Vg&list=PLY4gRtK2vPT35_MoDQPun1jxuZ35t49es&index=8