There is something about the whir of the mixer and the small puffs of flour attempting at escape as I mix in the hard things.
I find myself here often - before my countertop; grains of white scattered on the front of my shirt, whispered into my hair, covering surfaces of my kitchen. There is nothing neat about pouring flesh feelings into a mixing bowl and beating them into submission.
I feel the heat of the stove, gently nudging me to let me know its ready. There is patience to be found in the mixing, the scooping, the waiting for the perfect confection to yield to your demands of bake mastery.
Many times I've rushed it - wanting to get to the best part of consumption and they are left burnt and crispy on the bottom. There is not satisfaction in working toward something in a rush only to be met with the realization that you pushed before it was really time.
I look down at my tshirt and see a trail of dry ingredients reminding me there are many parts that go into the creation of something sweet. It must not be rushed, we cannot skip over parts - there is beauty in that, ya know.
I drop semi-sweet chocolate chips down into the bowl and consider that they may hold tiny fragments of my frustration and this is my will to eradicate such feelings from a choke-hold.
I spoon the mixture onto foiled pans and whisper to myself to do small increments at a time - you don't want to ruin this batch.
As the second tick past I feel a tightness in my chest dissolve and then catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. The hair, the eyes, the counter space - it is wild. The life is wild.
And I laugh.
Because there is growth in the waiting.
Lessons lie in the cohesion of separates.
The heat of these things will make us rise.
Here's to the rising.