My life is so boring.
I do the same things every day: read, write, drink coffee, walk dogs, walk myself, write, take baths, do housework.
It’s rough, this life.
I also work on my yoga sequences and go to the gym.
Other things happen, too, but mostly it’s that.
If I were to make a list of what I do every day, that’s what I would list out.
But running underneath all those things, like a river under a bridge, is all the stuff I think about.
And wonder about, and create mental movies about. I play out what I wouldda, couldda, shouldda done if XXY had happened.
It’s how we all live.
Or most of us. Or some of us.
It’s how I live, anyway.
All those doings—the reading, the dog walking, etc, are just the surface stuff. Important, of course, but the real party happens in my mind. Or at least I think so.
But the party in my mind isn’t real. It’s fun, though. Ideas I read about in books, ideas I encounter online, or in podcasts, even conversations with friends, can spin me around for days, weeks, or months. It’s highly entertaining. There are highs, lows, suspense, drama, you name it.
But only actions are real.
Thoughts are not real, ideas are not real, dreams are not real. They’re all just mental static, neuronal firings in the brain, circuits that light up in the fMRI.
They don’t have any reality until and unless we act on them. You can think anything you want, but you need to act on it to make it real.
I used to dream of having a yoga studio, for instance, but until I signed a lease, it was just a dream.
And more recently, my freaked-out thoughts about UPFs could have resulted in just rage-complaining to G about it, but instead, I took action.
I bought stuff.
I bought stuff to make bread. Bread with no UPFs.
I bought five pounds of Bob’s Red Mill unbleached white flour, a bamboo bread slicer, and a massive amount of yeast.
I looked for Pyrex bowls, but Em said loaf pans would work as well.
But after all those things arrived, I still didn’t make bread, because, frankly, I’m afraid of bread.
Or, I’m afraid of failing at bread. It’s the yeast, and the kneading, and the rising, and the proofing, and god only knows all what else. It’s a lot.
But Em said it’s easy, and she gave me a no-knead peasant bread recipe.
But still I resisted. And the big red bag of flour sat on the counter, patiently tapping its toe, giving off “Anytime you’re ready” vibes.
And today was the day.
And why was today the day, and not yesterday, or the weekend? Because today is Blog Day, and I have been procrastinating all day because I have nothing to write about. So I made the bread.
Procrasti-bread
The second rise took longer than the recipe said, and I was worried about it.
Also, one loaf pan was narrower than the other one, so I worried the wide one wasn’t rising.
But everything turned out great! And the house smelled amazing!
Yum!
This is the bamboo slicer. It doesn’t slice, but rather guides the knife, allowing for uniform slices.
The thought movie I had running in my head about breadmaking being hard, or at least tricky, in reality, wasn’t true. Maybe sourdough is trickier, or brioche, or challah, but this basic peasant bread turned out to be a breeze.
And so it turns out that even when I think, and believe, and know for sure I don’t have anything to write about, when I do the writing, I can wind up making something real.
Like this ridiculous story about bread.
Which is not as tasty as that bread with butter, but maybe next time..
Inspiration Location 