A few things happened in very quick succession. After getting home from a visit to my doctor who threaded a red, silicone loop through a hole in my elbow, I went through a box of memories before discarding them, broke down and wept, begged God or whatever was listening to take away the pain and depression I'd been unable for months to shake, spoke to my brother on the phone while he drove to an acupuncture clinic in Asheville, and finally ordered ten pounds of bread flour from a mill in Charleston, South Carolina while I sat on my couch with the blinds drawn and my dog napping next to me.
I finally slowed down long enough to take a deep breath.
There is a study in the Journal of Consumer Psychology that says retail therapy is proven to make people happier, as well as fight sadness and stress, especially in times of uncertainty. These times are nothing if not uncertain. That same study also suggests that in moments of panic or fright or loss of control, shopping is a sensible method of coping, and one that consumers use often. What is something we can do right now? With the traditional structures of finance and business, education, healthcare quickly upended and our routines and many of our jobs thrown into disarray by this pandemic, it's not surprising to see customers clamoring for jumbo packs of toilet paper. That is something we can take care of today.
What is something I can do right now?
The whole genesis for this website was that I'd discovered baking gave me a false sense of control in the moment and allowed me to access mindfulness in a way nothing else could. Baking kept me above water.
What capsized me today stemmed from the dissolution of a decade-long friendship. For the past five years, I spoke to this friend nearly every day. We texted each other most mornings. Had lunch or coffee together when we could. Coronavirus was not keeping us apart. It was a conscious separation. A few weeks ago we spoke and then parted.
Now I wake up and am unfailingly reminded that an irrevocable part of my loop, my daily life, is broken.
Most of my routine has been altered or removed. I no longer drive to the office on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Regular, weekly meetings with my assistant are now virtual and as needed. No more migas tacos from the shop around the corner. I wave to the woman who delivers our mail and wait for her to drive to the next house before I walk down the driveway, disinfect the mailbox, and bring in the bills which unfortunately never stop. Austin traffic is barely a nuisance such that I wonder what locals would complain about if the Mayor did allow them to hang out in groups larger than ten people. I heat up leftovers from the night before and scroll through coronavirus updates on Twitter and tap every New York Times push alert. NBA season cancelled. MLB season cancelled. Eurovision called off for the first time in sixty-four years. The Dow falls. Every hour it seems, life reshapes around the pandemic. A new loop has replaced the old.
That red silicone thread my doctor looped through a hole in my elbow? Three times a day, I have to move it back and forth like I'm flossing the cavity in my arm. To heal, I have to keep the wound open. It will drain and close a little bit every day. I take ibuprofen for the pain and wriggle the loop back and forth.
"It looks so great," my doctor tells me. She is elated. I think she is trying to keep my spirits up. She doesn't know how badly I need this or how grateful I am that she is keeping a positive attitude. Patients call her office every few minutes, and the nurse keeps leaving the room to answer and schedule more appointments. I am one of the few patients coming in not exhibiting signs of the coronavirus. I am a break in my doctor's new loop. Perhaps I am a balm for her just as much as she is for me.
My anxiety and depression feels like an orbit on an oblong loop. There are periods where I am further away, but I do not leave them behind. At some point, I will turn around the ship and come back. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes slowly.
I was a shitty friend. I could be caring and thoughtful, but I had a loop. Inevitably, I was shitty. Unreliable. Dishonest. Cruel. This has been the hardest loop to break.
Another push alert notifies me that my ten pound bag of flour will arrive in two business days. In preparation, I take out my starter from the fridge and begin feeding it fresh water and flour. This is a new wrinkle to my days. Care and feeding. Presence. Meditation. A moment of peace during unpeaceful times. When I walk into the kitchen to check on my starter's progress, my dog follows me hoping that I'm getting a snack that he can share too. He is often disappointed to find me fiddling with a glass jar bubbling with active cultures.
I lost my best friend, and I started baking bread. I struggled with recovery, and I started baking bread. I fuck up a lot of loaves. Sometimes there's no rise. I didn't sufficiently build up the gluten. I grew impatient. The dough needed more care. Less handling. More time. Under-proofed. Over-proofed. Some loaves have the texture of an eraser. I weigh out more bread flour and try it again. I know that I am on a loop, and maybe this time I'll get it right. There's always another bake. Ten pounds of bread flour makes a lot of fucking bread.
