The Soul Needs Food, Too
Days like today (and weeks like this week) I really just want to throw in the towel and give up on life. Seriously. I felt so overwhelmed by the prospect of the work that I have to do (and the lack of inspiration with which to do it) that I just wanted to quit school altogether.
For as much as I do it, I really don't enjoy being so negative. It's a difficult slump to get out of, and I end up complaining to my friends more than is necessary. Though I am almost a quarter century old, I still expect for someone to be able to "take it away" if I cry to them, or to console me into believing that I am good enough and that I won't break from the pressure. Though I'm all for being an "adult" (so-called), it's still a sad thought to think that friends are only there to share one's joys and witty banter, as if the bright moments are the only moments in which our humanity is worth sharing. Aren't friends supposed to be there to hang on to our nonsensical emotionalism until the fragments we're sputtering start to make sense? I hope so.
So I came home and baked. Two pumpkin loaves, two apple crumb cake loaves, and one cinnamon-raisin quick bread loaf. I have plans for making vegetable soup this weekend. Food's importance, for all I shirk it throughout the week with last-minute Snicker's Bar lunches and too much Starbucks coffee, is irreplaceable, and I often experience this incredible presence of food on Thursday nights when I bake for the next day's community hour.
When I cook, I feel successful. I feel that the pressure of a cheese grater is not something that will break me, and the constancy of a recipe is a comfortable boundary in which to experience the relief of accomplishment. On days like today, I wonder what it would take to open a bakery.
For as much as I do it, I really don't enjoy being so negative. It's a difficult slump to get out of, and I end up complaining to my friends more than is necessary. Though I am almost a quarter century old, I still expect for someone to be able to "take it away" if I cry to them, or to console me into believing that I am good enough and that I won't break from the pressure. Though I'm all for being an "adult" (so-called), it's still a sad thought to think that friends are only there to share one's joys and witty banter, as if the bright moments are the only moments in which our humanity is worth sharing. Aren't friends supposed to be there to hang on to our nonsensical emotionalism until the fragments we're sputtering start to make sense? I hope so.
So I came home and baked. Two pumpkin loaves, two apple crumb cake loaves, and one cinnamon-raisin quick bread loaf. I have plans for making vegetable soup this weekend. Food's importance, for all I shirk it throughout the week with last-minute Snicker's Bar lunches and too much Starbucks coffee, is irreplaceable, and I often experience this incredible presence of food on Thursday nights when I bake for the next day's community hour.
When I cook, I feel successful. I feel that the pressure of a cheese grater is not something that will break me, and the constancy of a recipe is a comfortable boundary in which to experience the relief of accomplishment. On days like today, I wonder what it would take to open a bakery.