yoga at the bakery

for the millionth time.

Wednesdays are fresh bread day. I pull apart the loaves and run them through the slicer. I love. They look, smell, and feel like life rejuvenated. Bread, to me, is the purpose of a bakery. Maybe even the purpose of life.
I remember being seven. Best friend and I. Mom pulls fresh homemade, dense, whole wheat bread out of the oven. Feeling so happy, we eat our thick slices slathered in butter in the fall cool sitting on the back stoop.
Tonight, we had everything in the bakery done by four and I'd grown tired of reading about the properties of flour so I started doing yoga again. Can you imagine it? Look! There's me, amidst the perpetual flour dustings and smell of glazed donut, in tree pose.

My balance is improving.