principle

When I can't write, I bake. I don't really weigh the grams or level the cups, I let my body feel what's happening in weight, in texture, in aromatics. But before I begin my procrastination, I research. Sometimes days, even months ahead of time. Some people get paid to research and test recipes. It's a baked science, much like forecasting economic development, or lately, a pandemic.

I don't take notes. I just remember, what was interesting, what was different, what was odd, what was wrong, what I imagined momentarily could be better. But I never know in those moments what will be right.

And then in a spontaneous moment, I linger in eternity. I carefully sift the ingredients, turn on the heater to aid the yeast, feel the dough development from the mixer through my hands, my shoulders, my eyes and my ever tired feet. From a pile of ground densities to a mound of smooth shell protecting pockets of air to warm, sweet, savory joy, I find where I can play. That freedom tells me what I love, how I love, and why I love what I chose to do with my hands, with my mind, with my time.

After the staring into the light, the bell sounds pleasantly. The sugar, the cinnamon, the vanilla, the yeast, the potato flakes amalgamated into a star. I don't even wait for it to cool. I stab at the center, the knife comes back out clean. It's enough.

I immediately imagine what could be better, actual potato flour, not flakes. More cinnamon. But the coffee couldn't have been any better.

Starring at the shades of brown, I make amendments. What is right, what is wrong. It's all clear after the first bite. It's even clearer after the first sip of the coffee.

That moves us to the principle. Now I speak with others, offer them a taste, and ask them what and how they would amend the recipe. We don't argue, we simply offer opinions, give and giving. None taking or taken.

If it were this easy to stumble upon the principle. Never is a principle gleaned cleanly the way a hypothesis can lead to a conclusion through tangible experiments. Like almost everything else intangible in life, the principle appears like a silent illuminating attack.

It was always there, we just couldn't see it until the recipes were researched and eternity lingered.

That's when the hands can't keep up with what must be written down. Not written down for you or me, but for us to read and ask each other, without taking or giving, how we can see what we don't know.

I asked who is God. He answered God is Love. I asked what is Love. He answered Love is Air. I asked we die without Air, do we die without Love. He answered can you live without Air.

And so we searched silently in the ocean, deep, dark, cold. We tried to breath in the ocean. We found amendments to make.

But the principle in the ocean, the principle in the air, the principle in front of the oven, we found lingering in eternity.

The principle, the principles, stood alone everywhere. San serif, the letters ends sat without linear bounds encouraging the reader to read beyond, to read above, below, around, and upside down. This is why you had to linger in eternity by principles.

We played like children, free and loved.

I asked is Love free? He answered it is not Love if you cannot play.

He added, you always play for free.

Play, breath eternity.

Live, love freely.