Bread, Catalysts, and Second Moons

Lately I’m living a bit more like my life is an experiment. I’m leaning into the idea that there’s a chemist out there who’s also contributing to this experiment, but I have no idea when the chemist is going to show up and turn up the heat or measure out some enzymes. If I don’t show up and get the experiment started, then I can be certain I’ll never see what this grand chemist is going to make out of my reactants and products.

Years ago, after a devastating breakup, I was certain that there could never be another man who would interest me. I was certain I’d found the one I wanted to be with and that was that. A few months later when I started dating again, I quickly met someone great. I wasn’t ready for that and he wasn’t either. It didn’t work out, but it did show me what I needed to see —— that there could be someone else. I was so stunned by this that I recall thinking it was like staring at the night sky and seeing a second moon appear.

Shortly thereafter, I heard an astronomer on a podcast say, “We need to stop projecting what we think on what we don’t yet know.” She was talking about the search for extra-terrestrial life, but when I heard it, I knew the universe was speaking to me.

I don’t think I’m the only human who longs for certainty. I bet most of us project what we think on what we don’t yet know. Predictability and certainty make us feel safe. So we look at the “evidence” and rush to draw conclusions. We think that being “certain” will protect us from disappointment. But why are some of us so certain about disappointment?

In her poem “Evidence,” the poet Mary Oliver says, “Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.” This is where I am lately —— bearing with uncertainty, trusting in the unknown, and leaving a little room in my heart. And no, I haven’t been here before, or at least not exactly in this way. Learning to trust is an awfully long road, especially if you’ve been given plenty of reasons not to. One of my kids keeps saying that he’s waiting to see what his Higher Power is going to do, even though for him just saying the words Higher Power is a trust fall in itself. None of this means that either of us is sitting idly by. Not in the least. We’re doing the work that’s been set in front of us while trusting that we haven’t seen everything yet, that someday a second moon could appear, or several moons.

One way I’ve been learning this is by showing up to the blank page each morning without any ideas. Will I write a poem? Will I work on my essay collection? I do not know. If I’m writing a poem, what will it be about? Again, I don’t know. Yet nearly every morning that I show up, the Chemist meets me and hands me a catalyst. Something happens on that blank page that I wasn’t expecting, that I never saw coming. It’s delightful, and it’s humbling. I try not to worry that it will stop happening. I try not to protect myself from future disappointment. I remind myself that my job isn’t to manage the future; my job is to show up today. I’m holding room in my heart for the unimaginable.

Making the leap into bread making played a role too. I had to be willing for my first loaf of bread to be less than wonderful while also believing it could actually be edible. The point was to show up with flour, yeast, and water and see what could happen. I had a little confusion about yeast, so the rise wasn’t great, but the crust was impressive. Also, it was tasty. Surprise, surprise.

The universe seems intent on teaching me lessons about process, so I’m here learning to bake bread and showing up to the blank page without a plan, being reminded it’s not about outcomes, it’s about the doing.

I’m learning that releasing my false sense of certainty feels like breath. It’s a catalyst that allows me to consider this option: What if it all turns out better than I expect?

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I’ve got two book recommendations for you, delivered without comment: The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali and Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid. Let me know if you decide to read them.