I baked today, for the first time since Christmas. But I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t get excited to lick the spatula, or stuff my face with a few crispy warm cookies straight from the oven. I baked to cope, to keep my hands and mind busy, to do something productive.
Two friends were in a terrible, tragic accident this week. One of J’s best friends, a groomsman in our wedding, and his girlfriend were driving back to school/work after Christmas, when they were hit by a transport truck. She passed away, and he is in hospital with many serious injuries.
When I can’t do anything to help a situation except pray, my hands get twitchy and I can’t sit still. When my fingers ache from pouring feelings into my journal, I need to move on. So I bake; to cope, to process, to remember.